The Truth About Lord Stoneville (16 page)

Her breath lodged in her throat. It had been days since he’d touched her, and she hadn’t forgotten what it was like for one minute. To have him this near, saying such things . . .

She fought for control over her volatile emotions. “His wanting consumes him precisely
because
he can’t have her. If he thought he could, he wouldn’t want her at all.”

“Not true.” His voice deepening, he stroked the line of her jaw with a tenderness that roused an ache in her chest. “Even Rockton recognizes when a woman is unlike any other. Her very goodness in the face of his villainy bewitches him. He thinks if he can just possess that goodness, then the dark cloud lying on his soul will lift, and he’ll have something other than villainy to sustain him.”

“Then he’s mistaken.” Her pulse trebled as his finger swept the hollow of her throat. “The only person who can lift the dark cloud on his soul is himself.”

He paused in his caress. “So he’s doomed, then?”

“No!” Her gaze flew to his. “No one is doomed, and certainly not Rockton. There’s still hope for him. There is always hope.”

His eyes burned with a feverish light, and before she could look away, he bent to kiss her. It was soft, tender . . . delicious. Someone moaned, she wasn’t sure who. All she knew was that his mouth was on hers again, molding it, tasting it, making her hungry in the way that only he seemed able to do.

“Maria . . .” he breathed. Seizing her by the arms, he drew her up into his embrace. “My God, I’ve thought of nothing but you since that day in the carriage.”

His mouth found hers again, sweeping away every objection. Her hands slid inside his coat to hold him at the waist—she hardly knew how. What was wrong with her, that she seemed incapable of resisting him? How easy for her to speak of morality and discipline, yet how hard for her to practice it! He made her want to throw caution to the winds with just a kiss.

Not
just
a kiss. His mouth devoured hers, taking whatever it wished with bold purpose. His hands swept over her body, as if relearning every curve and bend, every sensitive stretch of skin that ignited at his touch. And she reveled in it. He was so commanding, so unlike the cautious Nathan.

It made her want to touch him, to know every inch of him. As he explored her, she explored him through his shirt, marveling at the muscles that tightened beneath her fingers. It never ceased to amaze her that he was no soft, indolent aristocrat, but a man of fierce strength who clearly had mastery over his body.

So why had he no mastery over his soul? Why did he not see how much more he could be, if only he let himself?

As if to demonstrate just how little he desired to be better, he cupped her bottom, urging her between his thighs until she felt the evidence of his desire imprinted on her soft flesh.

That gave her the strength to tear her lips from his. “We can’t do this.”

Deprived of her mouth, he trailed warm, sensuous kisses down her neck. “We can do as we please.”

She pushed away from him. “
You
can do as you please. I cannot. I’m still bound by a promise to another man. I may have forgotten it the last time we were together, but I shouldn’t have.”

As she turned for the door, he caught her around the waist, dragging her against his body. “Forget Hyatt,” he said harshly, a note of desperation in his voice. “We both know he isn’t the man for you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I made a promise. And I have to keep it.”

“I can make you forget your promise,” he growled, bringing one hand up to cover her breast, kneading it with a delicate touch that sent pleasure coursing through her veins.

When his other hand slid down to caress her between the legs through her gown, a strangled sigh of need escaped her. He kissed her ear, his breath heavy against it as his teeth tugged at the lobe. The cornucopia of sensations aroused her so deeply that she found herself arching against him like a wanton cat, rubbing her bottom against the hard bulge in his trousers.

With a growl, he turned her in his arms and took her mouth again while he filled his hands with her breasts, thumbing the nipples through her gown, making her insane. She grabbed at his shoulders, reveling in the power of their taut muscles as she pressed herself into his questing hands.

Why was it that he alone could turn her into this creature of fiery desires? That he alone could tempt her to forget every principle of decency?

A knock sounded at the door. They froze.

“What is it?” he snapped, holding tight to her when she would have left his embrace.

“Is Miss Butterfield with you, Oliver?” It was Celia’s light voice.

“Yes,” Maria called out, seizing her chance to escape him. And her own weakness.

Though he cursed under his breath, he let her leave his arms.

Celia burst in, her inquisitive gaze swinging from Maria to Oliver and back. “Minerva says she’s found the perfect shoes to go with your gown for the ball. Do you want to come try them on?”

“I’d be delighted, thank you.” It was all Maria could do to quell her frantic breathing; there was no way to quell the thundering pace of her heart.

Walking toward the door, she felt Oliver’s heated gaze boring into her back. Just as she reached Celia, he said, “I do hope we can finish our discussion later, Maria.”

She whirled to see him holding up Minerva’s book, his face wearing as brooding a mask as that worn by any Gothic hero—or villain—she’d ever imagined. But his voice was soft as velvet, the voice of temptation . . . the voice of sin. “We haven’t come to an agreement about the reason for Rockton’s villainy.”

She met the hot intensity of his eyes with a look of sheer desperation. “I doubt we’ll ever agree on that, my lord. Our philosophies don’t match. So I see little point in discussing it further.”

As she left the room arm in arm with his sister, she prayed that he would take no for an answer. Because the more he tried to tempt her, the more her resolve weakened, and she feared that one day all her discipline and morality and lofty talk about promises would fly right out the window.

Then she would be the one who was doomed. And that must never happen.

Chapter Fifteen

Oliver hurled his book across the room. His brothers and sisters were determined to keep her from him. It was not to be borne!

He’d spent the past week in an agony he was unaccustomed to enduring. He’d expected his family to charm her; instead she had charmed
them
with her frank and unusual opinions, and her habit of saying exactly what she meant. He was ignored and relegated to keeping Freddy from harm, while his sisters fawned over her, and his brothers—

A murderous scowl knit his brow. If he saw Jarret flirt with her or Gabe make her laugh even one more time, he was liable to throttle them both. Jarret had probably told Gabe about her fortune, and now the two were competing for her favors, figuring that if one of them secured her for himself, he could solve some of the family’s problems. And since Oliver had made it clear that
he
would not marry her . . .

He balled his hands into fists. His brothers couldn’t have her. Hyatt couldn’t have her. He wouldn’t allow it!

And in a flash, he knew why. Because he was jealous. God preserve him, he was jealous of his brothers.

He’d seen his friends suffer jealousy, watched his mother languish away because of it. He’d always thought them mad for letting it affect them so. No woman had ever roused the spurious emotion in
him;
he’d assumed he was immune.

To discover that he wasn’t, that Maria held such astounding power over his feelings, terrified him to the bone. He couldn’t deny it, for it ate at his gut worse than cheap liquor. He would have to find a way to deal with it. And keep his brothers away from her.

How will you do that? They at least offer her a respectable connection. You offer her only disgrace.

Therein lay his problem. If he offered her more, he would be sentencing her to the same hell his mother had suffered. But if he offered her less and she accepted, then he was sentencing her to an even worse fate.

The only way to win was to let her go unscathed. But that meant he had to stand by and watch her either marry someone else, or inherit her fortune and return to America. He didn’t want either one.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, tired beyond words. This mad obsession consumed his energies at a time when he had more important concerns. Like the ever-present worries about money. In town, he’d been able to turn a blind eye and let himself sink into debt without thinking of the consequences.

But here he was constantly reminded that he wasn’t sinking alone. His family sank with him, as did the servants and his tenants. It was this damned house—it dragged him down into remembering the life he’d deliberately left behind.

He’d spent his boyhood being schooled by his father in how to run the estate, how to govern his tenants, how to make sure that their money was well invested . . . how to
care
. He’d promised himself that the sacrifice of Mother’s happiness so Father could keep Halstead Hall afloat wouldn’t be in vain. But then had come that fateful afternoon.

He swore under his breath. He had to escape this place, damn it!

Striding to the door, he jerked it open and called for John. As soon as the footman appeared, he snapped, “Have my carriage brought round. I’m going to town.”

John blinked. “So you won’t be here for dinner, milord?”

“No. Nor for breakfast, if I can help it.”

Color rose in John’s cheeks as he realized what that meant. “What shall I tell Mrs. Plumtree, sir? And Miss Butterfield?”

His conscience nagged at him. He ignored it. “Tell them whatever you please,” he ground out. “Just get me that goddamned carriage!”

“Yes, milord.” John scurried off to do his duty.

This sober life was too much for him. He needed a good night of wenching and drinking to remind him of who he was,
what
he was. Only then could he continue the farce of his betrothal.

Only then could he banish this foolish longing for what he couldn’t have.

M
ARIA HAD DRESSED
carefully for dinner that evening, even knowing that she shouldn’t. But she kept hearing the ache in Oliver’s voice as he’d murmured,
Her very goodness in the face of his villainy bewitches him.

Goodness? Hardly. Though she did like the idea of bewitching him.
If
it weren’t just another passing fancy for him. From what she’d gathered, beautiful women often captured his interest, but only briefly. How likely was it that a simple American who didn’t know how to behave around servants could make it last any longer than any other woman had?

Yet even while telling herself it was unlikely, hope bubbled up inside her as she entered the dining room. Until she saw everyone there except him.

She fought the urge to comment on his absence, but lost the fight as she took her seat. “And where is his lordship this evening?”

The uncomfortable glances his siblings exchanged struck her with foreboding.

“He went to town,” Freddy offered cheerily. “You know these English lords. Always like to have a bit of fun.”

She stared at Freddy, then glanced at Lord Jarret, who wore a stony expression as he dipped his spoon into the soup the servant had just brought.
A bit of fun
. Surely he was not—

“He’s spending the evening at his club,” Lord Jarret said, with a furtive glance at his grandmother. “Probably doing a little gambling.”

“I thought you told Lord Gabriel this afternoon that he was going to the broth—” Freddy broke off with a yelp, then scowled at Celia. “What was that for?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I step on your toe?” she said sweetly. “I didn’t mean to.”

Freddy scowled at her as he reached down to rub his sore foot.

The brothel. Of course. Where else would Oliver go for fun? She ducked her head, fighting to control the pain that lanced through her chest. It was sweet of Celia to try to shield her, but everyone at the table except their grandmother knew he had every right to trot off to a brothel. What a ninny she was, to have hoped he might truly care for her! Oliver cared for one thing only—pleasure. If he couldn’t have it from her, he would go elsewhere for it.

“I wish I’d known he was going to his club,” Freddy went on. “I’d have asked him to take me, too.” Freddy slurped a big spoonful of soup. “He promised to introduce me around it.”

“I’m sure you’ll have another chance for that, Freddy,” Maria said, praying her voice sounded nonchalant. Determined to hide her wounded feelings from all of them, she added, “So, about this ball being held tomorrow night by Lord Foxmoor—”

“Just Foxmoor,” Gabe said helpfully. When his sister elbowed him, he said, “Do you want her to embarrass herself right there at the ball? That’s no kindness.”

Mortification spread over Maria’s cheeks. She couldn’t seem to get any of this right.

“Dukes are not called ‘lord,’ Miss Butterfield.” To Maria’s shock, the gentle correction came from none other than Oliver’s grandmother.

When her gaze shot to the woman, Mrs. Plumtree seemed to remember herself and hardened her tone. “It is ‘your grace,’ ‘his grace,’ just plain Foxmoor, or the duke. Never ‘Lord’ anything. That is only for the lower tiers of the peerage.”

“Thank you.” Maria lifted her chin a notch. “Anything else I should know before I make a fool of myself tomorrow evening?”

“You’ll be fine,” Minerva said with a kind smile. “Everyone will be so focused on drawing lots for their valentines that they won’t care one whit if you miss an honorific here and there. Will they, Jarret?”

“God knows I won’t.” He scowled at Minerva. “It’s been so long since I’ve attended a St. Valentine’s Day affair that I forgot all about that lottery business. Is there any way to make sure I don’t draw the name of some prune-faced miss with an eye to reform me? My luck always seems to vanish at these gatherings.”

“So you draw lots here, too?” Maria asked. “In America, we have the unmarried gentlemen draw from among the names of the unmarried ladies to see who’s their valentine for the year.”

“That’s how it works in England, too,” Celia put in, “but the Foxmoors treat it as part of the entertainment. When a man draws a woman’s name, he gets to dance the final waltz with her and take her in to supper, that’s all.”

“At least it’s late in the day,” Freddy said. “There won’t be a bunch of women wandering the place with their eyes closed, bumping into everything.”

“Freddy,” Maria said in a low voice, “I’m sure the English don’t do such a silly thing as that on St. Valentine’s Day. That’s probably an American custom.”

“Actually, no,” Minerva said. “Plenty of people here still have that superstition. It’s nonsense, of course—the idea that a girl might be yoked to a man for all eternity simply because he was the first person she saw on St. Valentine’s Day, but you can’t convince some people of that.”

Jarret nodded. “You’ll definitely find one or two of the maids walking about tomorrow morning with their hands over their eyes for fear they’ll see the wrong man before they meet up with their sweethearts.” He gestured to Gabe. “That joker there likes to ask them to pick something up, just to see if they can do it with their eyes closed. He’s a devil that way.”

“It serves them right to be thwarted if they’re foolish enough to participate in such a ridiculous superstition,” Mrs. Plumtree said with a snort. “I’d never let any of
my
servants do it. It smacks of country ignorance.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Celia said dreamily. “You let Fate choose your mate. The stars align, and suddenly you’re confronted with the man of your dreams.”

“Or the man of your nightmares,” Maria bit out, thinking of how Fate had thrown her into Oliver’s power a week ago. “Fate can be rather fickle in that respect, if you ask me. I wouldn’t trust Fate with my future.”

Minerva eyed her over her glass of wine. “Probably a wise policy.”

That began a debate among the Sharpe siblings about love and marriage and how difficult it was to find a mate in society. From the surreptitious glances they cast their grandmother throughout, Maria guessed that most of the discussion was for Mrs. Plumtree’s benefit. She wondered if the woman even noticed. She seemed distracted this evening, probably for the same reason Maria was.

Oliver and his curst “bit of fun.”

As soon as they’d finished eating and it was acceptable for her to bow out, she excused herself to head upstairs. She had to escape them, to be alone with her thoughts. But before she could reach her room, Freddy came up behind her.

She halted to face him. “What is it?”

He looked worried, an unusual state for him when he was well fed. “You’re upset because of what I let slip about Lord Stoneville going off to a brothel.”

“Why would that make me upset? He has the right to go where he pleases.”

“But I was wrong,” he protested. “He went to gamble. Lord Jarret said so.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Lord Jarret will say whatever he must to hide his brother’s peccadilloes from his grandmother. But there’s no need to hide them from me. I know his lordship’s faults.”

When she started to walk away, Freddy laid his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, Mopsy. I messed that up. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t. I’m fine, really I am.” Her throat tightened. “You and I both know that Lord Stoneville sees me only as a means to an end.”

“That’s not true,” Freddy said earnestly. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. It’s how I look at the last bit of bacon on the serving plate. He likes you.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“And you like him, too.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “I like Nathan.”

“But if Mr. Pinter doesn’t find Nathan—”

“Then we’ll go home and hope Nathan doesn’t take too long in returning.”

“You could marry Lord Stoneville,” Freddy said.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat. No. She couldn’t, even if Oliver wanted to. But there was no point in telling him that. “I hardly think that a man who runs off to brothels at every opportunity would make a good husband.”

Freddy slumped his shoulders. “I suppose not.”

“Why don’t you join the gentlemen at their port? I promise, I’m right as rain.”

With an expression of relief, he nodded, then trotted off down the hall.

She watched him go, her heart in her throat.
And you like him, too.
She did. But it could go no further. She wasn’t fool enough to lose her heart to a man who could kiss her passionately one minute and head off to a brothel the next.

No matter how much her heart broke for what he’d suffered.