The Truth About Lord Stoneville (26 page)

“Don’t be absurd!”

“Exactly. Young men don’t think before they act. They’re impulsive and selfish and randy as goats. I have four male cousins and when they were that age, all the moral training in the world would have flown right out of their heads if a pretty married woman had undressed in their bedchambers and climbed into bed with them.”

“That doesn’t excuse it.”

“No. But it doesn’t make you culpable for the tragedy, either. You have cobbled them together in your mind. It’s time that you un-cobble them.”

He clasped her head in his large hands, his gaze hot with anger. “You forget that I’ve spent my life proving Mother right. I’m just like my father.”

His grandmother’s words leapt into her mind:
You seem to think he is like his father, but he is actually like his mother. I do not know why he has pursued his father’s path all these years, but it is not his real character, I swear.

The truth hit her with sudden clarity.

“No,” she said softly. “You’ve spent your life thumbing your nose at her, furious at her for leaving you and the others, for forcing you into the untenable position of having to hide what really happened that night. You’ve been striking at her ghost, screaming, ‘If you didn’t want me to turn out like him, you should have stayed to stop me!’ ”

As his throat worked convulsively, she covered his hands with hers. “But she can’t hear you. So all you’re doing is trudging a path that isn’t your own, growing more weary of it by the day, wanting more from your existence but believing you’re cursed to having less. That is no sort of life for anyone, especially for a man with so much potential.”

A shuddering breath escaped him. “How can you have such faith in me?” he asked hoarsely. “How can you believe in me when I’ve given you no reason?”

“You’ve given me plenty of reasons, but there’s only one that matters. I love you, Oliver. I can’t help myself.
That
is my reason.”

He began to shake, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I love you,” she repeated as she kissed his cheek. “I
love
you.” She kissed the other cheek, now damp, though she wasn’t sure whether from her tears or his. “I love you so much.” She brushed his lips with hers.

He held her back to search her face. “God help you if that is a lie,” he said in an aching voice. “Because those words have sealed your fate. I’ll never let you go, now.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
love you.

The words pounded in Oliver’s ears as he dragged Maria against him. He hadn’t realized how desperately he’d wanted to hear her say them until she had, and now they sang through every sweet kiss, through every caress of her hands, every stroke of her tongue inside his hungry mouth.

He’d told her all, he’d laid bare every dark corner of his strongbox, and still she was here in his arms, kissing him, holding him, crying over him. It was unimaginable.

If she could believe he was not truly the devil he’d played all these years, could he learn to believe in himself? Could he even, perhaps, be the man that she wanted? The man that his mother had intended him to be? Might he actually be able to change his life?

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips again, and his heart gave a leap of joy.

“My God, Maria,” he rasped. “You rip the soul from my body when you say that.”

“Don’t you believe me?” She pressed her mouth to his throat in a reverent kiss that made his pulse beat in a frenzy.

“I believe you’re daft. That’s what I believe.”

“No more than you. No more than anyone in love.”

There was that word again, the word he’d always distrusted when he’d heard it from women before, the word that now poured through him with all the sweetness of warm honey. He desperately wanted to trust it. He wanted to swallow her whole, to lay her down on the bed and fill her with his flesh over and over, until he could convince himself that she truly meant the words.

But when he reached for the buttons of her gown, she pulled away. “No, we can’t, not right now.”

“Yes, now,” he insisted.

“Mr. Pinter will be back any minute, and I can’t have him find me in the midst of—”

“You’re worried about what
Pinter
thinks?” he interrupted as a surge of possessiveness swept through him. “Sounds like you got rather cozy with the Bow Street runner on the way up here.”

A teasing smile curved her lips. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Mr. Pinter.”

“Damned right I am,” he grumbled, backing her toward the bed. “I’m jealous of Jarret, of Gabe, of every blasted fellow who looks at you and wants you.”

“You have no need to be jealous.” She looped her arms about his neck. “
You’re
the one that I love.”

There was that word again, striking a sudden blow to his heart. He had a heart? Apparently he did. “Yet you ran off and left me without a word,” he accused.

“Only because you told me you weren’t sure you could be faithful to me,” she said softly.

He sucked in a breath. “That was my fear speaking. My fear that I might indeed have my father’s character. My fear that I couldn’t be what you needed.”

“And where is that fear now?” When her gaze met his, yearning and earnest, he felt a catch in his chest.

“Gone. One day without you told me that I want only you.” He dragged his fingers through her hair, scattering the pins, bringing it tumbling down about her shoulders. “When I walk into a room, sweetheart, I see only you. I might as well have been blind yesterday in London, for all the notice I took of other women.”

He couldn’t believe he was spouting the same sort of words he’d always laughed at his friends for saying about their wives. But every time he’d laughed, there’d been that tiny, envious part of him that knew how hollow his laughter was. And now he understood how hollow the life that went with it was, as well.

“How could I ever prefer another woman to the one I love?” he said.

She alone lifted the darkness from his soul. She alone saw in him the boy who, long ago, had hoped for something better. And the man who still hoped for something better. Who actually had a chance of it, with her in his life.

Her chin began to tremble as her arms tightened about his neck. “Y-You love me?”

Gazing down at her pert nose and the freckles that made him think of an adorable pixie, he felt his throat constrict. “I want you every hour of the day. I can’t imagine a future without you in it. The idea of returning to my empty house alone is so hellish that I’d rather wander the world at your heels than be without you. Tell me, is that love?”

She cast him a blazing smile. “It sounds like it.”

“Then I love you, my wonderful, sword-wielding, tart-tongued angel. I want you to be my wife. I want you to preside over my table and accompany me to balls and share my bed.” A most uncharacteristic happiness surged through him. “And I want to have children with you, lots of them, filling every room in Halstead Hall.”

A sudden understanding lit her face. His clever love didn’t miss the fact that he was offering her not just himself, but everything else he’d neglected, as well. Everything that he wanted to put to rights. That he needed to put to rights.

“Not filling
every
room, I hope,” she teased, even as tears shone in her eyes. “There are three hundred, after all.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to get started right away,” he said, matching her light tone. His heart near to bursting, he reached again for the buttons on the back of her gown. “These things should never be left until the last minute.”

As a laugh of pure joy bubbled out of her, she began to untie his cravat. “I can see you’re going to be quite the lusty husband, aren’t you?”

He stripped her gown from her, then turned her around to undo her stays. “You have no idea,” he murmured, and filled his hands with the breasts he’d freed.

Moaning, she pressed her bottom against him. “I have
some
idea.”

There were no more words as they undressed each other. It was the strangest experience of his life. The part of his brain that generally worked constantly while he was tupping a woman, the part that assessed how to get the most from the experience, seemed to be on holiday.

He felt like a randy lad again, too aroused to be cautious, too swept up in the pleasure of her to think beyond the simple enjoyment of uncovering her silky flesh, the heat of unveiling her magnificent body. In a frenzy of need, he tumbled her onto the bed and joined her there, desperate to be inside her, to show her the intensity of what he felt.

But just as he bent to kiss her throat, she pushed him off her and jumped up from the bed. “I didn’t lock the door!”

Grabbing her waist, he pulled her down on top of him. “No one will come in, sweetheart.” He clamped his legs about hers to keep her there. “And if they do, it will only hasten our march to the altar—which is just fine by me.”

Eyeing him askance, she pushed up from his chest. “Why do you always attempt seducing me when someone might happen in upon us? First, you kiss me when you
know
your grandmother is about to walk in, then you do quite wicked things to me in the carriage a breath away from half of London, and then—”

“What can I say?” He grinned up at her. “Since I intend to have only you in my bed for the rest of my life, I have to teach you everything I know.” He filled his hands with her ample breasts. “Here’s your first lesson. Make love to me, my darling betrothed.”

He thrust his cock up at her to emphasize the point, and she caught her breath. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Now that you’re perched so fetchingly atop me, I want you to take me inside you.”

A delicious blush touched her cheeks. “I can do that?”

He laughed. “It works just as well in reverse, trust me.”

Curiosity swept her features as she sat back on her heels to stare at his jutting cock. “Oh, my.”

He reached down to the tender flesh between her legs, exulting to find it hot and wet and welcoming. “Oh my, indeed,” he rasped. “Come on, my angel. Make love to me. Before I go mad.”

With an uncertain smile, she lifted up and lowered herself onto his cock. “Well,” she said when she was fully seated. “That’s interesting.”

“Isn’t it, though?” He thrust against her. “But don’t stop there.”

She began to move, her luscious body undulating atop his and her hair streaming over her breasts, a silky curtain shimmering golden-red in the midmorning light. As the blood rose in him, he stared up into her glowing face and finally understood why men married.

He’d heard the marriage rites at his friends’ weddings many a time, their sonorous words spoken with solemnity by a vicar who looked as if he probably bedded his wife with his eyes closed. When the service had come to the part where the couple each said, “with my body I thee worship,” Oliver had always choked down a bitter laugh.

He wasn’t laughing now. This
was
worship, this joining of a man with the woman he loved. There was no guile in her face, no manipulation, no secrets. She loved him, pure and simple, without reserve. She’d believed in him when he himself could not. And her belief now transformed her into the angel descending to make him whole, to soothe his hurts, to bring his body alive with her spirit.

Wanting to reciprocate, he thumbed her luscious nipples, brushed kisses on her arms, slid his hand between her legs to fondle her pleasure spot and make her gasp. He reveled in the heat of her smile, the delicacy of her skin as Maria rode him like a glorious goddess, her eyes alight with feeling, her hands sweeping his body with tender caresses that made his throat raw with unshed tears.

Had he actually thought to teach her passion that day in the carriage? He must have been mad. Untutored as she was in its ways, she’d understood what he had not—that passion wasn’t about the act. It was about the one who joined you in the act.

The need for release came upon him so quickly that he feared he might not last until she found her own, but just as he felt his erupting, she threw back her head with a cry and convulsed around him. He poured himself into her, praying that they’d made a child. It seemed only right that this moment be captured forever in a gamboling son or a laughing daughter.

She collapsed atop him, naked and sated, and his heart nearly burst from joy. A laugh tumbled out of him. If he didn’t watch it, she’d turn him into a maudlin creature spouting romantic verse.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Why do you laugh, sir?”

“I’m happy.” Incredibly, it was true. “I’ll be even happier when we can find a man of the cloth and use that special license.”

“And what if I decide to take you up on your offer to make me your mistress instead?” she teased. “What if I prefer to keep hold of my inheritance?”

That brought him up short. What exactly had happened during her meeting with Hyatt? “Is that what you want?”

“No,” she said softly. “I want you.”

“The feeling is perfectly mutual.” Taking her by surprise, he rolled her beneath him and began to kiss her neck. “Indeed, I want you right now. Again.”

Then a knock came at the door. With alarm in her face, she touched a finger to his lips. He caught it between his teeth, swirling his tongue over the tip, watching with avid interest as her eyes darkened to molten sapphire.

When the knock came again, he choked back a curse and rolled off of her.

“What is it?” she called out.

“Is Freddy in there with you, Maria? I thought I heard voices.”

Recognizing Pinter’s raspy tones, Oliver scowled.

“No, he’s not here.” She sat up, but Oliver pulled her back down and threw one leg over hers to hold her in place as he trailed kisses along her collarbone.

“Well, he wasn’t at the pie shop,” Pinter said through the door. “The innkeeper said he’d been here, but went off again. He didn’t know where.”

Oliver emitted a soft growl of frustration against her shoulder, and she bit her lip, clearly stifling a laugh.

“He probably went in search of more food,” she called out. “Check any other cookshops and inns. I’m sure he hasn’t gone far.”

“Perhaps you should come with me to look—”

“I can’t,” she cut in. “I . . . I’m not feeling well.”

“Should I fetch the innkeeper’s wife?” he queried, his voice a mixture of concern and suspicion.

“No!” she cried. “I’m not dressed.”

“Now that’s an understatement,” Oliver whispered against her ear.

“Just . . . go look for Freddy while I rest,” she called to Pinter. “I’m sure I’ll be feeling much better by the time you find him.”

“I can
promise
you’ll be feeling better, sweetheart,” Oliver murmured, nipping her ear for good measure.

She gave him a chastening glance even as she fought a smile.

“All right,” Pinter said. “But I should like to leave here by noon at the latest. We need to consult a lawyer about building a case against Hyatt before he has time to build one against you.”

Maria’s smile vanished.

What the devil?

“I’m sure I’ll be fine by then,” she called to the door. “Just find Freddy.”

Only when his footsteps moved down the stairs did Oliver feel free to speak. “What is Pinter talking about? What case against you?”

“It’s nothing,” she said and began to kiss his chest.