Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(21)
The steward complained that Mr. Morrow and his son were attempting to interfere with the running of the estate with ideas that were asinine. The man had been too diplomatic to use that exact word, but Marcel had understood him well enough. Even the housekeeper had written to ask him if it really was his wish that the cook serve late and inferior breakfasts—which some people she would not be so disrespectful as to name then proceeded to complain about—because she was required, along with all the other servants, who had better things to do with their mornings, to attend prayers with the family in the drawing room for all of half an hour, sometimes longer.
There was only one way to stop the flow of such letters, and he was doing it. But he was in no hurry nonetheless. A day or two here or there would be of no great consequence. At least no further letters could reach him while he was on the road.
The noise level rose, and along with it came an increased swell of laughter with the arrival of three more men, one of whom complained that their feet were all blisters from so much dancing and there was only one sure cure they knew of.
“Bring on the ale,” he bellowed cheerfully to the innkeeper. “A jug, man, and none of your tankards.”
And then there were the twins, who had been brought up in the mold of their maternal aunt and uncle. Adeline would turn over in her grave if she could know. He would turn over in his too if he were in it already. He was going to have to do something about them, though the devil knew what. Perhaps it was too late to do anything meaningful. And perhaps it was just as well they were not taking after their father. Or their mother for that matter, he thought with a guilty start. The trouble with sitting up late was that one’s mind became undisciplined and maudlin. Not that it was really late. His evening would probably be just starting now if he were in London. It just felt late.
He went back upstairs after half an hour and undressed in his room. He belted a silk dressing gown about his waist and crossed the passageway to Viola Kingsley’s room. Would the door be unlocked? Or would it not? He wondered why he had given her time to cool off and think about what she was about to do. That had been uncharacteristically foolish of him. Why stoke a fire to warm a room, after all, and then leave all the windows and doors open to the winter cold?
But he had done it, he knew, because she was not at all his usual type of woman. He had no doubt of her virtue, not just because she had rejected his advances fourteen years ago, but because . . . Well, there was something about her. She was a virtuous woman all right, a fact that would normally depress any spark of interest he might have in her. And then there was her age. She could not be more than a year or two younger than he. She might even be older. He was not a cradle snatcher, but very few of his women were ever much above the age of thirty.
Had he been in love with her fourteen years ago? It seemed highly improbable and quite unlike him. His pride had been hurt, though. There was no denying that. Perhaps that would explain today—and tonight. Perhaps he wanted the satisfaction of having his way with her without exerting any sort of coercion. If the door was unlocked, she would have made the decision herself with the cool head half an hour alone would have induced.
But was it unlocked?
He turned the knob slowly and—he hoped—silently. He had no desire to wake her and alarm her if she had fallen asleep. Or to make an idiot of himself. He pushed gently inward. It was not locked. She was not in bed either. She was standing facing the window, though it was pitch-dark out there. Clouds must have moved over the moon and stars. There was a candle burning on the dresser behind her. She was looking back over her shoulder at him.
She was wearing a white nightgown, very little different from any dress she might have worn except that it fell loose from the bosom. It was modestly scooped at the neckline. The sleeves were short. She had unpinned and brushed her hair so that it fell in honey-colored waves over her shoulders and halfway to her waist.
Lust, which he had kept in check lest the door be locked, surged. He closed the door and locked it before strolling toward her and reaching beyond her to draw the curtains across the window. He dipped his head and kissed her.
She took a step toward him, as she had out on the riverbank, and twined her arms about his waist as she held the kiss and deepened it. It was different this time. There were no stays beneath her nightgown to mask the soft curves of waist and hip or to push up her breasts. And he had no layers of garments beneath the thin silk of his dressing gown. He savored the embrace, the warmth of her body, the slightly fragrant smell of her, the feel of her thighs and abdomen and bosom pressed to his as one of his hands twined in her hair to hold the back of her head and the other moved down her back and drew her closer. His lips teased hers. His tongue explored her mouth and found the pleasure spots. She sucked gently on it.
He was in no hurry. This was not about release. It rarely was. He had promised her a night of pleasure she would not regret, and he would give her just that. Not five minutes, ten, or half an hour, but a whole night. He had rarely looked forward to a night of sex with such anticipation. Perhaps because he suspected she was not vastly experienced, as most of his women were. Strange thought when she must have been married for more than twenty years. He wondered if there had ever been anyone else in addition to Riverdale, but doubted it. Which led to the question, Why him? Just because of this strange set of circumstances? Because she saw this as a sort of time away from reality, outside the normal realm of her moral standards?
It was not that she was unaware of his reputation, of the fact that he had few scruples and no heart. He had nothing to give, in fact, except his body and his expertise in bed. Was that enough for her? But if it was not, that was her problem, not his. He had given her enough chance, after all, to choose differently.