A Gentleman Never Tells (9 page)

His stomach muscles rippled as he laughed, which was one of the most enticing things she'd ever seen in her life.

“Really?” she squeaked.

“When I walked into the drawing room two days ago, I was focused on meeting Cat. But I registered that you were gorgeous. Then you didn't come down to breakfast the next day. I waited for an hour, pretending to read the paper.”

“I was afraid.”

He walked closer, bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. “Don't ever be afraid of me, sweetheart.”

“I won't,” she said with a gulp, feeling the strength of that promise reverberate through her bones.

“May I take these breeches off? They no longer fit . . . they've become bloody uncomfortable, as a matter of fact.”

It was a moment of decision, Lizzie supposed, and yet there was nothing to decide. He was hers, or she was his . . .

Possession was not what she thought it was.

“I'll do it for you,” she whispered. She ducked her head, and her hair tumbled forward. Corkscrew curls ranging in color from pale sunshine to wheat fell over Oliver's arms as he steadied her, falling over her hands as she fumbled at his waistband.

She found the top button inside his placket. His trousers were strained because of—­well, because. It made it difficult to work the button through.

His hands drifted over her shoulders and down her front, shaping a tender caress. “Your breasts are the perfect size for my hands,” he murmured.

She looked up.

“May I?” he asked.

She frowned, puzzled. “Yes?”

With one swift movement, he ripped her French nightgown open to the waist.

“There they are,” he breathed, his voice reverent, dark.

Lizzie looked down absorbing what she saw. She
was
just the right size for his hands: not too big, not too little. Oliver bent his head and captured one of her nipples, making her cry out in startled pleasure.

One of his hands slid to her waist, holding her still so that he could ravish first one breast, then the other, making her breath come in little pants.

“Oliver,” she whimpered, as a callused thumb rubbed over her breast, making her knees almost buckle. “I . . .”

“Lizzie, sweetheart.” He pulled back, the light in his eyes so ferocious that he resembled a wild beast. And yet that huge body was contained, at her ser­vice.

“You don't think my mouth is too large?” she blurted out.

When Oliver roared with laugher, she spread her hands flat on his abdomen because it was enticing to be able to feel laughter as well as hear it.

“Your mouth is most tempting thing I've ever seen,” he said, once he quieted. There was a raw quality to his voice that told her he was telling the truth.

Again.

Always.

Smiling, she went back to wrestling with his trouser placket, working the second button free, eliciting a groan when her fingers brushed his shaft.

Oliver removed her hand from his trousers and ripped open his placket himself. “I can't take it any longer.”

Lizzie couldn't think straight, not when he was shoving his trousers down his legs and his tool was springing forward.

“Look at yourself,” he commanded.

She glanced down. Breasts, waist, hips—­her nightgown had caught on them, thank goodness—­below that, pink toes. Plus pale curls falling over her shoulders and cascading almost to her waist.

Then, like magic, she saw herself through his eyes: slender but rounded, sensual shadows and curves, hair that enticed, hiding her nipples. An erotic body.

“It's as if someone knew my innermost desires, and shaped you only for me,” he said hoarsely.

Lizzie brushed her hair behind her shoulders, hearing the stifled noise he made and loving it.

She gave a little wiggle and a desperate, raw groan broke from Oliver's lips.

As she pushed down her nightgown, a shadowed patch of curls appeared, along with legs that were so slender that her thighs seemed plump in comparison.

Oliver didn't say a word. He just stood before her, offering bold evidence of his arousal.

Aroused by her. By her body. By herself.

She would never again think of herself as an unattractive country mouse. She realized, with a thrill that went to the bottom of her toes, that she had found a man just like her brother-­in-­law.

Just like the Earl of Mayne.

A man who was possessive in good ways, but not in bad. Who would love and shelter her, but also encourage and embolden her.

Oliver scooped her up and lay her on the bed. Thinking about what would make him happy, Lizzie decided to be bold. Her hands drifted over his body until he opened heavy-­lidded eyes and growled, “I'm sorry, Lizzie. I can't take it any longer or I will shame myself.”

Excitement caught in her throat and blocked any words, but she nodded. His heavy body arched over hers and he began kissing her, starting at her breasts, sliding lower to her stomach, lower still.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked in alarm.

But he was sure, murmuring something about honey and flowers. His tongue slid down her inner thighs as his roughened thumb dragged down her most sensitive parts and she stiffened all over, toes curling as a sheet of flame swept through her body.

“Oliver!” she cried. Her fingers curled in his hair, holding him in place. He made a rumbling approving sound, licked her again, and thrust a broad finger into her.

Just like that, Lizzie felt herself convulsing, crying out in bliss, her body curling up toward him. Sweat sprang out all over her body, but he didn't stop, he kept kissing her, murmuring about how beautiful she was, and one erotic spasm swept straight into the next and she was tightening around his finger all over again, sobbing this time, her fingers pulling his hair.

“Come here, come here,” she cried, hands sliding over his shoulders, pulling at him. Finally his body hovered over hers again, and he began sliding inside her.

He was large, too large.

They had to stop while she caught her breath. She wiggled, and discovered how good that felt.

Stopped again—­he groaned and dropped his forehead onto hers—­while she decided whether she felt like a bottle with a cork.

Or whether there was something amazing happening, some liquid, excruciating torment.

Her body decided for her, pushing up against him, seating him deep in the tight clasp of her body.

“Please,” she cried, forgetting anything but this, the feeling of completion and heat and madness. “Oliver!”

With a deep grunt, he took over. Poised above her on his elbows, kissing her until heat began climbing up her limbs again and she turned her face because she had to breathe—­she'd forgotten how to breathe—­she had to shriek.

She did shriek as his hot length drove deep into her body, over and over. Oliver's shuddering inability to control himself was like oil thrown on a fire: she arched like a bow beneath him, her body breaking apart and reforming into something new.

Part of that new Lizzie lived for Oliver, woke at Oliver's touch, sang at the way he thrust one last time, a harsh sound torn from his throat . . . then collapsed on top of her, crushing her.

They were sweaty and slippery. The room rang with the silent echo of their cries. The bed had lost everything but the bottom sheet.

Oliver had never known it, but when a woman breaks into a laugh while a man is still inside her, it's an aphrodisiac like no other. A joyful laugh is reinvigorating, even if that man has just made love—­really made love—­for the first time in his life.

He kissed Lizzie and then asked for the sixth or seventh time if she would marry him.

No, he demanded it, and this time, she said yes. Then they made love all night, tender, passionate, crazed.

The next morning, he dragged his future wife out of bed, sleepily protesting, out to the stables, onto a horse.

Then, when she proved to be a trifle sore, he took her onto his lap and kissed her as his mount meandered through a meadow, going wherever he willed.

Lizzie never knew exactly why Oliver took her out in the dawn light. It had something to do with her sister. She didn't know why he kept tickling her and making her laugh so hard that she almost fell off the horse a few times.

“I always wanted to make love in a field,” he told her, perfectly seriously.

She felt her eyes go round. “In a
field
?”

“Yes, in a field, and then return to the house and get married.”

“
What
?”

“Did I forget to mention that Joshua took a carriage last night to fetch a marriage license from the Bishop of Chichester?” His smile was the wicked, sleepy smile of a reformed rake. “It's his first act as my future brother-­in-­law. We'll marry in St. Mary's church in Walberton, Lizzie, just as soon as you'll have me.”

“Oh,” she breathed. She could cry . . . or she could laugh.

Laughter is a medicine that cures the greatest anguish, mends the sharpest humiliation, cures the soul.

So she laughed.

 

Epilogue

Y
OUNG
M
ASTER
B
ERWICK
was born on an early spring morning, approximately nine months after his parents met.

It had been a mercifully quick birth, which meant that his mother and father were able to focus on their new baby, rather than collapsing in exhaustion.

Mostly they stared at him. In fact, if he had but known it, that would quickly become one of their favorite occupations.

Mind you, their comments were not always complimentary.

“How's the plum today?” was a common question.

Except they both knew precisely how the plum was, since they couldn't seem to stay away from the nursery.

They had to replace one well-­recommended nanny because she believed in foolish ideas such as children being presented in the drawing room for a half-­hour only, and otherwise kept to a strict routine in the nursery.

That wouldn't have allowed the plum to go out in the pony cart, or to be taken on picnics so that his cousin Hattie could tickle him until he turned purple from laughing so much. It wouldn't have allowed his mother to find a shady spot in the gardens, and breastfeed her baby while she read the latest novel.

Or his father to find the two of them, and throw himself down on the blanket and watch, waiting until the plum fell asleep, looking as round and fat and plum-­like as only a much-­nurtured, much-­loved, and much-­fed baby can look.

That allowed his parents to work on their next project, a little plumlet to go with the plum.

“This one will have your hair,” Oliver murmured.

Lizzie was laughing, the sound drifting across the gardens. “How can you be so sure? Cat's three children all have Joshua's hair, and look at the plum. Your hair, exactly.”

Oliver had built a little tent over the baby so that if his son awoke, he wouldn't be shocked by parental frolicking. He had lulled his wife with kisses and whispered compliments and hungry caresses.

He had managed to slide her gown up to where he wanted it, past her plump thighs and still slender hips, though she ate considerably better now that they'd found a cook who understood vegetables.

“I just know,” he said.

And he was right.

 

A Note About Croquet and Countesses

C
AT AND
J
OSHUA'S
game of croquet was, obviously, played in an unlikely location. A young gentry family would have played it on the lawn, although they wouldn't necessarily have called by that name. The first mention of croquet in the
Oxford English Dictionary
comes from a citation in 1858. But the OED notes that croquet resembles the ancient game of
closh
, as well as pall-­mall, also known as
paille-­maille
, which was a popular outdoor game in England by the 1600s. All three of these games involved hitting a ball with a mallet through and around obstacles, though none, I would venture to say, were played with the bravado and gaiety of the young Windingham household.

Josie, the Countess of Mayne, and her husband, the Earl of Mayne appear in all four of my series about the Essex sisters. Josie and Mayne's love story was spurred by the fact that her nickname, the “Scottish Sausage,” appeared likely to ruin her matrimonial chances—­at least until Mayne taught her what men truly like about women's figures. Their story begins with
Much Ado About You
, excerpted below.

And if you're curious about the mention of “Silly Billy”—­a pejorative that was not made up by Darlington and Berwick, but is in the same cruel vein—­you can find a short story, “A Midsummer Night's Disgrace,” in the
Essex Sisters Companion Guide
; a peek at this novella follows the excerpt of
Much Ado
.

 

Read on for an excerpt from

Much Ado About You

the first novel in the Essex Sisters quartet.

Available wherever books are sold!

 

September 1816

Holbrook Court, seat of the Duke of Holbrook

On the outskirts of Silchester

In the afternoon

“I
AM HAPPY
to announce that the rocking horses have been delivered, Your Grace. I have placed them in the nursery for your inspection. As yet, there is no sign of the children.”

Raphael Jourdain, Duke of Holbrook, turned. He had been poking a fire smoldering in the cavernous fireplace of his study. There was a reserved tone in his butler's voice that signaled displeasure. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Brinkley's tone signaled the disgruntlement of the entire household of elderly servants, not one of whom was enchanted by the idea of accommodating themselves to the presence of four small, female children. Well, the hell with that, Rafe thought. It wasn't as if he'd
asked
to have a passel of youngsters on the premises.

“Rocking horses?” came a drawling voice from a deep chair to the right of the fireplace. “Charming, Rafe. Charming. One can't start too early making the little darlings interested in horseflesh.” Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne, raised his glass toward his host. His black curls were in exquisite disarray, his comments arrogant to a fault, and his manners barely hid a seething fury. Not that he was furious at Rafe; Mayne had been in a slow burn for the past few months. “To Papa and his brood of infant
equestriennes
,” he added, tossing back his drink.

“Stubble it!” Rafe said, but without much real animosity. Mayne was a damned uncomfortable companion at the moment, what with his poisonous comments and black humor. Still, one had to assume that the foul temper caused by the shock of being rejected by a woman would wear off in a matter of time.

“Why the plural, as in rocking
horses
?” Mayne asked. “As I recall, most nurseries contain only one rocking horse.”

Rafe took a gulp of his brandy. “I don't know much about children,” he said, “but I distinctly remember my brother and me fighting over our toys. So I bought four of them.”

There was a second's silence during which the earl considered whether to acknowledge the fact that Rafe obviously still missed his brother (dead these five years, now). He dismissed the impulse. Manlike, he observed no benefit to maudlin conversation.

“You're doing those orphans proud,” he said instead. “Most guardians would stow the children out of sight. It's not as if they're your blood.”

“There's no amount of dolls in the world that will make up for their situation,” Rafe said, shrugging. “Their father should have thought of his responsibilities before he climbed on a stallion.”

The conversation was getting dangerously close to the sort of emotion to be avoided at all costs, so Mayne sprang from his chair. “Let's have a look at the rocking horses, then. I haven't seen one in years.”

“Right,” Rafe said, putting his glass onto the table with a sharp clink. “Brinkley, if the children arrive, bring them upstairs, and I'll receive them in the nursery.”

A few minutes later the two men stood in the middle of a large room on the third floor, dizzily painted with murals. Little Bo Peep chased after Red Riding Hood, who was surely in danger of being crushed by the giant striding across the wall, his raised foot lowering over a feather bed sporting a huge green pea under the coverlet. The room resembled nothing so much as a Bond Street toy shop. Four dolls with spun gold hair sat primly on a bench. Four doll beds were propped atop each other, next to four doll tables, on which sat four jack-in-the-boxes. In the midst of it all was a group of rocking horses graced with real horsehair and coming almost to a man's waist.

“Jesus,” Mayne said.

Rafe strode into the room and stamped on the rocker of one of the horses, making it clatter back and forth on the wooden floor. A door on the side of the room swung open, and a plump woman in a white apron poked her head out.

“There you are, Your Grace,” she said, beaming. “We're just waiting for the children. Would you like to meet the new maids now?”

“Send them on in, Mrs. Beeswick.”

Four young nursemaids crowded into the room after her. “Daisy, Gussie, Elsie, and Mary,” said the nanny. “They're from the village, Your Grace, and pleased to have a position at Holbrook Court.We're all eager for the little cherubs to arrive.” The nursemaids lined up to either side of Mrs. Beeswick, smiling and curtsying.

“Jesus,” Mayne repeated. “They won't even share a maid, Rafe?”

“Why should they? My brother and I had three nurses between us.”

“Three?”

“Two for my brother, ever since he turned duke at age seven, and one for me.”

Mayne snorted. “That's absurd. When's the last time you met your wards' father, Lord Brydone?”

“Not for years,” Rafe said, picking up a jack-in-the-box and pressing the lever so that it hopped from its box with a loud squeak. “The arrangement was just a matter of a note from him and my reply.”

“You have never met your own wards?”

“Never. I haven't been over the border in years, and Brydone only came down for the Ascot, the Silchester, and, sometimes, Newmarket. To be honest, I don't think he really gave a damn for anything other than his stables. He didn't even bother to list his children in
Debrett's
. Of course, since he had four girls, there was no question of inheritance. The estate went to some distant cousin.”

“Why on earth—” Mayne glanced at the five women standing to the side of the room and checked himself.

“He asked me,” Rafe said, shrugging. “I didn't think twice of it. Apparently Monkton had been in line, but he cocked up his toes last year. And Brydone asked me to step in. Who would have thought that ill could come to Brydone? It was a freak accident, that horse throwing him. Although he was fool enough to ride a half-broken stallion.”

“Damned if I thought I'd ever see you a father,” Mayne said.

“I had no excuse to say no. I have the substance to raise any number of children. Besides, Brydone gave me Starling in return for acting as a guardian. I told him I'd do the job, as soon as he wrote me, and no bribe was necessary. But he sent Starling down from Scotland, and no one would say nay to adding that horse to their stables.”

“Starling is out of Standout, isn't he?”

Rafe nodded. “Patchem's brother. The core of Brydone's stable is out of Patchem, and those are now the only horses in England in Patchem's direct line. I'm hopeful that Starling will win the Derby next year, even if he is descended from Standout rather than Patchem himself.”

“What will happen to Patchem's offspring?” Mayne asked, with the particular intensity he reserved for talk of horses. “Something Wanton, for example?”

“I don't know yet. Obviously, the stables aren't entailed. My secretary has been up there working on the estate. Should Brydone's stable come to the children, I'll put the horses up for auction and the money in trust. The girls will need dowries someday, and I'd be surprised if Brydone bothered to set them up himself.”

“If Wanton is for sale, I'm the one to buy him. I'd pay thousands for him. There could be no better addition to my stables.”

“He would do wonders for mine as well,” Rafe agreed.

Mayne had found a little heap of cast-iron horses and was sorting them out so that each carriage was pulled by a matched pair. “You know, these are quite good.” He had all the cast-iron horses and their carriages lined up on the mantelpiece now. “Wait till your wards see these horses. They won't think twice about the move from Scotland. Pity there's no boy among them.”

Rafe just looked at him. The earl was one of his dearest friends, and always would be. But Mayne's sleek, protected life had not put him in the way of grief. Rafe knew only too well what it felt like to find oneself lonely in the midst of a cozy nursery, and cast-iron horses wouldn't help, for all he found himself buying more and more of them. As if toys would make up for a dead father. “I hardly think you—”

The door behind him swung open. He stopped and turned.

Brinkley moved to the side more nimbly than was his practice. It wasn't every day that one got to knock the master speechless with surprise. “I'm happy to announce Miss Essex. Miss Imogen. Miss Annabel. Miss Josephine.”

Then he added, unable to resist, if the truth be known, “The children have arrived, Your Grace.”