"The door's shut. We can hear them come in," he gently murmured. "They might be out in the stables for a
very
long time." He took her hands and drew her to a seated position. He pulled her slippers off and she didn't stop him, so he leaned forward and lifted her into his arms. "Hold your skirt up," he said, moving her onto his lap.
"Pasha, no." The protest was so faint, he understood that she was willing, even if she didn't.
"Hold up your skirt," he softly repeated. And when she lifted the blue silk of one of Mme. Ormand's gowns after a certain degree of seductive coaxing, Pasha slid her down his erection. Her small, blissful sigh was another kind of acceptance.
Content, his carnal urges less frenzied now, Pasha considered the unblemished perfection of his current position. A woman of great beauty lay wide open to his libidinous urges and he had the leisure to pursue those desires in the days to come.
She was hot beyond the wildest fantasies. Perhaps even insatiable, he thought, smiling at the enticing, personal consequences of that word. And now, with his first lust assuaged, he was looking forward to the luxury of a more languid lovemaking. "I like your house," he murmured, kissing her cheek gently. "And this room…" Another kiss trailed down her neck. "And mostly this luscious lady riding me." His tongue traced the curve of her collarbone. "You're going to have to let me sleep with you tonight." He nibbled the lobe of her ear and she felt it in the usual place. No matter where he touched her, kissed or caressed her, the immediate carnal response spiked downward in a shimmering heat directly to her throbbing vagina. It wasn't fair what he could do to her. "Can we arrange that somehow?" he whispered. "Sleeping together," he softly added, thrusting upward as if emphasizing the advantages of his proposition, jolting her into a heated flurry of excitement.
She couldn't answer. She couldn't enunciate a single word, not with desire and pleasure seeping through her brain, dissolving her bones, shimmering in every taut nerve of her body. Stretched, filled, gorged, she was engulfed by longing.
A glutton, that's what she was, when she'd never even realized sex and gluttony went together.
Pasha Duras had enlightened her.
Her lashes lifted and she gazed at the sinfully beautiful man who held her lightly, his fingers splayed across her waist and hips. He smiled into her heated gaze, his lush mouth half curved, his dark, Tartar eyes wicked, tantalizing.
And then the ringing sound of her son's voice shattered the hushed moment, followed a second later by the hum of adult conversation. A door slammed shut.
"Will they come upstairs?" Pasha's voice was brisk, as though he could separate emotion from reason.
Rigid in his arms, she nodded her head.
Groaning softly, he considered her household required some new rules concerning a servant's place. His staff would never intrude. Taking a deep breath, he lifted her away and swiftly began setting his clothes to rights. That task accomplished with record speed, he turned to help Trixi who, in her panicked state, was retying a ribbon for the third time. More familiar with in flagrante situations, he calmly retied her decorative shoulder bows and smoothed out the worst wrinkles on her skirt while she slipped out of her dampened petticoat and hid it under the mattress.
After handing her a brush and mirror from the dressing table, he put her slippers back. "It's not as though Mrs. Orde wasn't hoping we'd spend some time together," he remarked, holding the mirror for her, handing her hairpins one at a time.
Trixi pursed her lips in the mirror. "I don't think she had this in mind."
"Why couldn't we have been discussing our plans for sightseeing tomorrow? Surely that's innocuous enough."
"In the bedroom?"
"She won't ask, darling. Really," If ever he'd seen a matchmaker, and he was a specialist at spotting them, Mrs. Orde fell into that category. "Come now," he offered, holding out his hand as Trixi put the last hairpin in place. "You look very presentable."
As they descended the stairs, Chris caught sight of them and running from the drawing room, he cried, "Where were you? I looked everywhere!" Mrs. Orde had followed him to the doorway, and Trixi blushed furiously while Pasha urbanely said, "Your mother was showing me the house."
"There's nothing to see up there."
"The views were nice," Pasha blandly replied. "Did Will like your farm set? I'll bet he's never seen dappled Percherons."
The segue set the tone of the conversation for the next interval, and before long Pasha and Chris were sprawled on the drawing room floor rearranging the barnyard.
"Would you like a cooling drink?" Mrs. Orde cordially inquired once Chris was occupied.
Trixi hesitated, reading numerous embarrassing interpretations to the inquiry.
Pasha simply looked up from his play activities and said, "Yes, please. Anything will do."
"A touch of that Irish whiskey?" Mrs. Orde inquired, her smile genial.
"You know the way to a man's heart, Mrs. Orde," Pasha cheerfully noted.
"Missy found herself a right fine figure of a man," Mrs. Orde pronounced as she entered the kitchen a short time later. "He brought a real glow to our darling girl's cheeks."
"Do you think it's love?" Kate dreamily inquired, prone to romantic sensibilities.
"I don't know about that, Kate." Mrs. Orde's more realistic appraisal had to do with Pasha's obvious sensual appeal. "But he's made her happy and that's ail I care about. She deserves some happiness in her young life."
The following days were blissful, leisured, those entertainments most appealing to a four-year-old governing the schedule. They swam in the small lake Capability Brown had designed when the luxury of wealth had allowed the Howards to indulge their tastes for fine vistas and whimsical follies. They played tennis and picnicked, fished in the river that ran through the meadow, and gathered wild strawberries on its banks. They often rode the country lanes and the perimeters of Trixi's reduced estate in the cool spring mornings and at twilight when birdsong and lavender skies serenely eased day into evening. And at night when all was quiet at Burleigh House the lovers were at last alone. They made love in all its infinite variety—with tenderness, with impatient urgency and languid dissipation, with teasing laughter, and one night when the moon shone through the leaded panes with a snowy brilliance they held each other close, their eyes filled with tears.
And if perfection were possible in this most imperfect of worlds, the young lovers at Burleigh House had found it.
Their days passed apace, a week slipping by in this Kentish paradise of play and ease and childish entertainments. And then a second week.
One dew-fresh morning, Will escorted them to the horse fair at Denton where all the local folk had their opportunity to finally see or meet the new guest at Burleigh House who, rumor had it, was ten feet tall and dark as the devil.
The progress of Trixi's small party through the village streets that day was exquisitely slow, checked at every turn by the curious who wished to make their bow to the tall foreigner at Lady Grosvenor's side.
Pasha smiled and answered the subtle, designing, or artless queries with grace and civility. No, he was French, yes, the restored Bourbon dynasty was interesting, although even politesse wouldn't concede more than that from the son of a revolutionary general. Yes, the weather
was
exceptional, the horses at the fair magnificent and no, actually Lady Grosvenor was a distant relation—on his mother's side. Trixi would smile and nod at this point or add a comment or two about the Teeside Ripons on
her
mother's side. And bowing, they'd continue down the gauntlet of curiosity seekers, responding to fresh interrogations.
But the horses were, in fact, splendid enough that Pasha bought three racers for his stable. The day was sunshine-bright and balmy and the young lovers enjoyed being in each other's company so much, even the tactless and absorbed regard of so many of the local populace failed to alter their good spirits.
On the drive home in the open barouche, the spring sunlight bathing them in a lemony light, Chris asleep in Trixi's arms, she apologized for all the stares and prying questions.
"Don't be concerned," Pasha replied, thinking the picture of mother and child as fair and pleasing as the spring afternoon. "I'm inured. And all the tittle-tattle will keep your neighbors entertained for a time." Lounging across from her he bespoke a man at ease with the world's scrutiny. "As long as
you
don't mind the avid inquisitiveness my presence generates."
Her mouth quirked ruefully. "Born and raised here, I'm inured as well."
"I
do
think the deacon's wife might be calling soon," Pasha noted, amusement in his gaze. "Along with that chubby woman in blue."
"Your exotic allure might draw a good
many
visitors." Trixi had taken note of ail the female glances, some conspicuously bold.
"Promise to have Ordie drive them off. I can't abide insipid people."
"Ordie will be more than pleased to accommodate you. She's developed quite a tendresse for you."
"And I for her. Anyone who can prepare beef so it melts in your mouth has my eternal devotion."
And Mrs. Orde gladly performed her duties of door custodian with crack efficiency, if not always with tact. Several of the more exalted visitors left Burleigh House with pursed lips and high tempers. Until one morning when even Mrs. Orde's curt rebuff failed to turn off three callers.
"She will see us this morning, Mrs. Orde, or the bailiff will accompany us on our return. Deliver that message to Lady Grosvenor," the small, wizened man crisply declared.
Moments later when Mrs. Orde entered the breakfast room Trixi immediately knew something was wrong. Ordie's grim, set mouth and high color were a sure sign of anger. "What is it?" she asked, setting her fork down.
"Them Grosvenors, damn their insolence," her housekeeper cursed, the pulse in her neck visible.
Trixi turned ashen.
"Threatening you again, they are," Ordie hotly asserted. "With the bailiff."
"I'll see that they leave," Pasha said, his voice curt. Brusquely pushing his plate aside, he swiftly rose from his chair.
"No, don't, please." Crumpling her napkin in her lap, Trixi schooled her voice to a moderate tone. "Chris, darling, go with Ordie and find Kate." She smiled at her son who, wide-eyed, was watching Pasha. "Mama has some visitors she must see. I think the playhouse would be more comfortable, Ordie," she cryptically added. "You could bring the kittens there, darling," Trixi went on, offering Chris an added lure. "Pasha, do sit down. This is nothing more than a misunderstanding. Chris, sweet, go with Ordie now and we'll be out shortly to see the kittens."
"Them kittens like you," Ordie said, taking her cue from Trixi, smiling at Chris. "Let's bring them a bowl of cream from the dairy house."
"Will you and Pasha come out soon?" Chris inquired, his gaze traveling between his mother and Pasha.
"In just a few minutes, sweetheart," Trixi assured him. "Now go with Ordie."
A taut silence descended while Ordie and Chris exited the room, but the second the door closed behind them, Pasha said in a low growl, "What the hell did that mean—
comfortable
?"
"The Grosvenors have threatened to take Chris from me on several occasions, so I keep him out of sight when they visit." She exhaled a slow rush of air, her violet eyes direct. "They know he's not George's son. Although my husband was still alive when Chris was born, so—"
"Inheritance is an issue," Pasha murmured.
"I've told them repeatedly I want nothing from them."
"The law of course says otherwise."
"They're vicious—the whole family," she bitterly asserted. "I signed a release after George died, refusing an inheritance. That should have been sufficient, but with them nothing ever is. And they're very powerful here," she nervously finished. "Excuse me." She seemed to brace herself. "I must meet with them."
"Let me go with you."
"God, no. That would be worse. If you'd see that Chris is safe with Ordie and Kate, though, I'd feel better." Rising from her chair, she said, "This won't take long."
"You're sure now? Couldn't you use a little muscle here?" he lightly offered.
He made her smile despite the frightening circumstances. "I wish muscle alone would deter the Grosvenors. But," she added, shrugging slightly, "with the Duke of Buckingham so powerful a relative of theirs…"
Pasha's father had successfully defeated the combined forces of the Russian and Austrian armies several times, so "power" was a relative word in the Duras family. The Duke of Buckingham was more than manageable, Pasha thought. "I could be your solicitor," he suggested, "and keep you company in that capacity."
"Not after yesterday, darling. Everyone in the parish knows better. Really," she said with false bravado, "I'll be fine."
With her mind made up, Pasha acquiesced, but after swiftly checking to see that Chris was safe, he returned to the house, having no intention of leaving her unprotected. Following the sound of voices, he approached the small drawing room where tea was served every afternoon, moving with extreme quiet as he neared the door. If Trixi didn't require his help, he thought, positioning himself outside the doorway, he'd simply move behind the window draperies when the Grosvenors exited. If, on the other hand, they meant her harm, he would see that they suffered.
"Now that you've returned home, the Clouards wish to know your intentions," Harry Grosvenor was saying, his voice chill. "I'm here as their emissary to find out."
"They've contacted you?" Trixi's surprise showed. George's brother and his two unmarried, harpy sisters had queried her on Pasha first. To which she gave suitably vague answers. But this was unnerving—the speed with which the Clouard family had traced her.
"Your child is a disturbing issue for both families," Lady Lydia primly replied, looking down her sharp nose at Trixi. "Naturally we are interested in staying abreast of events."