He did as she asked, and she sighed in relief.
She could feel the weight of his hand, his palm resting on her lower belly. It felt good. It felt nice. She felt safe.
He went back to kissing her. Her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. He nuzzled at her ear, coaxing yet more shivers when he traced her ear with his tongue, as his warm breath tickled at her, and she began to feel liquid again.
“Daisy, sweetheart, let me tell you what I’m going to do, and you can tell me if I may, or if I should stop. All right?”
“You must think me an idiot,” she said, closing her eyes.
“
Shh,
nothing of the kind. I want to touch you, Daisy. I want you to feel, just a little, what it would be like if I could make love to you. But I can’t do that if you keep your legs so closely together.”
“I...I can’t.”
He continued in that same soft, encouraging voice. “Do you trust me, Daisy?”
Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her eyes tightly shut, she nodded.
“You’re covered, sweetheart, I can’t see anything. I won’t even try to look. I promise. I’m going to move my hand now, and I’ll stop if you tell me to stop.”
She let out a long, hopefully relaxing breath, and nodded again. But her thighs remained tightly, protectively together.
She felt his hand moving again, drifting over the skin of her lower belly, a fingertip exploring her navel even as he captured her breast in his mouth once more.
That was nice. That felt good.
He ran his hands over her thighs, into the nest of curls, and then retreated once more to her navel. She dared to open her eyes, to see his dark head bent over her, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks as he licked at her, teased at her, she could fancifully believe, very nearly worshipping her body.
Yes, there had to be more. She willed her body to relax, even as he lowered his hand once more to the apex of her thighs. Where she felt so tight, so unnaturally warm, even liquid. So very nearly needy.
She heard her own voice above the pounding of her heart. Not saying
stop.
Not really saying anything. Just a low, wondering whimper.
He was massaging her now, pressing the heel of his hand against her, holding and moving all of her so that the skin between her thighs moved, as well. Easing her, relaxing her, until his middle finger slipped lower, and she felt the shock of his touch against her impatient flesh.
He was whispering in her ear again. “Open your legs for me, Daisy. Your body knows, and it wants you to let me in.”
She turned her head away from him. And willed her thighs to relax.
“Yes,” Valentine breathed as his hand slipped lower. “That’s it, sweetheart, that’s what we both want. Now I’m going to touch you, learn you because I want to find all your secret pleasures. Your body’s ready, Daisy, easing my movements, smoothing the way. Feel it? Your body knows there’s more, so much more. Pleasure you can’t even imagine. Draw up your knees for me, Daisy. Open yourself to me. Trust me.”
“I...I can’t. I can’t. Oh, God, what are you doing?”
She knew how moist she was, and it embarrassed her, no matter what Valentine told her to the contrary. She was losing control, had lost control of her own body. She wanted to grind her teeth, wanted to lift her bottom so he could
do things
to her, whatever he wanted.
Like now. He was holding her slightly apart, and stroking at her very center, and a switch seemed to turn deep inside her, unlocking her last inhibition.
She bent her knees, and dug her heels into the bed, and lifted herself up, desperately afraid he’d move his hand, lose the secret place he’d found, leave her hanging on some precipice, never knowing what it is to fly.
“There,” she heard herself say. “Yes. Just there. I can’t...I can’t...”
He was everywhere, even inside her. And she gave him everything she had, everything she didn’t know she had to give. Her body began its own dance, unbidden by her, and she cried out her pleasure, her wonder.
“Hold on,” Valentine whispered tight against her ear, and then he plunged his fingers deep inside her, breaking through the barrier that marked the line between unknowing spinster and true womanhood.
She hurt, she burned, but he stayed with her, stroking her, soothing her...and then moving on top of her, nestling himself between her spread thighs, guiding himself to her, inside her, filling her. She felt him move, slowly at first, and then with urgency creeping into his every thrust, until he clasped her tightly to him and she felt his release.
His back was damp against her palms, evidence of his exertion, and she kissed his slick shoulder, licked the salt from the side of his neck.
What he’d done to her...what she’d given him. There was nothing else in this world more important. Not money or power or station or jewels. Nothing. Everything she ever wanted or needed was right here, collapsed and breathing heavily in her embrace.
He really did
care
for her. He really did see her as a desirable woman. Right at this moment, she certainly did
feel
like a desirable woman. Wasn’t life amazing?
“You’re a good man, Valentine Redgrave,” she told him in awe.
Being Valentine, he lifted his head and smiled down at her. “I can be even better,” he promised her shamelessly. “Just give me a few minutes to recuperate.”
And then tremendously loud bells began to peal in the attics two floors above them, followed hard by the sound of running feet and servants calling out: “Fire! Fire in the main foyer! Down the servant stairs, everyone—fire, fire!” and someone was pounding on Daisy’s bedchamber door. “Wake up, miss! Fire!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
V
ALENTINE
KNEW
THAT
of all the fears those who lived in London faced, be it thieves, cut-purses or cut-throats, or even slop buckets being emptied overhead by a careless maid, there was one that stuck deep in the hearts of anyone who heard that single word:
fire.
Nearly all of London had burned in the fire that had begun in Pudding Lane in 1666, and several sections of the city had met the same fate again and again over the years. There was always a lack of easily accessible water, and by the time a brigade could be formed to fight the blaze, often all that was left of an entire block were stone chimneys and smoldering ashes.
Daisy had leaped out of the bed, tripped over her untied petticoat, rallied quickly, and been buttoned into her chemise and gown by the time Valentine had pulled on his breeches, thrust his arms into his shirtsleeves and located his second shoe.
He grabbed her hand and together they raced to the door, throwing it open and then shutting it firmly behind them. “This way,” he told her, and they headed toward the rear of the tall rather than wide mansion and the servants’ stairs that led all the way down to the ground-floor kitchens.
Halfway down, they were met by servants on their way up. “Fire in the kitchens, sir,” a footman yelled. “A lantern thrown through the window and spilling on the tiles.”
“A lantern? Valentine, that means—”
“I know what it means. You,” he said, grabbing the footman by his lace cravat, “stand firm right here. Let nobody up these stairs. The front stairs are also burning. Cover your mouths and noses, and wait for my summons. Come on, Daisy!”
He kept hold of her hand as they ran down two more narrow flights, smoke rising toward them as they went. He could have grabbed the footman instead, but the lad seemed terrified, and if he had to choose someone to stand firmly at his back and remain cool under fire, there was no one he’d rather have with him than the unflappable Daisy Marchant.
They stumbled a bit at the bottom landing, where the stairs curved into the kitchens, and then he pulled Daisy to her knees, hopefully to keep them below the worst of the smoke.
The fire in the center of the brick floor had all but died on its own, but not before having found several new homes in the curtains, an old tapestry rug tacked to the wall and a pile of folded linens stacked on a long wooden table. Another few minutes and flames could reach the wooden ceiling, and the mansion would be beyond help.
“Where’s the pump?” she asked, and then went off in a small paroxysm of coughing.
Valentine slapped her on her back as he attempted to get his bearings. He’d spent many an afternoon in these kitchens, peeling vegetables as punishment for something or other he’d done wrong, never letting on to Trixie that the cook very much favored him and he’d spent most of his time slathering butter from the huge crock onto buns hot from the ovens, or licking sweet icing from a wooden spoon.
“This way. Hold on to my leg.”
She could have made it to the door leading out to the mews, saved herself. But not Daisy. Daisy grabbed on. If she was afraid, she didn’t show it. She’d simply put her faith in him, just as she’d done upstairs, in what seemed a lifetime ago now.
And he’d be damned if he’d ever do anything to prove her trust in him unfounded. It was a hell of a time for an epiphany, but Valentine knew himself to be a better man because of one Daisy Marchant.
The pump was a large one, set above a trough sink. He primed it and began to pump, even as Daisy ripped two strips from her petticoat and wet them. She handed one to him and then tied the other around her nose and mouth.
Without a word, they knew what had to be done. Daisy took over the pumping while Valentine lined up buckets stored beneath the trough. When the first was full, he took a deep breath and crossed the kitchen, to douse one set of burning curtains. By the time he got back, the second bucket was full.
They kept their small chain going until there were no more flames, but only dark, choking smoke. It was safe to throw open the door and windows without feeding the fire.
Still with the cloths tied around their faces, they called out to the servants hovering on the stairs, waited until they were all down in the kitchens and then raced up a single flight, Valentine intent on helping whoever might be attempting to douse the fire in the foyer.
Again, they were met with smoke, but no flames.
The butler, Soames, was leaning against the stucco wall at the head of the curving staircase, using a small brush he’d probably procured from his pocket to swipe at some offending soot on his sleeve. His unruffled demeanor did a lot to calm Valentine’s concern.
Valentine pulled down the rag that had covered his nose and mouth as Daisy did the same. “I take it the fire’s out?”
“Yes, sir. A pair of lit lanterns and a bladder of oil, all tied together and tossed inside when George, here, opened the door to a rather commanding knock. Don’t hang your head, George. It’s not as if we can see
through
the door, now is it?”
“How did you manage to put it out, Soames?”
“Smothered it, sir, as it was oil. Water wouldn’t have done us any good, no good at all.”
Still holding Daisy’s hand, Valentine walked over to the decorative balustrades and peered down at the foyer below.
He shook his head. “Those are two of the Aubusson carpets from the drawing room, aren’t they? The rather priceless Aubusson carpets from the drawing room, won by my grandmother in a private wager with the Prince of Wales?” And then he took a chance Soames may not be as unflustered as he appeared. “Do you happen to know the nature of the wager itself? She never told us.”
But one didn’t remain the butler to the dowager countess long by speaking out of turn. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir, and also that the family should be happy in its ignorance. Very tightly woven carpets by the way, and quite heavy. They worked like a charm, although I fear the marble floor may be forever stained. There’s soot everywhere. It will take a week or more just to clean the crystals on the chandelier. There are over six hundred of them, you understand.”
“Politely chastened, am I, Soames, and the subject neatly changed? Still, it was worth a try.” Valentine turned his attention to the previously unadorned statues, now mantled in black, smoky soot. “I’ll grant you have a mess on your hands, but your quick work saved the mansion.”
Behind him, Daisy cleared her throat. “I believe you
all
to be heroes, and I commend you. If you’d be so good as to summon your housekeeper and all the servants, Mr. Soames, I will take things from here. Let them begin by throwing open every last window in this establishment. We’re in for a long night, I’m afraid, but together we’ll get through it. Oh, and if there’s any more lemonade, I’d very much like the taste of smoke banished from my mouth, as would everyone else, I imagine.”
As Soames looked rather bug-eyed, Valentine quickly jumped in to save her. “Actually, Miss Marchant, I think the first order should be to have the grooms arm themselves and stand guard around the mansion for the remainder of the night.”
“True, Mr. Redgrave, and eminently practical. We have been attacked, haven’t we. Does this sort of thing occur often in Mayfair? Well, no matter. This mess won’t clean itself, as my mother was fond of saying, so let’s get to work.”
And then, in the totally unaffected way of a woman who placed practicality above most everything else (apparently even above returning to what had been their recently shared bed), Daisy managed to tame her riot of curls and twist it into a knot at the top of her head. She had all the qualities of a warrior queen; she just didn’t know it.
Valentine had to restrain himself from kissing her.
“Yes, miss, but—”
“I believe Soames is trying to say he’s in charge, he and the housekeeper, and after that, the cook.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Soames. I’m afraid I’m unaccustomed to standing idly by while others work. Of course you’re in charge. If you’d just tell me how I can be of assistance?”
“Thank you, miss.” The butler bowed. “If I may be so bold as to correct you, sir, I had been about to apologize for the possibility there is no lemonade prepared, and suggest a small, restorative glass of wine for the young lady while she’s waiting.”
Soames, you dog, you, you’re under her spell now, as well, aren’t you?
“Splendid idea—a glass of wine for everyone, from major domo to pot boy, and then to work. Miss Marchant, if you’d be so kind as to come with me for a moment?”
Valentine took her hand and pulled her into the drawing room, shutting the double doors behind them. Then he turned and looked at her, couldn’t stop looking at her. Her hair was still a mess, long, tight ringlets falling in her face, around her nape. From her forehead to halfway down her nose, her skin was gray with soot from the kitchen fire, her eyes looking twice as blue. Her brown gown was misbuttoned rather badly, the bodice and skirt sopping wet from working the pump.
He was so damn proud of her he felt his own buttons might burst.
“How are you?” he asked her.
“Reluctantly ready to take you up on your offer of some new gowns, I suppose,” she said, smiling faintly. “I’ll never be able to get the smell of smoke out of this one. How are you? You look quite dashing, you know. Your hair adorably awry, your face most attractively streaked with soot, as if you’d applied it while peering into a mirror. Your shirtpoints still wonderfully starched, a credit to Mr. Piffkin, I’m sure. You could be a pirate, standing at the bow of the ship. I, on the other hand, have probably never looked worse. How do you suppose that is? That one person can look so attractive, no matter what the circumstances, while the other—”
“I think you’re beautiful,” he told her, walking toward her.
“Yes, yes, it’s all in my eyes. Thank you. You know, Valentine, I’m beginning to think you believe yourself besotted, or some such thing. I am
not
beautiful. My sister is beautiful. Your grandmother is beautiful. Goodness, Valentine,
you’re
beautiful.”
“Now that’s embarrassing.”
“Forgive me.
Handsome.
Granted, I don’t send little children screaming for their nurse, but I am not beautiful and I wish you’d stop saying I am. You make me uncomfortable.”
Valentine was doing his best not to laugh. Laughing, at this precise moment, would not be a good idea. “May I at least say you make love beautifully?”
Daisy opened her mouth, frowned, closed her mouth again. She looked at him rather intensely, as if to assure herself he was serious. “I do?” Then she shook her head. “Oh, I do not. Do I?”
“I’m not about to issue a complaint,” he told her, at last unable to hold back his smile. “I brought you in here, however, to ask how you’re feeling.”
“Feeling? I’m fine. I wasn’t even slightly singed.”
“I’m not talking about the fire, sweetheart.” Now he was the one feeling uncomfortable. “Look, Daisy, it was your first time, and sometimes—”
“Oh. That. I suppose I’m a little... That is, now that I have a moment to think about it, I— But I’ll be fine. Although a bath would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?”
“In so many ways, yes.” He was smiling again. She was again trying to be practical. And, he supposed, attempting to treat what they’d shared an hour earlier as some sort of— Ah, hell, what did she think about it? As they’d had no time to discuss the thing, he really had no idea. He didn’t want a critique, but he’d like to think he hadn’t bungled the thing, even if he hadn’t been more nervous in his life.
“But not until the foyer is at least partially put to rights. Your grandmother may return soon, and she shouldn’t be greeted by such a terrible mess.” She tilted her head to one side. “How are we going to explain this to her? Will she know it’s the work of the Society, aimed at the two of us? Do you think they’ve been watching for our arrival? Why didn’t they attack us along the road? How do you suppose they knew we were here? Oh, and do you think the fires were meant to kill us, or to warn us? After all, if they’d waited another few hours, the entire household probably would have been asleep.”
“One question at a time, please, although you’re right, it would have been much easier to attack us on the road, even logical.” A thought struck him; Daisy had this way of asking just the correct question—that perfect question must have been somewhere in that litany of questions—and it had sparked some in his own mind. It was almost as if she was his muse...or somehow opened up some better part of himself. “Unless... Daisy, we’re going to allow Trixie to tell us what she suspects. Volunteer nothing.”
“I don’t understand. Could you be more— Oh. Are you saying the attack
wasn’t
meant for us? That it was meant for your grandmother? But why would anyone wish to harm your grandmother?”
“As we’ve just been talking about it, I can think of several reasons.” Valentine’s mind was racing now, the fire itself relegated to the past. “She was there, at the beginning. She knows things. People, places, secrets no one should know. She’s been a great source of information for us, but she’s had to—let’s say
talk
to several people recently, in order to gain some of that information. It’s never smart to delve too deeply into how Trixie does what she does. On top of that, my brother Gideon still believes she hasn’t told us all she knows, not that anyone can blame her.”
“I’d want to forget it all. I can’t even imagine how difficult it is for her that her grandchildren now know what it was like for her when your grandfather was alive.”
“She’s been extremely brave ever since Gideon approached her with what he’d learned, if not always immediately forthcoming. She and Richard—you’ve yet to meet him, but rumor has it my grandmother is actually in love—were traveling somewhere, doing only God knows what, until returning here yesterday. If she said something along the way, asked the wrong question, wasn’t as discreet as she believes herself to be?”
“You have quite the interesting family, Valentine. The more I hear, the more I wonder why I’m not walking about with my jaw at half-mast. Is there more?”