A Lady's Guide to Ruin (16 page)

She started to say something. He pressed a finger against her lips and smacked her lightly on the outside of her leg, hardly enough to feel. She darted her tongue out, licked the length of his finger. It tasted of her still. He gave a hoarse gasp. She bent her head, pulling the finger inside her mouth and letting her tongue swirl around it—then drew back, lips tight, until they closed with a soft
pop
.

She tilted her head again, but he braced his hand against the chair behind her.
If you do that again,
he seemed to say,
I will not survive.

So she reached for his waist instead. The unbearable sensation in her core had faded, settling back into warm desire. More than desire. Need. She needed this. Needed him. Because soon she would be gone, and he had to be hers. Just once.

He stilled her hands and stood. Motioned her to sit back. She did, curling up a little, feeling like a queen on her throne. And what entertainment her court had. He drew off his boots one by one, then the rest of his clothing. He stood before her, naked, and let her look. She took her fill. The dark hair that swept down from his navel widened at his groin. His legs were lean and muscled. He touched his cock, running his fingers along its length. She reached for him. He came to her.

He brought his hand to her again first, dipping two fingers into her, then three. She felt something then. A tear, perhaps, a flash of pain, but she clamped down on it. He stroked her wetness down the length of his shaft. Then hesitated.

“Yes,” she said again, because he needed to hear it. And it was all he needed.

He entered her swiftly. This time the pain made bite her lip, grip his shoulder hard. He stilled. She laid a hand flat against his chest and took one breath, two. Her muscles relaxed. The pain eased. She rocked forward slowly, taking more of him in.

He pressed up on his knees to meet her, moving slowly now, his face etched with concern. But he didn't break the rule this time. They waited again when he was fully inside of her. They kissed slowly, sweetly. She thought absurdly that it was a very
chaste
kiss, this one they shared with their bodies fully entwined.

He began to move again, searching her face for permission. She gave it. With every inch of her, she gave it. His pace quickened. The surge that had lifted her before came again, but it was deeper now. He breathed against her neck. She wrapped her legs around him as he moved faster, faster—

Then he slowed again. She let out a growl of frustration and dug her nails into his shoulders.

That one, imperious eyebrow arched. She laughed, pure joy and pleasure mingling in the sound, and he gasped. He thrust again, and the unexpected movement pushed her over the edge. She buried her face against his shoulder while pleasure rocked her. He withdrew in a sudden movement, and his whole body jerked against her. Warmth spilled against her thigh. She laughed again, as quiet as the crackling of the fire, this time in wonder. She could hardly lift her arms, but she did. Found his face and drew it to hers. They kissed, kissed again, both of them smiling like fools.

Martin rose on unsteady feet. He fetched a handkerchief, and gave it to Daphne to clean herself. The poor handkerchief had probably never imagined such a livelihood. He cleaned himself off as well, sneaking glances at her. She reclined naked in the chair, seemingly unashamed, a slight smile on her face as she stared into the dying fire.

There was blood among their mingled fluids. He let out a breath.

“What?” she asked.

“We can speak again?” he said, trying to sound playful.

“Yes,” she said, throatily. That one word was almost enough to make him hard again.

“I had thought,” he said, and stopped himself. “I had half convinced myself you weren't a maid. That . . . that that was how whoever hurt you had done it. Ruined you. Made you promises, maybe, and not kept them.”

“No,” she said. “You were the first for . . . for that.” She looked up at him. “Is that why you did it? You thought I was already ruined?”

“No,” he said forcefully. He went to kneel before her. “Of course not. I mean to marry you. Whether or not this happened. Whether or not you were a maid. I love you.”

She looked sad, then, but she smiled. “And now I have broken my promise,” she said. “Thoroughly and completely.”

“What promise?” he asked. Had she promised him something?

“I promised your sister that I would not let you love me,” she said.

He'd thought as much. He grunted. “Elinor will see it's right,” he said. “We'll tell everyone tomorrow. About the engagement, I mean.”

“There is no engagement,” Daphne said. She played with a lock of his hair.

“There has to be,” he said. “After what we just did . . .” He stopped. “Don't you want to marry me?”

“More than anything,” she said. She slid forward, off the chair, fitting herself against him. His cock gave a twitch. She kissed his jaw where it met his ear. “But there are things you don't know.”

“Tell me.” He rested his hands on her hips. Her skin was rough with scar tissue beneath his palms.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.” She ran her fingertips down his chest. He trapped her hand to still it.

“Nothing you could tell me could change how I feel,” he said. “For God's sake, you could be with child.” They had no choice but to marry, but it was a trap he was glad to have fallen into. Too late, now, to second-guess and wonder at their
suitability. But she shook her head, apparently unconvinced by the inevitable truth.

“Give me two weeks,” she said. “In two weeks, I will tell you everything, and you can decide. That is time enough, if I am with child.”

“I will write to your father,” he said.

“No,” she insisted. “No one. Two weeks. Swear to me.”

“I swear,” he said, gritting it out between his teeth.

“Good.” She rose. He tried to catch her but she slid from his grasp with an alluring pivot of her hips. “I have another appointment to keep,” she said, eyes shining wickedly. Or, not entirely. There was something else in her eyes. Something desperate, and desperately sad. But before he could be certain, she had reclaimed her nightgown and slid, ghostlike, from the room.

*   *   *

Maddy was waiting in Joan's room, Fox napping on the rug at her feet. When Joan entered, she let out a gasp of relief, which quickly turned into a squeak of horror at the state of Joan's wardrobe.

“I'm well,” Joan assured her. “Lord Grey won't bother you again.”

“You're hurt,” Maddy said. “You're . . .”

“Disarrayed?” Joan asked drily. “Don't fret. We had a scuffle but I came out the victor.” And then came a scuffle with mutual victory. Although, she had won
twice
in that later bout . . . She shook herself. “You should be safe to return. Lord Grey knows that if he bothers you again, there will be hell to pay.” She'd make sure her threat outlasted her. Elinor would have to know about everything that had happened.

Not everything. God, not everything. She couldn't face that, not when it still felt so wonderful. All the ill of the world could wait for morning. Tonight was hers.

“You are a saint,” Maddy said. She flew forward and embraced Joan. Joan stood stiffly, then allowed her arms to encircle the trembling maid. “A saint,” she said, and Joan did not bother to contradict her, despite quite recent evidence to the contrary. When Maddy drew back, her eyes were bleary with tears. “If you do ever ask for me, I'll come, miss,” she said. “If you do.”

“I'll try,” Joan said. She paused. “Maddy,” she said. “There is something I need you to do for me. You must not ask why, and you must not ever tell a soul.”

“Of course,” Maddy said breathlessly.

Joan crossed to the vanity and knelt. She pulled free the little bundle of cloth that hid her prizes. “Don't look inside,” she said. “Take this. Take a few of my clothes. Drab ones, suitable for travel. And the money there, in the desk. You know the cottage, out past the ruins? I need you to hide these things there. Especially this.” She pressed the cloth bundle into Maddy's palm. “I saw a loose brick in the fireplace. Put the bundle behind the brick. And don't—”

“Look inside,” Maddy said. “I promise. But why?”

“No questions,” Joan reminded her. “Do this, and I will do everything I can to send for you when I can. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Maddy said, though curiosity burned behind her eyes. She tucked the bundle into her dress and gave a sharp nod. “Only promise one more thing.”

“What?”

“When you do send for me, you have to tell me what's in here. Else I'll be on my deathbed wondering,” Maddy said.

Joan chuckled. “I think I can promise that,” she said. “Thank you, Maddy.”

“Stowing a few thing's nothing next to what you did,” Maddy said dismissively. “You can trust me, miss.” She bobbed a curtsy, and then was gone, hurrying down the hallway with the soundless step only a servant or a thief could truly manage.

Joan sank onto the edge of the bed. Her nerves still hummed. She lay back and parted her thighs, resting her hand low on her belly. She'd broken her promise, cast aside good sense. She'd done the one thing that she had always avoided, that she had never dared risk for anyone. She'd always thought herself too smart, the consequences too dire. Disease. Getting with child. She'd be a poor thief with a babe in tow.

And she'd do it over again, in a heartbeat. Risks be damned. She would deal with what came, with that memory to comfort her. She only wished there were a way to tell Martin that nothing more would come of it. She had no choice but to break his heart, and no way to steel him against it. She could only delay it for a little while longer.

Two weeks, she'd said. What could she manage in two weeks? Daphne, hopefully. And escape. She had to leave, for both their sakes. Elinor would find some way to sort things out for Daphne. Martin would want to look for her. Until he learned the truth. Elinor would spare him nothing. He would be angry. Furious. Betrayed. And then he would forget her. Find someone more suited to him, to his station.

Fox pawed at her ankle. She sat up long enough to lift him in her arms, then lay back again, and the little pup snuggled down against her chest with a contented sigh.

Two weeks. Somehow, she would survive that long.

Daphne would not meet Martin's eyes at breakfast. He had trouble keeping his off of her. He struggled to maintain his end of conversations, and get down more than a few bites. Did she regret what they'd done? What had she meant, saying there were things he didn't know? It had all seemed
simple
last night, and now his head spun with possibilities. Was she engaged? No. Surely she would have told him that. Then what?

Lord Grey had not come down at all, Martin noted with a frown. Kitty claimed he was exhausted from travel, but he had seemed lively enough the night before. That left them down a man, which would make for an awkward walk out to their picnicking site. Where was it he'd decided they would go? Daphne had just looked up at him through her thick, dark sweep of lashes and every other thought trailed away into nothing.

She broke the contact quickly and turned to murmur something to Phoebe, who giggled and pressed a hand to her mouth. Something akin to pride flared in his chest. He had fretted that she would feel outclassed by this rambunctious troop of lords and ladies. But she had clearly charmed Lady Phoebe, and from there flowed all the rest. It had always been so, even when Phoebe was a small, constantly grubby child hauling her father's hounds around by their ears.

“Lord Fenbrook alone is immune to my charms,” Phoebe said. He started, then smiled in amusement at the confluence of thought and conversation.

“Immune to your charms? Never,” he declared. “I think of you like a sister.”

“Loud and irritating?” Farleigh asked. Phoebe gasped and made as if to flick a bit of egg in her brother's direction. Daphne looked at Martin as if to ask
are they always like this?
He nodded gravely. The corner of her mouth curled in a subtle smile. He imagined the laugh hiding there. And wondered if, should he ask very politely, everyone else would leave and let him ravish her on the table next to the kippers.

One of which he popped in his mouth to distract him from the growing pressure at his loins. Two weeks was entirely too long to wait. She was a cruel woman.

“The ruins?” Elinor was saying. He had to pay more attention. He would never get through the day at this rate. “Where we're picnicking,” she reminded him gently.

“Ah. Yes,” he said. He still wasn't certain what the beginning of her question had been, so he took another bite to cover his silence.

“Hopefully without the interruption we suffered,” Elinor said.

“Hmm?”

“The storm.” She tapped her fork against the side of her plate, looking cross. “Daphne and I were caught out? You nearly broke your neck charging out to rescue us?”

“A rescue? How daring,” Phoebe said, squinting slightly at him. She was going to be as blind as her mother in a few decades, but she despised her spectacles. He had only managed to catch sight of them once, and then just the gleaming edge of them as they were jammed away in her reticule.

“They'd rather handily rescued themselves, I'm afraid,” Martin said. “I managed to add to the number of soaked refugees, nothing more.”

“Well, that's no fun,” Phoebe said. She glared at Daphne and Elinor. “You ought to have left him some distress to rescue you from.”

“He carried wood,” Daphne said helpfully. “For a fire. And brought horses in the morning. He was very daring, don't let him tell you otherwise.”

Phoebe made a little sound that seemed suspiciously like a snort. “So when do you announce the engagement?” she intoned.

Daphne choked. Martin cleared his throat. Twice.

“I
was
joking,” Phoebe said. She looked around, face drawn with worry. “Sorry. Should I not have?”

“Daphne hasn't had her Season yet,” Elinor said lightly. “I think we can spare her needling in that direction until she's come out, at least.”

Farleigh pushed up from the table. “Indeed. I believe it's before parliament as we speak: all teasing regarding engagements and marriage is to be suspended until a young lady has her debut. Now, I have worn entirely the wrong shoes for this expedition if the path to the ruins is
anywhere near as overgrown as I recall. I shall see you all at the appointed hour, then?”

Breakfast being down to a few crumbs and scraps, this served as the signal to disperse. As Martin rose, Farleigh, still lingering, beckoned.

“Could I have a word?”

“Don't you need to see to your boots?” Martin asked.

Farleigh frowned down at his perfectly serviceable footwear. “Hmm. Best keep up appearances. In the study in ten minutes.” It had the air of an order. Farleigh did not, as a rule, make suggestions. Only directions, which Phoebe alone had the power to disregard. Martin nodded sharply. The study. Good lord, the study.

He strode there directly. If there was any sign of what they'd done, surely the maids would have cleared it away. His staff were a discreet bunch, as any good staff ought to be, but still he flushed with the thought of his nighttime activities being known to anyone. They'd kept quiet—somewhat—but Mrs. Hickory had ears like a bat. She'd been with the family since he was a child. The thought of her knowing what he'd been up to last night put his stomach in a creative series of knots.

He glanced around the study once, gaze lingering on the chair. The memory of Daphne's skin beneath his hands rose, and his arousal with it. He dug a nail into the pad of his thumb. He was a fully grown man. He should not be so easily moved by his lusts. He thought again of Mrs. Hickory overhearing their encounter. That quelled the arousal quite efficiently, and he turned sharply away from the chair.

Nothing was out of place that could give him away to the casual eye. Except—an object stuck out from behind a vase on the table by the door. He crossed to it and stared.
A knife—not a kitchen knife, but one that had been liberated from the hunting gear. He recognized the notch on the handle. A wicked thing, meant for skinning. Dried blood marked the edge.

I did it to myself.

What did it signify? It must have been Daphne who brought it. She'd had something behind her back. He hadn't thought anything of it. At least, not once she touched him. It occurred to him that she must have deliberately distracted him. What didn't she want him to know? What had happened before she appeared in the doorway?

On instinct, he seized the knife and crossed to his desk. He tossed it into the drawer as Colin entered, eight minutes ahead of schedule. As usual. If they could balance their arrivals, they'd each always be perfectly on time.

“You look like I've caught you at something,” Farleigh said suspiciously. He glanced around the room with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing. Tidying,” Martin said.

“Never thought I'd see the day.” Farleigh had his hands behind his back. His voice was cheery, but his gaze troubled. “Miss Daphne Hargrove,” he said.

“We're getting right to it, are we?” He went to the mantle, propped an arm against it. Farleigh considered himself the far more sensible of the two of them, though Martin had his doubts. “What of her?”

“You're in love with her.”

“You'd think that with as old a family as yours,
one
of you would have developed tact along the line,” Martin said.

“One a generation,” Farleigh said. “This time around it's Kitty. You're not going to bother to deny it, then?”

Martin considered denying it, but he'd never developed
the talent of lying. Elinor could see through all his deceptions, so he'd given up on constructing them years ago. “Between you and my sister, there's little chance of hiding it. So, yes. I am in love with her. What of it?”

“Do you intend to propose?”

“I already have,” Martin said. That, at least, surprised the man. His eyes widened. Martin rounded on him. “And what is it to you?”

Farleigh rubbed his chin. “Lady Elinor asked me to talk you out of it. Bit late for that, I suppose. Not that I was going to. She's delightful. From a family of fine quality. Though their male members are frightfully dense at times.”

“Then you're not against it.”

“No. God knows you don't need money, and while she won't bring you influence, she'll bring you happiness. You have the luxury of such.”

“Then why are we discussing this?” Martin asked, befuddled.

“I want to know what Elinor has against the match,” Farleigh said. “And since she won't tell me, I thought you might.”

Martin shook his head. “I don't know. Daphne knows, but she wouldn't tell me, either. She says there are things that I don't know. But that she'll tell me. And until she does, she won't agree to marry me.”

“I'm not certain if that's a point in her favor, or against her,” Farleigh said. “I suppose it rests on the quality of her secrets.”

Martin looked toward the drawer. She certainly had secrets, and darker ones than most girls, but he could not believe ill of her. There must be some explanation. “I know her,” he said. “I know her character. She's been hurt, and
badly. But she is a good woman, and I love her. What she says won't matter. It can't.”

“It could,” Farleigh said.

“I have to marry her, regardless,” Martin said, half to himself.

“Ah,” Farleigh said simply, in perfect understanding.

“Don't look at me like that.”

“I shall look at a point over your left shoulder, as I refuse to alter my expression,” Farleigh said. Said expression was so carefully neutral as to be infuriating. “I agree that you are honor-bound to marry the girl. And I trust your instincts. God knows I should, after all we've done together. But Lady Elinor has always been smarter than the lot of us. If she thinks there is a reason you can't marry your cousin, there is one. You need to find it out. From one or the other of them.”

“She said two weeks,” Martin said. It seemed an eternity. “Two weeks and she'll tell me everything.”

“Then my merry crew and I will distract you that long,” Farleigh said. “I think we can manage it.”

“You are exceedingly distracting,” Martin acknowledged. He looked again toward the drawer. He couldn't wait two weeks with so many questions gnawing at him. But he had given his word. “I am afraid even you will have a hard time of it, though.”

“I may yet surprise you,” Farleigh said.

“I hope that you do,” Martin said, and wrenched his eyes from the drawer.

*   *   *

Joan was surprised when Lord Farleigh took up a position beside her on their walk. She had expected to be the odd woman out, with their numbers askew. Instead, Phoebe
and Elinor traded quips with Martin between them and Captain Harken plodded beside Kitty with a look of desperate devotion sneaking over his face when he thought no one was looking.

She matched her steps with Lord Farleigh's, and found that they were dropping behind. Not far enough to breach propriety—as far as she knew—but far enough that their voices would not carry, so long as the wind stayed at their faces.

“Lord Fenbrook is one of my oldest friends,” Lord Farleigh said.

“So he has told me,” Joan replied. She had the feeling she was in for an interrogation, and without Elinor as her second.

“He is very fond of you. He told me he proposed marriage,” Lord Farleigh continued. She looked at him sharply. He chuckled. “You may have heard that I have a reputation for straightforwardness.”

“I believe the word Elinor used was
blunt
,” Joan said. She preferred it. Too much dancing around the point gave her a headache.

“Hopefully referring to my words and not my wits,” he said. “I will not lie to you, and generally I do little to avoid the truth.”

“Noble of you.” She was surrounded by honest people. She supposed they had little need to lie, given what their lives had provided them.

“Perhaps. Or selfish,” Lord Farleigh said. “It makes things simple for me, and frequently uncomfortable for others.”

“Then perhaps I can ask you something,” Joan said. She could not say if it was genuine desire to know or the need
to deflect his attention to a safer topic that drove her next words. “Elinor will not speak of her engagement. I have never heard the full story. What happened?”

He lapsed into silence. “It is not my story to tell,” he said.

“What happened to blunt truth?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Fair enough. It is not an uncommon story, only one that strikes us all close to our hearts. It used to be that a great many of us unruly gentlemen and lovely ladies would swarm to Birch Hall every summer, after the Season. More marriages have begun here than you could count on all your fingers and toes. Lady Elinor had, of course, attracted many suitors. She was nearly twenty-five, and should have been wed long before. But her father didn't believe anyone was good enough for her. I think he would rather have had her a spinster in his home than wed her to a king. At the beginning of the summer she hardly knew Matthew, and thought nothing of him. The details of their courtship . . .” An expression she could not quite read flickered over his features and vanished. “It was not precisely traditional. They fought. Constantly. And two wickeder tongues you have never encountered. I thought Martin would be up in arms to defend her, but he knew, the way those two know each other. She'd found her match. And so they were engaged, and even her father could not naysay it.”