My Favorite Bride (13 page)

“Miss Prendregast!” He reached for her with both hands, and stopped an inch away from her shoulders. Instead he pressed his palms against the wall on either side of her head, glared in her eyes, his chest heaving with fury. “You can pack your bags. You're leaving in the morning.”

She pointed toward her bedroom, and her finger was shaking. Her voice was shaking. “Agnes thought she was dying.”

He took a breath. The color rose in his cheeks, then drained away.

“She thought she was bleeding to death. If you feel I've said too much and you must send me away, I can't stop you, but Colonel Gregory, every one of your daughters is going to come to this moment, and I suspect Vivian will come to it before very many months have passed. You need someone to prepare them for the trials of womanhood. In not too many years, Agnes will find a man who wishes to marry her, and someone has to prepare her for the wedding night, and childbirth, and the realities that lurk beneath the fairy tale. Can you do that, Colonel Gregory?” She leaned toward him, close enough so he could feel the heat of her fury. “Can you really do that?”

His eyes sparked. His arms shook. “You don't
know when to shut up.” Leaning his head down, he pressed his lips to hers.

For a moment, she was too caught up in her plea to comprehend what he was doing. Then—
he's kissing me. Colonel Gregory is kissing me.

Anger. Confusion. Astonishment. She pulled her face away, pressed her hand against his throat where his cravat met his skin. “Are you insane?”

“What do you think?” He kissed her again.

She thought . . . she must be insane, too, for she liked it.

But they were fighting.

But she liked it.

But the children . . . and Agnes . . .

They were all asleep. There was no one to see. No one to care.

And she liked it.

That was bad. Very bad.

She pulled away again. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

“No.” But he didn't move away.

“You're who you are, and I'm who I am, and this is wrong.”

“Yes.” His face was close. So close. His breath smelled of port, sharp and rich, like the first opulent sniff she took from the glass. She could see the stubble on his chin, see the rich, smooth, sensual curve of his lips.

I've done a lot of daring things in my life, but this is the worst.

Grasping the ends of his cravat, she pulled him back to her.

His hands rested on either side of her head. His
body leaned toward hers. He touched her with nothing but his lips. If she passively stood here, perhaps he'd tire of kissing soon. Yet she would have sworn he blanketed her in his warmth. The scent of him was rich with leather from his boots and gauntlets. His lips smoothed hers, seeking the contours, the edges.

Her eyelids fluttered closed. Jewel colors swirled: ruby, sapphire, emerald. Beneath her fingertips, the pulse at his throat throbbed, and her own heart raced to beat with his.

So this was why men and women kissed. To see, to feel, to know each other in impossible, wonderful ways. She could stand here like this all night, and never tire of his tenderness.

Then his tongue brushed her lips.

Her eyes sprang open. His
tongue.
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged. His wrist . . . thick and gloriously rough with hair.

His mouth moved against hers, soft and intimate. “Open your lips.”

She didn't quite understand him. She lifted her lids. “What? Why?”

His lids lifted, too, and he gazed at her, his face so close she could see each individual, dark, curling lash around his marvelous blue eyes. “Like this,” he whispered, then his lids slid closed again and his tongue glided between her lips.

Her eyes shut. Her mouth opened.

The first kiss was only a preview, an exploration. Now his tongue moved in her mouth, exploring as if he found treasure within her, and he made her feel . . . different. Not so much the confident,
independent woman life had forced her to become, but cherished, glorious, dear. Her blood thrummed in her veins. Her breath caught and staggered. The wall held her up, hard against her back, and she wanted to kiss him back.

She'd never learned, never wanted to. But with him . . . the strength of him appealed to her. Her mind cast up scenes. Scenes that involved him and her, bodies close together, his hands touching her in places no man had ever touched. She imagined what he would look like without clothing, muscled, hairy, strong. Imagined how he would gaze on her. Imagined he would . . . do those things she'd always disdained. For those things caused a woman nothing but grief, and sounded awkward and revolting. Except when she thought of doing them with him, they sounded too wonderful, like fur stroking her skin or water after a long drought.

He was gentle, but insistent. His head tilted first to one side, then the other, tasting her, encouraging her to answer him.

Her breasts tingled and she pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the sense of swelling, of discomfort. It helped . . . and it made matters worse. She wanted to stop, and she wanted to go on. She wanted to snuggle against him, but some errant bit of wisdom kept her back tight against the wall. His wrists began to shake in her grip. His tongue thrust at hers, and she answered him, awkward, eager, amazed. His kissing progressed toward desperation, insisting on more passion, pushing her
toward experience and teaching her a deeper desire.

She wanted him to say something. She strained to hear—

She jumped and gasped, pulling her face away from his.

Colonel Gregory straightened. “What? What's wrong?”

“I thought I heard . . . something.” Something like the snap of a door shutting.

He looked up and down the corridor. “It's your imagination.”

Grasping her shoulders, he smoothed them, but the moments of passionate madness had been vanquished. In a deep and ardent voice, he said, “Your eyes . . . such an unusual color.”

“Just brown. Dirt brown.” She scarcely knew what she was saying.

“No, tonight they're like honey, golden brown, wide and bemused.” He cupped her chin and tilted her face up. “You have the most expressive eyes, did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“I can read your thoughts in your eyes.”

“Oh. No,” she choked. Her thoughts were far too often of him, and far too often illicit and wanton. She looked away.

He chuckled, a sound too content for reassurance. “You could seduce me with your eyes alone.”

Troubled, she looked back at him. “I don't mean to.”

“I know. That kiss . . . it was a mistake.”

“Yes. Of course. It was.”

Yet once more, he was rubbing her shoulders. “We shouldn't do it again.”

“No. Never.” Samantha looked down at her toes, bare on the cool, hard floor. She had never felt so self-conscious. She'd been kissing Colonel Gregory. Yes, she had wanted to. Secretly. In the darkest corners of her mind.

But to do it. And for so long, and with such detail. Moreover, she'd liked it. And he knew it.

How was she supposed to face him tomorrow in the daylight? Right now, she couldn't even look up at him.

“What were we talking about . . . before?” He still didn't sound normal. A wealth of affection lingered in his voice.

Her toes curled at the sound. But she had to be normal. “Earlier. You told me to leave.” She hoped he hadn't noticed her bare feet. Lady Bucknell had never told her any rules about bare feet, but if a woman couldn't in all propriety bare her hand to a man, the rules against feet must be ferocious. “Did you want me to pack my bags?”

“No! No. That is . . . no, I was angry.” He coughed. “I said things I shouldn't have.”

She glanced up to see him observing her toes with a slight smile.

She inched them further beneath her robe and realized . . . she wore nothing beneath the nightgown. She was worried about her toes, and he must know . . . well, not that he could see anything. Her robe was tied, and the gown was of thick sturdy material, impossible to see through. But the thought of being out here, with him, when he could
simply lift her hem and touch her bare skin, all the way up to . . . she pressed her knees together. And if he did, he would find that she was melting inside. She must be; she was damp and swollen.

“I would rather you stay. If you would.” When she didn't speak right away, he straightened his shoulders. He eased his hands away and stepped back. “You don't have to worry that I will repeat tonight's indiscretion. I don't kiss . . . that is, I do kiss, but not my governesses. To force my attentions on a young woman who works for me is the act of a cad, and I realize that fully. I can't imagine what came over me.”

Her face warmed. She could, only too well, and imagining gave her more than a little discomfort. “You didn't exactly force your attentions. I could have yelled, or . . . some such.”

“Nevertheless, it is obvious you're a young lady of little or no experience in the bedroom arts—”

Dismayed, she blurted, “Was that kiss wrong?”

“No!” He smoothed his fingers over her lips.

She fought the urge to follow, to kiss them.

“No, not at all,” he said. “I enjoyed it. It was everything I had dreamed.”

He has dreamed about my kiss?

“But you didn't put your arms around me, and when at first I kissed you, you didn't kiss back.” As though he relished the touch of her skin, he smoothed her lips again. “It wasn't resistance, it was more bewilderment.”

“You could tell that from my lips?”

He fought a smile. “Couldn't you tell how I felt by mine?”

“Well.” She looked down again, and fiddled with the buttons at her neckline. “Yes.”

“Also.” His gaze dropped to her fingers. “When a woman deliberately entices a man, she manages to slip her buttons loose in strategic locations to allow him a glimpse of her bosom.”

She let loose of the buttons, caught the two sides of her robe, and held them together, for even though they were well-fastened, with the kind of attention he was paying, they might have been gaping.

“Do you know what you do to me when . . .” As if he couldn't contain himself, he slipped open the tie on her belt. Placing his palm on her waist, he slide it down over her belly and onto her thigh. “No. Of course you don't.”

If she were wise, she'd slap him hard enough to make his ears ring. Instead, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and savored the press of his hand, the sweetness of his touch, so cherished, and too brief.

Lifting his hand, he looked down at it as if he could see the imprint of her skin. “Nevertheless, an honorable man does not seduce his governess.” He straightened his shoulders, and his voice once more sounded crisp, as Colonel Gregory's always sounded. “As I told you, Miss Prendregast, there are still honorable men in this world, and I am one of them.”

“Yes.” She sidled toward her door. “I believe you. I'll send Agnes back to her room in the morning.”

He watched her as if he wanted to follow. “I
bow to your superior wisdom in the matter of my daughters' physical well-being.”

“Yes. Well. Thank you.” She stood in the doorway and fumbled with the handle, so uncomfortable and embarrassed she wanted nothing more than to disappear in her room and hide under the covers. At the same time . . . at the same time, she wanted to stand here, to look at him, to try and stammer out a conversation about absolutely nothing because . . . well, she didn't know why, but that was what she wanted, and only a fool would want that.

Correct? She took a step backward into her bedchamber. Correct.

“Goodnight, Miss Prendregast.” His voice was deeper, keener, and richer than she'd heard before, like chocolate cream and tawny port.

“Good night, Colonel Gregory.” Slipping inside, she shut the door in his face, and felt as if she'd saved herself from trouble—and condemned herself to loneliness.

Chapter Thirteen

William threw his bedroom window open, leaned out into the early morning sunshine, and took a deep breath of the cool mountain air. “It's a grand day to be alive!”

“Aye, Colonel, that it is.” His valet, tall, thin, and soured by exile away from the excitement of the military, couldn't have sounded more sarcastic. “Not a cloud in sight, nary a battle to be had; a man could die of boredom.”

Boredom? No, not with Samantha living down the corridor. Who would have thought a woman of such bold words and direct glances could kiss with such shy and startled passion?

“Now come and place yourself in the bath before the water cools.” Cleavers tested the water with his elbow. “It's the way you like it—hot enough to boil lobsters.”

Leaving the window open, William sank down into the copper bathtub. “Perfect.” The heat soothed the muscles made sore by late night riding—and last night's captures.

Matters were proceeding. His men had captured a Russian trudging on the road toward Maitland, and more important, they'd arrested two Englishmen and an Englishwoman, traveling separately, all spies, all intent on reaching the sanctuary of the Featherstonebaugh estate. The men had spoken in rough accents, servants who collected information and sold it for a price. But the woman had been a lady, sophisticated, beautiful, carrying letters concerning the deposition of English troops abroad and sure she could use her beauty to escape capture.

She had tried her wiles on William. He had not only been uninterested, he'd made sure her jailer was a female villager of high character. The lady would not escape.

Rising from his bath, William dried off and pulled on his trousers and his shirt.

Cleavers presented him with two coats. “Will you wear the bottle green tailcoat, Colonel, or the black?”

William had detained the spies, even the lady, in the village jail. He hoped to have similar luck tonight, for Throckmorton's plan to flush out the enemies was succeeding beyond anyone's wildest dreams, and his own plan to catch Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh in the act of passing information was taking shape. “The black, of course. Why do you keep presenting me with such outrageous colors?”

“Because they're in your closet? Because gentlemen wear many such somber—not outrageous, but
somber
—colors? Because I hope someday to drag you kicking and screaming into the social scene, where you could possibly entice a female to wed you, and I would no longer have to pick out your clothing?”

Arrested by a thought, William stared at Cleavers. “Women like green?”

Cleaver placed the double-breasted green tailcoat back on a hanger. “Aye, Colonel, I've been telling you that ever since the missus passed on, like you ever listen to me.”

With his usual decisiveness, without wondering at his motive, William made his decision. “All right. The green.” Picking up the matching bottle-green cravat, he carefully knotted it around his throat. He slipped into a black waistcoat with bottle green embroidery on the lapels.

Still Cleavers stood there, jaw hanging slack, the black coat dangling in his hands.

“Hurry, man!”

With a start, Cleavers laid aside the black and helped him on with the green.

Cleavers handed William his good boots, shined to a blinding black, and William stomped his foot into first one, then the other.

Yes, the spy business was wrapping up at last.

Moreover, the new governess was working out nicely. Mind you, she had a tendency to be overly critical, and last night, she was insolent in her reading of his character. But, sadly, she had justification.

Luckily, she had soothed him in ways he had scarcely imagined possible.

While William waited impatiently, Cleavers adjusted the cravat and the seams of the coat. “Thank you, Cleavers.”

Cleavers clasped his hands to his bosom as he scrutinized his handiwork. “You are welcome, Colonel.” Quickly, slyly, he added, “I suppose this is in honor of Lady Marchant?”

William stared at him blankly. “Who? Oh. Yes. Lady Marchant.”

As he strode down the corridor, Cleavers stepped out and watched him, and pondered. Perhaps the rumors flying about the household were true.

William hadn't realized that Agnes had grown so much so quickly. It had never occurred to him his daughter needed womanly assistance, and that, more than anything, indicated how the need for vengeance had overcome him. He prided himself on being prepared for any eventuality, and he had failed Agnes. Miserably. He did not tolerate failure, especially not his own, and he would make amends. Today. Now.

He turned the doorknob to the schoolroom.

His daughters sat in their desks, and William was surprised to realize that Samantha was teaching history. She was actually following his schedule, but at the same time, she taught with such animation the children watched her with shining eyes. An odd emotion squeezed his gut; for the first time in a long time, his daughters were
together, happy, and in agreement—and Samantha had done this. She stood by the slateboard, a pointer in her hand. In the enthusiastic tone of an ardent admirer, she told them, “So you see, Queen Elizabeth united the nation while successfully avoiding a contract of marriage which would have subverted her independence and undermined her authority in the male-dominated government. Regardless of what men tell you, it is possible for a woman to flourish without the aid of a husband!”

William frowned. What was she teaching his children?

Seven sets of eyes turned his direction.

“Father!” Agnes stood.

The others began to follow suit, but he gestured. “Sit down, sit down.” With a smile to Samantha, he walked quietly to the back of the classroom and leaned against the table. Crossing his arms, he indicated Samantha should continue.

She took up the pointer again, but now a beautiful blush lit her cheeks. She did not look at him.

Clearly, she was remembering the kiss.

He shouldn't be so flattered. He was, after all, encouraging Teresa to believe he would make her an offer. He knew, logically, that Teresa was the wife he needed. He also knew, logically, that this lust for Samantha that plagued him with increasing severity was deplorable on his part.

She said, “Good Queen Bess held off the Spanish attack for years by using a combination of guile and promise. A woman's weapons, to be
sure, but weapons that worked when nothing else would.”

Vivian had her chin propped in her hand, staring at Samantha. “What did she do, Miss Prendregast?”

“She promised she would
think
about wedding the king of Spain, knowing full well that if she did marry him, she would be subservient to him and England would be subservient to Spain.”

Samantha's gaze skittered past William, scarcely touching his shoulder, his throat, his chest, and never coming near to his face. Ducking down, he caught her stare, and that made her blush yet more and stammer a little.

“B . . . by the time he realized she was toying with him and attacked our shores, England had built up her sea power and was able to defeat the Spanish Armada.”

Samantha really was beautiful. Her hair a glorious pale blonde, her eyes such a warm brown. Tall, slender . . . some people would say too slender, but they would be wrong. He liked a woman whose curves didn't overwhelm her garments, and he imagined that when he ever had occasion to remove her bodice . . . no. That wasn't right. If he ever had occasion to remove her bodice . . . but no, that wasn't right either.

A man would have his fantasies, no matter how he denied them, and so he knew he could cup her breasts in his palm. And hold them, caress them, suckle them . . .

A sudden state of discomfort made him feel conspicuous, and he crossed his ankle over his knee.

The trouble was, Samantha wore a totally unsuitable gown of violet muslin trimmed in pink satin. Governesses didn't dress like that. They didn't teach with such enthusiasm. They didn't kiss . . . like startled virgins, with all the passion and vibrancy of their personality. Samantha should not be a governess. She should be an houri, or a courtesan . . . or a wife.

He stared at the floor. A wife. To some other man. Not to him. She didn't fit any of the criteria of his list. He didn't know her background. He didn't know her family. He
did
know her temperament, and no one could call it meek. They obviously had nothing in common. Yet still, he thought . . . she might be a suitable wife for him.

Which was patently stupid. He had brought Teresa with the intention of seeing how she fit into his household, and instead he was concentrating on Samantha? Had he lost his good sense?

Furthermore, the matter of Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh should be consuming most of his attention. He could handle that matter while courting Lady Marchant. He could not while courting Samantha.

He snorted. Hell, he could barely stand while lusting after Samantha.

Looking up, he realized Samantha and the children were staring at him.

“Did you disagree with me, Colonel?” Samantha asked, a little too sweetly. She no longer avoided his gaze; she looked right at his face now, and her eyes slashed at him.

He looked at the children. He couldn't confess to
not listening. That would undermine Samantha's authority. But neither could he blindly agree to anything Samantha had said. Picking his words carefully, he said, “I was simply wondering how you reached your conclusions.”

“That Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth was one of the foremost tacticians of English history?” Elbows akimbo, Samantha asked, “How, pray tell, would you frame an argument against that?”

“No, no! I agree. I simply believe that, like so many of our most exalted commanders, she achieved greatness by prudently choosing her councilors, listening to their advice, and usually acting on it.” He could stand again, and he did. “Also, like so many of our most exalted commanders, she occasionally did as she thought best.”

“A good point, Colonel!” Samantha lavished a smile on him. “Queen Elizabeth was an absolute monarch, and at the same time she was not a tyrant, like so many of our kings.”

He smiled back at her.

The blush started in her cheeks.

It grew very quiet in the schoolroom as they looked at each other. Two people, with nothing in common and so much between them.

Then Emmeline asked, “Father, will you thstay for mathematith, too?”

Shaking off the enchantment, he went and knelt beside Emmeline. “Why mathematics, Emmeline?”

“Because thubtraction ith hard,” she wailed.

“Not for you.” In a voice guaranteed to carry throughout the classroom, he whispered, “You're my smartest daughter.”

“No, she's not,” Kyla yelled.

He held out his arms and let the children descend on him. It had been years since they'd hugged like this, a huge embrace of family affection, so long he could remember looking up and seeing Mary as she watched them with a smile. This time, when he looked up, he saw Samantha, and that was all right. Mary would approve of Samantha—of her kindness, her discipline, her love for their children.

Agnes stood off to the side, watching him watch Samantha, and he reached out a hand to her. His woman-daughter smiled and gave him her hand, and he raised it to his lips in an affectionate salute.

When he had hugged each child collectively and separately, and assured Kyla that
she
was his smartest daughter, except for Henrietta and Vivian and Agnes and Mara—and Emmeline—he walked to Samantha, dragging children all the way, and bowed to the only governess who had ever outsmarted his daughters. “You're doing a magnificent job teaching my children.”

She watched him with odd solemnity. “Thank you, Colonel. They're a pleasure.”

He looked around at the children hanging on him. “Are your dresses done?”

They all tried to talk at once. He shushed them, and pointed to Agnes.

“Not quite, Father, but almost,” she answered. “We're having fittings all the time.”