Sweet Surrender (31 page)

"Yes, she is."

"Were you aware that she’s been out riding for hours—alone—with Mr. Dane?  They’ve been together constantly."

"With Mr. Dane?  Are you sure?"

"Yes, Miss Bennett.  Do you…ah…know Mr. Dane?"

"Yes, I know him all too well."

"She left you a note."  The maid stuck out her hand.  "It was under her pillow."

"A note?" Grace mumbled as if she’d never heard of such a thing.

She tore at the seal, blanched, then—totally forgetting herself, the maid, and the situation—she stormed over to him and shoved open the door.

The maid saw him, and she blanched, too.  Jackson did the same.  They were a room full of shocked blanchers.

"Oh, my lord," Grace wailed to Jackson, "you won’t believe it."

"What is it?" Jackson frantically asked.  "What’s happened?"

"Eleanor has eloped to Scotland with Duncan Dane."

"Eloped!"

"Yes."  Grace waved the letter in his face.  "They’ve had nearly a two-day head start."

"Are you positive you haven’t misunderstood?"

"Read it for yourself!"

She thrust the paper at him, and he hastily scanned the words.

"Dammit," he muttered.

"Duncan can’t have any honorable intentions toward her."

"No, he doesn’t have an honorable bone in his body."

"Or any money to support her afterward?"

"No," he repeated.

"She must be mad," Grace moaned.  "Will you go after them?  Will you stop them before it’s too late?"

Jackson felt dizzy with rage.  He’d specifically commanded Duncan to stay away from Eleanor Bennett.  He’d been very clear, and Duncan couldn’t have misconstrued his warning.

Had he done it to spite Jackson?  To spite Grace?  To spite both of them?

"I will kill him," Jackson seethed.  "I will absolutely kill him!"

He raced out, shouting orders to have a bag packed and a horse saddled, so he could ride like the wind to find Duncan and wring his scrawny neck.

DC

"That wasn’t so bad, was it?"

"It was fairly bad."

"You’re married, Duncan Dane.  What do you think of that?"

Eleanor removed her bonnet and tossed it on the bed in the room they’d rented for the night.  It was small and seedy and the least romantic place in the world, but considering their location, they hadn’t had a lot of choices. 

They were across the border in Gretna Green, the haven for British scoundrels and seduced maidens.  It was where a girl came when she was desperate to wed, when she was in trouble or in love with a boy who could never garner her parents’ approval. 

Boys—of low means or despicable reputations—made the trip when they were shrewd enough to latch on to a girl with money, when they were eager to rush and avoid an honest courtship.

In a thousand years, Duncan could never have pictured himself in the notorious town.

"Do you expect the marriage is legal back in England?" he asked, almost hoping she’d say
no
.

"Of course, it’s legal there."  She waved the marriage certificate the minister had given them.  "Why would you suppose people travel here constantly?  It’s to accomplish quickly what takes an eternity in England."

"There are many reasons people take their time before they wed."

"Name one."

"To be sure it’s the correct decision."

"Or so they have an excuse to drag their feet forever," she countered.  "Can you imagine anyone who might have dragged his feet forever?  Let’s see," she mused, "I guess that would have been you."

"There’s nothing wrong with being sure."

"And there’s nothing wrong with hurrying when you’re certain it’s what you want."

She started to undress, and he watched her with a strange detachment.   

He still couldn’t believe he’d proceeded.  What had happened to him?  What was it about her that made it impossible for him to put a halt to her nonsense? 

She was impertinent and reckless yet he staggered after her, unable to protest or dissuade her from her folly.  

The entire trip had passed like a dream, and he couldn’t understand why he’d agreed to it.  All along the route, he’d been on the verge of abandoning her. 

At coaching inns, when they’d pause to eat, he’d found excuses to head for the stables.  He’d intended to jump on a horse and desert her, but on each occasion, he was disgusted to discover that he couldn’t sneak away.

The pattern had repeated itself all the way to Scotland, right up to the moment they’d entered the minister’s dilapidated church.  Duncan had muttered a paltry pretext about needing to fetch something from his bag, and he’d slithered outside. 

He’d stood by his horse, staring down the road toward England and the safety lurking in that direction.  He’d been a second away from swinging his leg up and over the saddle.  But she’d peeked out the door and called to him, claiming she couldn’t wait another minute to be his bride.

She’d looked to be positively in love with him.  He didn’t recollect anyone ever loving him, and she had fairly sparkled with affection.

She was trouble and danger rolled into one package, and again, he hadn’t left when he should have.  He’d marched into the church, smiling and chatting and acting as if he was impatient to be shackled to her.

Now, they’d arrived at the final point where he could escape with any kind of valid argument that he hadn’t really wed her.  Despite what she assumed, he could race to London and insist the marriage had never transpired or that the swift, plain ceremony wasn’t binding.

She’d already stripped to her petticoat, and once she was naked, he was one-hundred percent convinced he would copulate with her.  Which would definitely qualify as a consummation.

If he deflowered her, it was all over but the shouting.  He could swear till Doomsday that he was still a bachelor, that there was no official union, but it would be a lie.

Longingly, he gazed out the window behind her.  It was late afternoon, and if he crept to the stables, got on his horse and rode off, he could cover many miles before nightfall.

But she was posed there in her functional schoolgirl chemise and drawers, her thick stockings and sensible walking shoes.  It occurred to him that—the instant he had an extra penny—he would buy her some lacy, scandalous undergarments.

"Take off the rest of your clothes," he commanded.

"You dirty old lecher.  You make me do all the work.  You just enjoy the view."

"It’s quite spectacular."

"What a pretty speech.  Can you put action to words?"

With a few flicks of her wrist, she was naked, but she exhibited no maidenly modesty.  She didn’t try to shield her private parts or hide behind her hands.  He’d been grooming her to nudity, to being at ease with her body, and he was delighted to have succeeded so well in his tutoring.

"Have I told you, Eleanor, that you’re very beautiful?"

"No, you’ve never paid me a single compliment."

"Don’t let it go to your head."

"I won’t." 

She turned in a circle so he could see all, giving him an especially long assessment of her shapely backside.  He was immediately assailed by a dozen visions of all the nasty things he planned to teach her.

"What do you think?" she asked when she faced him again.

"Very nice."

"It’s yours now."

"It certainly is."

Yet he didn’t move toward her.  He simply couldn’t take the final step that would make it real, that would make it permanent. 

"Must I undress you?"  She looked like the cat that had spotted the canary.

"You’ll have to.  I’m in such a state of shock, I can’t lift my arms."

She laughed and sauntered over. 

"Poor Duncan," she crooned.  "No longer a bachelor and mourning his altered condition."

"Yes, I’m in mourning.  I can’t believe I let you talk me into this."

"You’re married just like every other boring, ordinary fellow in the kingdom.  How does it feel to be boring and ordinary?"

"Awful."

"I know a way for you to feel better.  Would you like me to show you what it is?"

"I could probably be persuaded."

She pushed his coat off his shoulders, yanked his shirt off and pitched it away.  Then she dropped to her knees to unbutton his trousers.  As her crafty fingers slipped inside to clasp his phallus, he was hard and eager.

She bent in and licked at the root, nibbling to the tip, then she sucked him into her mouth.  Blankly, he stared down at her as if he was separate from events.  He could have been floating up in the sky, observing as some other bloke prepared to have sex with her.

He thrust over and over again until he was at the edge.  He drew away and snuggled her to his stomach.

"You never finish," she complained.

"I anticipate a different ending."

Did he?  Was the consummation definitely happening? 

It seemed that it was.

"Get up on the bed," he told her.

Happily, she scrambled over and leapt onto the mattress.  He walked to the foot of the bed and studied her. 

"Spread your thighs," he said.  "Let me look at your privates."

"You salacious dog," she scoffed.  "I’m a virgin, remember?  I’d be too embarrassed."

"But I’d like it."

"Who cares about you?"  She patted the empty space next to her.  "Lie down and stop fussing."

He was frozen with confusion, with dread, with elation.

Why the hell not?
he mused.  Why not give her precisely what she was demanding?  It wouldn’t kill him, and he might actually find a bit of peace and quiet once they were through.   

He kicked off his shoes, tugged down his trousers and tossed them away so he was naked, too.

In their prior romping, they hadn’t yet proceeded to full nudity.  He especially had managed to keep his clothes firmly on. 

She was up on an elbow and watching him with an almost fanatical female interest.  He came around the bed, and she shoved at his chest, trying to prevent him from climbing in.

"It’s my turn to look at you," she protested.

"No, I’m in a hurry."

"I’m not."

"You shouldn’t suppose you’ll always get your way with me."

"Spoilsport."

"You have the remainder of the evening to coo over my manly physique."

At his braggadocio, she giggled.  "I want to see now."

"When we’re finished, Eleanor," he tersely replied.

He was suffering from the worst impression that if he didn’t hurry, he’d chicken out.  He’d passed the point where he could change his mind, and there was no other route but to continue forward until he arrived at the end.

He clambered up and rolled on top of her, and as their bodies connected, bare skin to bare skin, the air seemed to crack and sizzle.

"Oh, I’m so happy," she beamed as she pulled him close.  "Are you happy, too?  Tell me you are—even if you don’t mean it."

"I’m very happy," he lied.

He was many things—unnerved, panicked, alarmed—but
happy
didn’t begin to describe his condition.

He started kissing her and kissing her, and the encounter quickly escalated.  They’d spent entirely too many hours with sexual teasing, and they were desperate for some relief.  He nibbled at her breasts, feasting on her nipples as he gradually widened her thighs, as his torso dropped between them.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Am I sure?"  She laughed a merry laugh.  "Gad, my dearest husband, I have been
sure
since the moment I first laid eyes on you."

The manner in which she said
husband,
how it flowed so neatly off her tongue, calmed him immensely.

"There’s no going back," he warned.

"Of course not.  Why would I want to go
back? 
You’re being absurd."

"I wouldn’t like you to ever…ever…"

Powerful emotion swept through him.  He was anxious to love and shelter and protect her, to smile and play with her the rest of his life, but he’d deceived her so horridly.  He had no home in London, no fancy friends or stellar social whirl.  He had nothing at all but debt and creditors and seedy acquaintances to whom she could never be introduced.

She didn’t know any details about him that were true, so she thought he was wonderful.  He relished her esteem and was frantic to keep it.  How would she react when the facts fell on her?

To his great dismay, he was heartsick over the prospect of losing her high opinion.  She sensed his agitation, and she placed a soothing palm on his cheek.

"What’s wrong?" she asked.