However, should you refuse this compromise, I fear that we shall have no choice but to file suit against you.
I shall expect your response within a fortnight.
Elvira Cromarty
In a rush of fury, Jocelyn crumpled the letter into a ball and hurled it into the fireplace, wishing there was a fire in the grate at this time of year. But her anger swiftly faded, leaving a throbbing at her temples.
She should have known that country idylls couldn’t last forever. Once her aunt decided to investigate, the information wouldn’t have been hard to find. A few questions to David’s fellow officers, who would see no reason not to tell the truth, would establish that Jocelyn hadn’t met him in Spain. The annulment wouldn’t be common knowledge, but no doubt lawyers and their clerks gossiped among themselves. Everyone else did.
The countess had probably been told her case for a lawsuit was weak and decided to try intimidation instead. Elvira, with a brood of children to establish, would have more to lose if there was a scandal, but if a few threatening letters could gain her a share of Jocelyn’s inheritance, it would be time well spent.
Jocelyn frowned. Her instincts said to tell Elvira to sue and be damned. Not only would that be satisfying, but it was quite possible that if she refused to cooperate, Uncle Willoughby would intervene and forbid his wife to file a lawsuit. Though justly wary of Elvira’s forceful personality, he had an even greater distaste for notoriety.
But her desire to fight could be wrong, since it probably sprang from the lifelong antagonism between her and her aunt. Perhaps it would be wiser to negotiate a settlement rather than put herself through the pain of a lawsuit.
She shuddered when she remembered her parents’ divorce. The adults in her life probably thought they had shielded her from the scandal, but she had known. She’d heard the whispers among the servants. She had watched curiosity seekers standing outside Cromarty House, their expressions avid.
Worst of all was a scarlet image blazed on her mind from the day Aunt Laura had taken her for an ice. They had passed a print shop window displaying the latest political and scandal cartoons. Men stood in front of the window laughing coarsely and reading the captions. Jocelyn had heard the name Cromarty, accompanied by words she didn’t understand, and seen vile drawings of men and women doing incomprehensible things.
Aunt Laura, pale and upset, had taken her away as swiftly as possible. Forgetting the ices, they had fled for home and never talked about the episode. The memory was stomach turning even now.
Much as Jocelyn hated to admit it, Lady Cromarty had a point: the late earl would not have approved of his daughter’s actions. Giving Elvira perhaps twenty percent of Jocelyn’s fortune would still leave more money than she would ever need.
But the thought of letting Elvira win made her blood boil. Perhaps she could assign money directly to several of her younger cousins? She liked them, and that would serve the dual purpose of helping them achieve independence, while not giving her aunt the satisfaction of a complete victory.
She must discuss this with David; his calm, logical mind would help her decide the best course. But not tonight. It was his birthday, not the time for a conversation about something as unpleasant as her aunt’s threats.
Chapter 29
Wanting to make dinner special for David, Jocelyn took extra pains with her appearance, donning a gold-colored silk gown with black piping and very dramatic decolletage. Marie dressed her hair high in a tumble of waves and curls that emphasized the graceful length of her neck. For jewelry, she chose earrings and a matching necklace of gold studded with small topazes and emeralds that brought out the colors in her eyes.
The effort was justified by the admiration in David’s gaze when she entered the small salon. “You’re looking particularly lovely tonight, my dear girl,” he said with a smile. “Is it a special occasion?”
Not waiting for an answer, he drew her into his arms for a welcoming kiss, one thumb stroking her bare back above the neckline of her gown in a way that sent tremors through her. She relaxed into the embrace, able to forget the countess’s latest gambit. Separating from him with reluctance, she said, “Special indeed, my mysterious friend. It’s your birthday.”
“Good Lord, so it is,” he said as they entered the dining room. “To be honest, I forgot. It’s been years since I’ve taken any special note of adding another year to my dish.” After seating her, he said, “I suppose Stretton told you?”
“Naturally. Old family retainers always know everything. You are the center of this particular world, and if I had had more time, I would have organized a feast so all your tenants could have celebrated your birthday with you.” She smiled wickedly. “You know the sort of thing. An ox roasting over an open fire, barrels of cider and ale, games, songs, dancing.”
He shuddered. “I’m glad you didn’t. I’m not yet ready to play the role of lord of the manor quite so thoroughly.”
Jocelyn smiled and raised her glass to him. “It’s a task you will accomplish to perfection, Lord Presteyne.”
He lifted his glass in reply. “I hope so, Lady Presteyne.”
The expression in his eyes sent shivers through her. Perhaps she should have suggested that they go to the cellars for their champagne. It could become a Westholme custom. . . .
No. It was not her place to institute new customs. Soon she would leave Westholme, probably never to return. Their lives, which had intertwined in such interesting ways, would separate. But for tonight, they would celebrate a birthday David hadn’t expected to see.
The leisurely meal was more elaborate than usual, with two removes and a variety of wines. They chatted back and forth about what progress they were making with their respective projects, trading ideas and offering suggestions. Sometimes their hands would touch, and once she fed him a bite of apple tart from her own fork. It was a lovers’ meal, she realized, feeling as bubbly as the wine, where glance and touch were more important than soup or salad. Oh, dangerous, yet she could not bear to end it.
Since there were only two of them, there was no nonsense about ladies withdrawing to leave the gentlemen over their port. They stayed with champagne, their conversation drifting from the upcoming Paris peace conference to the best variety of wheat to plant.
As she studied how the candlelight defined the planes of David’s face, she wondered at what point he had become so handsome. When they first met, he had been painfully thin, the tan skin almost transparent over the high cheekbones. He could stand to gain a few more pounds, but now he was a man in the fullness of his strength, radiating a quiet control and virility that were nearly irresistible. Her gaze lingered on his well-cut mouth, remembering the taste of his lips, then lifted to find him watching her as intently as she did him.
For a moment, she felt a tug so hard it hurt her heart. Perhaps she really could stay here, give up the other man in her life as he had given up his other woman. He had made it clear that he was willing to live up to the vows they had made. She could create a place for herself on this lovely estate, spend the nights in his arms. . . .
No. It would be perilously easy to fall in love with David, and she didn’t have the strength or courage to risk that. She rose to her feet, saying brightly, “How late it has become! Almost ten o’clock, and suddenly I’m so tired I can scarcely keep track of the conversation.”
David glanced at the mantel clock. “You’re right,” he said with regret. “And I must rise early to go into Hereford for the highwayman’s trial. Sweet dreams, Jocelyn.”
He stood and made a move to give her a good night kiss, but she eluded him, afraid that she might cry if that happened. She must leave Westholme soon, she realized, before she lost the last shreds of common sense.
Upstairs, a yawning Marie helped her undress, brushed out her hair, and put her to bed before retiring to the despised room in the attic. Despite her fatigue, Jocelyn tossed and turned, unable to sleep. A full moon poured its silver light in the window, stirring her to intolerable res
tlessness as her mind and body pulsed with longings.
She considered pulling the draperies in the hope that dark would still her unease, but the problem was inside her, not in the night sky. She was uncomfortably conscious of her body, of the gossamer softness of the sheer muslin nightdress against her skin, the light weight of a sheet holding her to the width of the bed, the flood of moonlight that made her crave passion more intensely than safety. She was deeply aware that she was a woman, and that for too long she had held herself apart from men.
Finally she slipped from the bed and walked to the window. The moon that tormented her floated high in the sky, a primitive goddess of femininity that her body cried out to worship.
Deep in the house a clock struck. She counted twelve strokes. Midnight, the witching hour.
It suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t shown David the family portrait. He hadn’t come to bed yet, or she would have heard him through the door that connected their chambers.
On an impulse she refused to identify, she tied a blue silk wrapper over her nightdress and left the room, picking up a three-branched candelabrum in the hall to light her way down the stairs. Fantastic shadows accompanied her through the silent house, adding to her sense of unreality.
David still sat where she’d left him, his cravat loosened and his tailored coat thrown casually over a chair in the warm August night. His hair was tousled as if he had run his hands through it, and a half-filled glass of brandy sat in front of him.
His expression was remote when she entered, but it changed to concern when he saw her. Rising, he asked, “Is something wrong, Jocelyn?”
She shook her head, feeling the weight of her hair heavy over her shoulders. “Not really. I wasn’t able to sleep, and I realized I’d forgotten to show you something. It’s a gift to you from Stretton, or perhaps from Westholme.”
“Intriguing.” He smiled lazily, looming over her as they left the room.
Acutely aware of his height and strength, she led him to the main drawing room. Stretton had not failed her, and the painting of David’s family now hung above the fireplace. Wordlessly she lifted the candelabrum so that the light fell across it.
He inhaled, his gaze devouring the painted images. “I had no idea this painting still existed. I assumed that Wilfred would have destroyed it.”
“He wanted to, but Stretton hid it away.” She studied the portrait again, thinking what a fine job Reynolds had done at capturing the sense of family. “It’s a beautiful painting. Was your family happy then?”
“Yes, particularly when the older boys were away at school. My father took more pleasure in his second family than his first. I don’t think he ever knew the malice his older sons were capable of.” His nostalgic gaze traveled to the portrait again. “Or perhaps he didn’t want to know. He was a kind man, with no taste for unpleasantness.”
“Your strength came from your mother?”
“It must have. She was able to build a new life for her children, and I never knew her to feel self-pity for what she had lost.” He touched the frame, his fingertips tracing the gilded whorls. “Perhaps she was happy not to be the lady of the manor anymore.”
She envied David that confidence, that he could accept being called strong and never question it. She didn’t think she had ever been able to accept a compliment comfortably in her life. Her social rank she was sure of, but praise of her person triggered bone-deep uneasiness. She had become convinced of her unworthiness very early.
His gaze went around the drawing room. She had grouped the furniture from the attic around three oriental carpets, creating comfortable conversation areas to break up the vast expanse. Candlelight shone on polished wood and hinted at the rich colors of the carpets. “This room has never looked better. You have a talent for beauty.”
He looked back at her, and their gazes locked. She could not have turned away for all the treasures of Araby. Softly she asked, “Why were you sitting alone so long?”
“I . . . was thinking. About you.” The deep tones of his voice seemed to reach out and caress her. “How beautiful you are. How very difficult it is to restrain myself whenever we touch.”
She drew closer, her breasts almost brushing him, her head tilted back to hold his gaze. Amazed at her own brazenness, she asked, “Why do you exercise such restraint?”
He stood absolutely still, making no attempt to either withdraw or reach out to her. “I promised you your freedom, and the promise binds me. I have already gone further than I should.”
“We have signed the papers for the annulment, and we will both have our freedom. But what of tonight?” she asked intensely. “Who will know or care what happens between us?”
“I care, and I hope that you would, too.” The skin tightened over his cheekbones. “But I’m not sure that you know what you want.”
She laid her palm on his forearm, feeling the hard muscles beneath his sleeve. “I know that I want you to hold me,” she said, her voice husky with longing. “I know that the lessons on passion you’ve given me so far are only an overture to one of life’s great symphonies.”
The civilized mien of an officer and a gentleman vanished. “Are you sure?”
The thought quickened her breath, making her want to run like the wind—and be caught by the lion. “As sure as one can be in this imperfect world.”
He took the candelabrum from her hand and placed it on the mantel, but all vestige of control vanished when his mouth met hers. The yearning they both had been denying exploded into a hunger that would not be satisfied with mere kisses.
He had embraced her before with skill and passion, but this was much, much more, both tinder for the flame and promise of fulfillment. His arms locked around her, drawing her so close that she felt his heart pounding against her breasts, the shape of his buttons pressing into her body through her thin nightclothes.
She tugged at his shirt, yanking it loose so that she could touch his warm skin. Though she had seen all of him when he was ill, now she yearned to rediscover his body in full strength and virility. Her hands opened and closed convulsively on his bare back in a tactile celebration of his flexing muscles. Sliding one hand around his chest, her fingers found the flat circle of his nipple. Wondering if he would feel the same kind of sensations she did, she squeezed the nub between thumb and forefinger.
David gasped, his whole body going rigid. “God help us both.” Then, breath ragged, he caught her up in his arms. “This time, we will do it properly.”
He carried her from the room as if she were no heavier than a child. As they ascended the stairs, she pressed her face into his shoulder, tears stinging her eyes with the knowledge that what seemed certain and wise in the night was as ephemeral as the moonlight that illuminated their path.
Chapter 30
When he reached her room, he set her on her feet so he could latch the door. She stood and watched him, a curved figure sculpted of moonshine and shadows. He swallowed hard as he saw how the soft folds of her gown draped sensuously over her ripe body. Diana’s handmaiden, a nymph of the night who stole men’s souls.
He had waited and prayed for this moment, when her heart would open to him, yet this seemed too sudden. Struggling between desire and the fear of doing the wrong thing, he said shakily, “This is the last chance to change your mind, Jocelyn.”
“I have no doubts.” Gaze intense, she untied the sash of her wrapper, shrugging so that the silk slithered down her body to pool around her bare feet. “Do you, my lord?”
“None at all.”
“Then let me see you,” she whispered.
His loosened cravat was gone with a yank. Then he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. The admiration in her gaze aroused him to painful readiness. Suspecting that it might not be wise to allow a virgin to see too much of a rampant male, he closed the distance between them and drew her into his arms.
Her hair fell back across his arm as she turned her face up to his kiss. A ribbon was drawn throu
gh the neckline of her nightgown, so he untied the bow, then worked the garment over her shoulders and down her body, using it as an excuse to slide his palms over every square inch of warm, yielding flesh.
She leaned into him, her hands caressing, the fullness of her breasts against his bare chest unbearably arousing. Panting, he laid her across the bed, then swiftly stripped off his remaining garments and lay beside her.
The moonlight created madness. Jocelyn should have felt shy, but the heat in his eyes set her ablaze. She loved the sight of him, the hard planes of his body so different from her own in the uncanny light, the scars his marks of valor.
She gasped when he cupped her breasts in his hands, holding them together as he kissed and sucked until she feared they would shimmer into flame. He played her like a master musician who had been given a precious instrument, his warm lips and hands invoking chords of response that resonated through her whole being.
Restlessly her hands danced over him, registering the textures of his smooth skin and lightly tickling hair. There was no time, only sensation. Her fingers brushed the heated shaft that pressed against her leg. He made a thick, rough sound that aroused her as fiercely as the slide of his hand between her thighs. She explored further, clasping the head of the fascinating, firm but resilient, organ.
He jerked, gasping, “If you wish this to last, best have a care, madam.”
Hastily she released him, kneading his back and shoulders as he kissed her ears and throat and mouth again and again. She could barely separate the torrent of sensations, until the heat in her loins became an annihilating fire. Nothing existed but the touch of his knowing fingers and the fever of her response. She was falling, falling . . .
She bit into his shoulder, shuddering as convulsions racked her body. She would have been terrified, except for the secure haven of his embrace, and his richly satisfied whisper, “Yes. Yes. . . .”