Regency Rogues: Outrageous Scandal: In Bed with the Duke / A Mistress for Major Bartlett
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‘I’m afraid you will have to make do with my clumsy efforts tonight,’ he said. Then reached up and twined a curl round one finger. ‘Though it seems a kind of sacrilege to confine all this russet glory in braids.’
‘Russet glory!’ She snorted derisively. ‘I never took you for a weaver of fustian.’
‘I am not. Not a weaver of anything.’ He leaned back on his heels. His eyes seemed to be glazed. ‘But surely you know that your hair is glorious?’
The look in his eyes made her breath hitch in her throat. Made her heart skip and dance and her tummy clench as though she was flying high on a garden swing.
Oh, Lord, but she wanted him to kiss her. Out of all the men who’d paid court to her—or rather to her money—none had ever made her want to throw propriety to the winds. And he hadn’t even been paying court to her. He’d been alternately grumpy and insulting and dictatorial all day. And yet... She sighed. He’d also rescued her from an ostler and a group of bucks, forgiven her for pushing him out of his gig and throwing a rock at him. Even made a clumsy sort of jest of the rock-throwing thing.
A smile tugged at her lips as she thought of that moment.
‘So you accept the compliment now?’
‘What? What compliment?’
‘The one I made about your hair,’ he breathed, raising the hank that he’d wound round his hand to his face and inhaling deeply.
‘My hair?’
Why was he so obsessed with her hair? It must look dreadful, rioting all down her back and all over her face. A visible reminder of her ‘wayward nature’, Aunt Charity had always said. It was why she had to plait it, and smooth it, and keep it hidden away.
He looked at her sharply. ‘If not that, then why were you smiling in that particular way?’
‘I didn’t know I was smiling in any particular way. And for your information I was thinking of something else entirely.’
‘Oh?’ His face sort of closed up. He let her hair fall from his fingers and bent to dab at her feet again.
Good heavens, she’d offended him. Who’d have thought that a man who looked so tough could have such delicate sensibilities? But then she hadn’t been very tactful, had she? To tell him she’d been thinking of something else when he’d been trying to pay her compliments.
‘I was thinking,’ she said hastily, in an effort to make amends, ‘of how funny you were, searching about for rocks for me to throw.’
He shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t raise his head.
‘How very forbearing you have been, considering the abuse you’ve suffered on my account.’
He laid her feet down gently in the hay. ‘That is all I can do for them for now,’ he said, and scooted back. Looked at his hands. Cleared his throat. Scooted another foot away.
Which was both a good thing and a bad. Good in that he was determined to prevent another scene from developing in which their mouths ended up scant inches apart. Bad in that... Well, in that he was determined to prevent another scene from developing in which they would be tempted to kiss.
No, no, it was a good thing he wasn’t the kind of man to attempt to take advantage of the situation. They were going to have to spend the night together in this barn, after all. And if they started kissing, who knew how it would end?
Yes, it was a jolly good job he was maintaining some distance between them.
It would have been even better if she’d been the one to do so.
‘We had better eat our supper before the light grows too dim to see what we’re putting in our mouths,’ he said, opening his valise and taking out what was left of the provisions they’d bought in Tadburne Market.
‘We know exactly what we have for supper,’ she said wearily. ‘About two ounces of cheese and the heel of a loaf. Between the two of us.’
‘If it were only a few months later,’ he said, spreading the brown paper in which their meagre rations had been wrapped on the hay at her side, ‘I might have found strawberries growing by the stream.’
‘Strawberries don’t grow by streams,’ she retorted as he flicked open a penknife and cut both the cheese and the crust precisely in half. ‘They only grow in carefully tended beds. Where they have to be protected from frosts over winter with heaps of straw. Which is why they’re called strawberries.’
He raised his head and gave her a level look. ‘Blackberries, then. You cannot deny that blackberries thrive in the wild.’ He picked up the sheet of brown paper and its neatly divided contents and placed them on her lap.
From which he’d have to pluck his own meal. One morsel at a time.
She felt her cheeks heating at the prospect of his hand straying over her lap. Felt very conscious that her legs were totally bare beneath her skirts.
She picked up her slice of cheese and nibbled at it. What had they been talking about? Oh, yes...blackberries.
‘Some form of fruit would certainly be welcome with this cheese.’
‘And with the bread,’ he added. ‘It’s very dry.’
‘Stale, I think is the word for which you are searching,’ she said, having tried it. ‘But then, what can you expect for what we paid?’
No wonder the baker had let them have so much for so little. She’d been so proud of her skills at haggling. But they weren’t so great, were they? This bread was clearly left over from the day before.
‘I had a drink at the stream,’ he said, after swallowing the last of his share of their supper. ‘So I am not too thirsty. But what about you?’
‘I think I can just about manage to get the bread down. Though what we really need is a pat of butter to put on it. And then about a gallon of tea to wash it down.’
‘This will not do,’ he growled. And then, before she had any inkling of what he meant to do, he’d swept the brown paper to one side, hauled her up into his arms and was carrying her across the barn.
‘What are you doing?’
And what was she doing? She should by rights be struggling. Or at least demanding that he put her down. Not sort of sagging into him and marvelling at the strength of his muscular arms.
‘I’m taking you down to the stream so that you can have a drink. And dip your feet into the water. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before,’ he said crossly. ‘I must be all about in my head. Dipping a handkerchief in the stream and then dabbing at your blisters...’ he sneered.
‘I daresay you were attempting to observe the proprieties,’ she said kindly. ‘For this isn’t at all proper, is it? Carting me about like a sack of grain?’
‘Proper? There has been nothing “proper” about our relationship from the moment I stretched my foot out in bed this morning and found you at the other end of it.’
Naked, at that, he could have added.
In the gathering dusk he strode down the field in the direction of the water she could hear babbling along its channel. Without giving the slightest indication that he was doing anything out of the ordinary. He wasn’t even getting out of breath.
Whereas her own lungs were behaving most erratically. As was her heart.
‘And what we’re about to do is highly improper, Prudence, in case you need reminding.’
She looked at his face, and then at the stream, in bewilderment.
‘Watching me bathe my feet in the stream? You think that is improper conduct?’
‘No,’ he said abruptly, and then set her down on a low part of the bank, from where she could dangle her feet into the water with ease. ‘It’s not the bathing that’s improper. It’s what is going to happen after I carry you back to the barn.’
‘What?’ she asked, breathless with excitement.
No, not excitement. At least it shouldn’t be excitement. It should be maidenly modesty. Outraged virtue. Anything but excitement.
‘What is going to happen after you carry me back to the barn?’
‘We are going to have to spend the night together,’ he bit out. He rubbed his hand over the crown of his head. ‘All night. And, since it promises to be a cold one, probably clinging to each other for warmth.’
‘We don’t need to cling,’ she pointed out, since the prospect appeared to be disturbing him so much. ‘Hay is very good at keeping a body warm. I can remember sleeping in a barn a couple of times when I was very little and we were on the march. Papa made me a sort of little nest of it.’
He gave her a hard look. ‘If you were still a little girl that might work. But you are a full-grown woman. And there isn’t all that much hay, Prudence. It is more than likely we will end up seeking each other’s warmth. And, unlike last night, which neither of us can remember, I have a feeling we are going to recall every single minute of tonight. You will know you have slept with a man. You will never be able to look anyone in the eye and claim to be innocent. Tonight, Prudence, is the night that your reputation really will be well and truly ruined.’
Chapter Nine
‘Oh, my goodness!’ said Prudence as her feet slid into the ice-cold water. She didn’t know whether it was the shock of it, or something else, but suddenly everything had become clear. ‘That was what they were after.’
‘What who was after? What was it they were after?’
‘You know,’ she said, shuddering at the sting of the water on her raw feet. ‘My aunt and that man she married.’
‘I don’t follow,’ he said, sitting down on the bank beside her.
‘No, well...’ she said wearily. ‘That’s because I haven’t told you everything.’ But there wasn’t any point in keeping her revelation to herself. He was in it with her now—or would be after tonight—up to his neck.
‘I told you I was due to come into an inheritance?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it is not totally without stipulations. The money comes from my grandfather, you see, and he was livid, apparently, when Mama ran off with Papa. He’d already refused consent to their marriage—not only because they hadn’t known each other for five minutes, but also because Papa was a soldier. A man who saw nothing wrong with drinking alcohol, or gambling, or any number of things that Grandpapa regarded as dreadful sins.
‘Not that Papa was a dreadful sinner—I won’t have you thinking that,’ she explained hastily. ‘It was just Grandpapa was so terribly rigid in his views. Anyway, he cut Mama out of his will. But then when I was born, and Mama wrote to inform him of the event, he put me in it instead. She was still disinherited, but he said that it wasn’t right to visit the sins of the fathers on the children. And just in case I turned out to be as great a sinner as either of them, there was this...stipulation.
‘The money wasn’t to come direct to me upon his death but was to be held in trust. Either until I married “a man of standing”, I think was the exact term. Or, if I hadn’t married such a paragon by the time I was twenty-five, then I could have it without strings, to use however I wish, but only if I am found to be “of spotless reputation”.’
‘In other words,’ he said slowly, ‘all your aunt had to do was blacken your name and...’
‘Yes. Mama’s portion—or rather mine, since Mama didn’t feature in the will at all, and I never had any brothers or sisters who lived more than a few days—would go directly to Aunt Charity.’
‘Villainous,’ he hissed.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, drawing her feet out of the water and pulling her knees up to her chin.
Wrapping her arms round her lower legs, she gazed across the stream to the ploughed fields on the opposite bank, blinking determinedly whenever the chill breeze stung her raw flesh.
‘And it isn’t just what happened this morning. Or last night. Aunt Charity and I have been at war, subtly, for years. I can see it all now...’
She shook her head, the furrows blurring as tears misted her vision.
‘I thought she was just a cold, strict sort of woman, and I made allowances for the way she was because I could sort of understand how she might resent me for being thrust upon her when she obviously hadn’t a maternal bone in her body. But I think it was worse than that. Of late I’ve felt as though she has been doubling her efforts to make me feel bad about myself. Always harping on about my “falling short”, as she termed it. And punishing me for the slightest fault.’
She turned to him and searched his face for his reaction.
‘But what if it wasn’t that at all? What if she was trying to make everyone think I was a terrible sinner? So that she’d have the excuse to say I didn’t fulfil the terms of the will?’
He opened his mouth to say something, but thoughts were tumbling into her head so fast she simply had to let them out.
‘It’s true that at one time—about the time Papa died and I knew I was never going to get away from her—I was...well, a bit of a handful. No, I must be honest. I was downright rebellious for a while. I told her I hated her and everything she stood for. But as it drew nearer to my birthday nothing seemed to bother me so much. Only a few more months, I thought, and then I will be free. Only a few more weeks, now...’
She shook her head.
‘But she still looked at me as though I was a problem she had to work out rather than a real person... Oh, I’m not explaining it terribly well, am I?’
‘No,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I think I see only too well.’ He sighed. ‘For I have been guilty of seeing my young cousin Hugo in that light,’ he said.
He plucked at some strands of grass. Tossed them into the stream and watched them float downstream.
‘I have shown him scant sympathy whenever he comes to me with his troubles. The last time I refused to bail him out of his difficulties he accused me of having a mind like a ledger. Of not understanding what ordinary people have to go through. And he was right. I did regard him as nothing more than a financial drain. And an intolerable nuisance.’
‘Yes, but you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to destroy him, would you? You’re not that kind of man.’
He reached out and touched her arm, just briefly, as though her declaration of faith in him had meant something to him.
‘I didn’t think my aunt was that kind of person, either. But her husband...’ She shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past him. As soon as they married there stopped being any money for the things I’d taken for granted before. It started with fewer trips to the dressmaker. When I questioned him he accused me of vanity. And since I already thought he was a terribly pious and unpleasant sort of man I just thought he was trying to improve me. But then there were things like... Oh, he wouldn’t let me have a fire in my room unless it was actually snowing outside. That sort of thing. And I’m sure there isn’t anywhere in the Bible that says you have to go cold to prove how virtuous you are.’
He drew in a sharp breath. ‘It is possible that he has squandered your inheritance—have you thought of that? And this is his attempt to cover it up?’
She thought for a bit. Then shook her head. ‘If it is, he’s gone a very strange way about covering anything up. Surely my disappearance will eventually cause no end of talk? Especially since it looks as though they mean to explain it away by accusing me of improper conduct,’ she finished bitterly.
‘And me,’ he growled. ‘If anyone asks where you have gone, they will drag my name into it.’
‘I don’t see how they can. They don’t know it,’ she pointed out.
‘I will know it,’ he growled. ‘I will know that somewhere people are accusing me of...debauching an innocent. Well, your aunt and uncle picked the wrong man to play the villain of the piece. I won’t let them get away with it.’
‘Good,’ she said, turning to gaze up at him. ‘Because you are not a villain. Not at all.’
He might look like one, with his bruised face, his harsh expression, and his dishevelled and muddied clothing. But she knew how he’d come by the mud, and the bruises. At the time he’d told her about his adventure in the mill she’d half suspected he might have made some of it up, to try and impress her. But that was before he’d rescued her from those drunken bucks simply by looking at them with that murderous gleam in his eyes. Before he’d carried her to this stream just so she could soothe her feet in its ice-cold water. And had listened to her as though her opinions had merit.
‘So far as I’m concerned,’ she said, reaching up to touch the deep groove between his brows, ‘they picked the right man.’
‘What?’ His eyes, which had been glaring off into the distance as though he was plotting a fitting revenge on her guardians, focussed on her in bewilderment.
‘I know that you will put all to rights, somehow—won’t you?’ For that was what he did. ‘Or at least you will do your very best.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’ He fidgeted and turned his head away.
‘Because that is the kind of man you are. Completely upright.’ And not in the way the male members of Stoketown Chapel were upright. Not one of them would break into a warehouse at dead of night to steal a set of false ledgers in order to uncover a fraud. They’d be too scared of what other people would think of their actions.
She might have been mistaken, because it was growing too dark now to see clearly, but she rather thought her last comment might have caused him to blush.
‘Time to turn in for the night,’ he said gruffly. Then bent to put his arms around her and got to his feet.
Just as before, the ease with which he carried her filled her with admiration. Admiration spiced with a series of totally feminine responses. Because this time he was carrying her to a bed they were going to be sharing.
As though he shared the tenor of her thoughts, he came to a complete halt just before entering the barn and stared into the gloom at the far end. Where they were about to make a bed in the pile of hay.
‘This is going to be damned awkward,’ he grated, before turning sideways to slide through the drunken excuse for a barn door.
And then he stopped again.
And cleared his throat.
Though she could scarcely hear it over the thunder of her heartbeat.
‘Right, this is what we’re going to do,’ he said. ‘I’m going to use my valise for a pillow, then spread my jacket over some of the hay. That is if you don’t mind taking it off.’ He glanced down at the row of buttons, then at her face, then into the gloom again, his jaw tightening.
‘I don’t mind at all,’ she said. In fact excitement fizzed through her at the prospect of undressing in front of him. Even if it was only his jacket he’d asked her to remove. And she would still be wearing her modest kerseymere gown. ‘Hay is very prickly,’ she added hastily. ‘It is a very sensible notion to use your jacket as a barrier.’
‘Sensible,’ he repeated, suddenly breaking into a stride that took them all the way to the back of the barn. ‘I will use my coat to cover us, as another barrier against the hay. I shall pull it over the top of us both.’
‘A very practical notion,’ she said.
One of his eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’ He pulled it down. ‘I mean, naturally. Eminently practical. So,’ he said, ‘you will remove my jacket while I will divide up the hay, and so forth, to make our bed.’
Our bed. The words sent a flush to her cheeks. And, by the feel of it, to other parts she ought never to mention.
‘I give you fair warning,’ he said gruffly, ‘that if it gets really cold, in spite of all the hay, I shall put my arms around you and hold you close.’
Her heart skipped a beat. But that beat sank to her pelvis, where it set up a low, insistent throb.
‘Will you?’ Was that really her voice? All low and husky and breathy?
‘Yes. But I swear, on my honour, that I shall do nothing more.’
‘I know.’ She sighed.
‘How can you possibly know?’
‘I have told you already—I know what kind of man you are.’ And she wasn’t sure why she’d forgotten it, even for those few exhilarating seconds when he’d been standing there talking about taking her to bed. Wishful thinking, she supposed.
‘How can you? We only met this morning. Can you stand for a few moments if I set you down?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And that question only goes to prove what I was saying. You are still going out of your way to tend to my comfort. A lot of men wouldn’t bother. They wouldn’t try to reassure me that my virtue would remain unsullied, either. In fact, I think a lot of men—’ most men, from what she’d seen of masculine conduct so far ‘—would turn this situation to their own advantage.’
‘Oh?’ He bent to pick up his valise and held it before him like a shield while she unbuttoned the jacket he’d lent her. As she slid it from her arms he turned swiftly and buried the valise under a mound of hay.
‘Yes, indeed,’ she said as he turned back and took the jacket from her outstretched hand. He dropped it onto the makeshift mattress quickly, as though it was burning his fingers.
‘I have told you all about my fortune,’ she said. ‘Other men have paid court to me to get their hands on it. You could, at any time today, have started to pressure me into marrying you under the pretext of saving my reputation, and then the money would have been yours. As my husband. But you haven’t.’
‘Perhaps I am not a marrying kind of man—had you thought of that?’
‘No. For one thing you have looked at me once or twice as though you were thinking about kissing me. And you said that thing about my hair.’
‘Hmmph,’ he said, swinging her into his arms again and setting her down gently onto the makeshift bed.
‘For another,’ she said as he reared back and began stripping off his coat. ‘You have already been married.’
‘Perhaps that is what has put me off ever getting married again,’ he said bitterly, before coming down beside her and whisking the coat over them both.
‘Is it?’ She watched through lazily lowered lids as he reached for the hay, pulling bunches of it up and over them until it really did feel as though they were lying in a sort of nest. ‘You looked so unhappy when you mentioned your wife. I wondered...’
‘Wondered what?’ He lay down, finally, next to her, though he kept his arms rigidly at his side.
‘Well, why you looked so unhappy. You pulled a sort of face.’
‘Pulled a face? I never pull faces.’
‘Well, you did. And it wasn’t the sort of expression a widower makes who loved his wife and misses her. It looked as though...’
He made a low growling kind of noise, as though warning her not to proceed any further. She ignored it.
‘And anyway, now you have as good as admitted that you weren’t happy. What went wrong?’
He sighed. ‘I never speak of my wife,’ he grunted. ‘She and I... We...’
Somewhere close by an owl hooted.
Gregory folded his arms across his chest.
She rolled onto her side and curled up a bit. Just until her knee touched his leg.
Which was warm. And solid.
‘There was never any we,’ he said, with evident irritation. ‘The match was arranged by our families. I thought she was happy with it. She seemed happy with it. And I was...content to go along with the arrangement. She was pretty. Very pretty, if you must know. Which I thought was better than being saddled with a woman I would struggle to bed.’
Somehow it seemed rather brazen to be snuggling up to him, hoping he might snuggle up to her, while he was talking about having marital relations. She stealthily straightened her leg so that her knee was no longer nudging his thigh.
But she hadn’t been stealthy enough.
‘If you didn’t want the sordid details,’ he snapped, ‘you shouldn’t have pressed me for the confession.’
She hadn’t pressed. Not really. But perhaps it was the strangeness of the day, the enforced intimacy they’d shared and were still sharing, that made him feel compelled to tell her all about it. Or the fact that they were lying in the dark, in a barn, feeling extremely awkward, and it was better to talk of something completely unrelated to themselves.
Besides, if he truly hadn’t spoken of his miserable marriage ever, to anyone, he probably needed to unburden himself. He’d obviously never felt close enough, or safe enough, with anyone to do so.
She reached out until she found his hand in the dark, and clasped her fingers round it.