Hareton Hall: Richard and Rose, Book 6 Page 4

  Chapter Four

  Later, after the ladies retired into Lady Skerrit’s pretty drawing room, our hostess came over to ask if I’d play. I was proud of my prowess on the keyboard, something I’d worked hard for, and I wasn’t about to waste it on the undeserving.

  “I’d rather not,” I said gently and before she suppressed it, I saw the look of surprise on her face. I guessed it was because I’d been eminently biddable before my marriage, would have got up at once to play when she asked. But I owed it to Richard to remember who I was now. “I don’t wish to play for certain people,” I explained, and her look of surprise turned to anxiety. I was sitting on a sofa so she came to sit next to me.

  Lady Skerrit had been a second mother to me, and was as concerned as Martha about my marriage. I think she trusted Richard even less than Martha did. “You mean…?” she asked, gesturing slightly with one hand in Julia’s direction. I looked at the lady. She sat on the other side of the room, next to Eustacia Terry, chatting amicably. She didn’t look at me, but she was aware of my presence.

  “Yes. She has not been our friend.”

  “I’m so sorry to have caused you any distress,” Lady Skerrit said quietly to me. The only other person within hearing distance was my sister Lizzie and she knew all about Julia Drury. Lady Skerrit continued, “Tom was extremely concerned when Barbara told him she’d invited the Drurys. He knows something he won’t tell his father and me. He says he wants to forget it if he can. Do you know what he means?”

  “Yes,” I told her. “I will tell you if it becomes necessary, but please don’t ask. It isn’t at all the sort of thing I want to discuss here and now.”

  She studied my face, a small frown creasing her brow. “And are you still content?” she asked. She meant, Is he treating you properly?

  I wouldn’t have allowed such a question from anyone except Lady Skerrit and Martha, both of whom had helped me enter the world of adulthood once my own parents had died. “More than that.” I met her gaze to try to show her my sincerity. “I couldn’t have chosen a better partner.”

  She looked surprised, cynical even as she smiled at me, no warmth reaching her eyes. “I have read some remarkable things about you in the press.”

  Some of them undoubtedly true, but most not. I recalled the people Richard called the Watchers, those people who stared at us when we went out, but said nothing, diarists, letter writers, journalists. “People want us to come to grief, which makes us all the more determined to make a success of what we have. Sometimes I think we would be better retiring from society, where we’re not watched, but he’d be bored in a sennight.” I smiled at her, feeling serene, secure and happy. Richard had made me feel that way.

  My kind hostess leant forward and put her hand on mine where it lay in my lap. “I do hope you’ll forgive me, my dear, but you have no mother to guide you and I truly have only your concerns at heart.” She looked worried, the creases around her eyes and on her forehead deepening even more.

  I inclined my head. “I know that.”

  “Only I read somewhere—or I was told, I can’t remember which—that he insists on sharing the same bed with you—every night.”

  “Yes, he does,” I confirmed. It was unusual but not unheard of.

  “Oh, my dear,” she exclaimed. “Doesn’t he know a woman needs her privacy?”

  “Not this woman. You couldn’t be more appalled than Lady Southwood. She has done her best to make us sleep according to our station.” I heard Lizzie’s soft gurgle, and I decided to play up to her. It was cruel of me, perhaps, but I couldn’t resist. Lizzie knew how we felt—we had never hidden it from her—in fact she’d been one of the first to know. “We always share the same bed. He comes to me when he is ready, and we use my room, which means I get the better room and my levees are better than his.” I didn’t give her a chance to protest. “He doesn’t like me to wear night rails, and he never wears a nightshirt. He says if he wears a nightshirt and cap we wouldn’t sleep for laughing.”

  Lady Skerrit turned a deep red, something akin to the colour of the ripe apples in her orchards. I’d deliberately told her more than she wanted to know, far more than she meant but, I thought savagely, she shouldn’t have pried.

  I was close to telling her how many times a week we made love, but Lizzie was on the point of bursting. She hadn’t gone red with embarrassment, but pink with suppressed laughter. She’d been sermonised by Lady Skerrit herself in the past. I hoped she was enjoying herself.

  I moved on to more innocuous topics, letting my conversation go to the state of the beds on the road on the way here, allowing Lady Skerrit to regain her composure.

  Julia moved to the harpsichord and began to play, with Barbara and Eustacia still in attendance. She timed it well, because after the first pretty piece the door opened and the gentlemen came in. The drawing room at Peacocks was large, easily able to accommodate a number of people, if not as large as the huge medieval hall. I preferred it. The hall was spectacular, but this room was decorated in the modern taste, furnished with a number of comfortably upholstered chairs and sofas. And there wasn’t a draught.

  Richard sat in a chair next to the sofa where I sat with Lady Skerrit.

  “Helen is five months old, and my dear Lady Skerrit hasn’t seen her yet,” I told him.

  “I’m sure Lady Hareton would welcome a visit to Hareton Hall, or we can bring her here, if you’d rather.” He accepted a dish of tea from the maid, smiling his thanks. The maid blushed and quickly moved away. Steven Drury glanced at her, a speculative expression on his features. I was sure Nichols and Richard’s valet, Carier, currently belowstairs discovering what they could, would disabuse the maid before too long. Unless a swift, careless romp in the hay was what she was looking for, in which case Steven was her man.

  “I’d like to come and see her,” said our hostess. “Then I can see the other children as well. How is Walter? Oh—Lord Graveton, I should call him.” She referred to James’ and Martha’s eldest son, now the heir to the title and possessed of a barony.

  “Walter,” I said firmly. “Lord Graveton is for Sunday best. Walter is Walter. Noisy, full of himself and adorable.”

  “Do you think he’ll ever change?” asked Lizzie.

  I laughed at the very idea. “Not in the least. He doesn’t show any inclination for his studies, and I don’t suppose he’ll ever do so. But if we have a son, I wouldn’t wish for better.”

  I avoided meeting Richard’s eyes. We had begun to try for another child, at my insistence. I was eager to get the bearing of the heir over with, feeling that once we had accomplished that task, we wouldn’t be under so much pressure from his parents.

  “Somehow I can’t imagine him grown up,” Lady Skerrit remarked, still talking about Walter.

  “Someone said that about me once,” Richard said. From the looks cast at him by Lizzie and Lady Hareton, I didn’t think they could see him in that situation any more than I could. He laughed when he saw the incredulous stares. “Gervase was the scholar, I was the one who ran and hid from our tutors. I always preferred to be outside. My nurse found it hard to keep me in breeches, I tore so many pairs.”

  “Now I know you’re lying, sir,” Lizzie said. “You would never do a disservice to your clothes.”

  He gave her one of his angelic smiles. “I didn’t care very much at the time. There always seemed to be more important things to do.”

  “I always took care of my clothes,” Lizzie said.

  I caught Richard’s amused glance. “Believe it,” I told him.

  The Marquês, accompanied by Steven Drury, interrupted us. We would have to speak to Steven sooner or later, and I felt glad Richard was with me when we faced him.

  Steven was as handsome as ever, his recent dissipation putting no mark on his clear, oval face, his velvet brown eyes still an invitation to any woman who crossed his path. He was dressed as richly as my husband, but to my eyes he didn’t look nearly so good, despite his attractiveness. Perhaps Richard
’s innate elegance and style were the reasons, or that particular something that drew all eyes to him when he entered a room, the vitality and appeal. The emerald on Richard’s finger glinted as he put down his tea dish on the little table by his side.

  Everyone in the room who was aware of our history watched this encounter now. It was important not to make a scene, but Richard wouldn’t hesitate if he thought Steven insulted me in any way. He had nearly killed him for doing that, once.

  Steven bowed low to me, and I met his eyes when he rose from his bow, keeping my face clear of expression. “Dear Lady Strang, I hope I find you well.”

  “Tolerably, thank you.” I didn’t offer him my hand to kiss, and I didn’t ask him how he did, two omissions that would probably be noted. I saw our hostess stiffen by my side. She knew something of our history. What she didn’t know was what I’d become, was still in the process of becoming.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” he said.

  “Thank you.” I replied perfectly correctly but not inviting any further conversation on the subject of my daughter.

  Lizzie gave him an equally cool but proper response. The Marquês, standing just behind her, shot her a quizzical glance, but she couldn’t respond as Steven would have seen it. “The Marquesa has so kindly promised to send us an invitation to your wedding,” said Steven smoothly. “Afterwards, we’ll stay on to put Hyvern in order.”

  “You don’t object to living in a place where once you were a lowly curate?” Not Lizzie’s sentiments, but his, as Steven had showed every desire to leave his past behind.

  His eyelids lowered a little and his chin went up to give him that supercilious expression I remembered from the first day we met. “Indeed no, ma’am. I have some delightful memories of this place.”

  He turned his head and met my eyes. It was a deliberate attempt to make me blush, but where in the old days he would have succeeded, now I met his gaze without flinching. “It’s as well to remember youthful mistakes, then you don’t make them again.” I glanced at my husband and saw the brief warmth of encouragement in his eyes.

  Richard spoke to Steven for the first time this evening. “You wish to bring your London life here?”

  “Maybe.” Steven looked at him steadily. “It could prove a useful place.”

  “So, in effect, you want to rub the noses of your erstwhile neighbours in your insalubrious activities?”

  Steven smiled then, a slow, malicious smile, acknowledging Richard’s statement. Lady Skerrit gasped.

  “I’d find that amusing,” Steven said.

  “I shall stop you.”

  “You can’t.” Steven still didn’t have Richard’s full measure, or perhaps his arrogance didn’t permit Steven to see it.

  “We’ll see. You would be advised not to try it, however.”

  Neither man raised his voice, but those people nearest to us must have heard them. It would be all round the neighbourhood in the morning. “I can’t see why you should concern yourself with it,” Steven continued.

  Richard gave him a second’s hard stare. “With my wife’s family on your doorstep? Wasn’t that a strong consideration for you?”

  I flicked open my fan. The sharp click served to obscure and deaden the impact of Steven’s reply. “The thought might have occurred to me. But in truth, I should add that we do like the house and its position on top of the cliff. Most picturesque.”

  Lady Skerrit barged in then, too nervous to stop herself, anxious to break the growing tension. “Most people find it too exposed for comfort, but the modern fashion for the picturesque has only just reached Devonshire.”

  It worked. Steven turned his attention to her. “We like the view.”

  “You’ll have smugglers for neighbours.” Her lips drew together, showing the fine lines around it.

  “If they leave us alone, we’ll do them the same courtesy,” Steven said.

  “You may notice some activity, especially on moonless nights.”

  “It should be interesting to watch.”

  The Skerrits were deeply against smuggling, and so was James, but he didn’t make as much of a point of it as they did. The only time a Skerrit had stood up to make a speech in Parliament, it had been against free-trading.

  His work done, Steven shrugged, bowed to us all and moved away.

  “We’ll watch them,” Richard said quietly, half to himself, and then caught my look. “Does it bother you, having him so close?”

  “No,” I lied. I didn’t want any disturbance, especially at my sister’s wedding.

  Richard came into the pretty bedroom Martha had given us while my stalwart maid, Nichols, was brushing my hair. He took the brush from her and she bowed, and at a nod from me, silently left the room.

  Richard took over, drawing the brush firmly through my thick brown hair. I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. I opened them when he paused, but he’d only stopped to take off his heavy coat and throw it across the back of a vacant chair. Then he picked up the brush and carried on.

  “You told him?” I asked.

  “Succinctly, in the kind of language you suggested.” The Marquês had requested an interview with Richard on our return, and Richard promised me he’d tell him more about the Drurys.

  “I thought you might get on better without me,” I said. “Then you could use more appropriate language without shocking the poor man.” I met his reflected gaze in the mirror. “As though women don’t know those words.”

  “You are precious and fragile and need protecting,” he answered levelly, back at his self-imposed task. My hair crackled as he drew the brush through it.

  “Pooh! Not from words.”

  “Maybe, but it pleases us men to think of you like that.”

  “Do you think of me like that?”

  He stopped and gazed at me, brush in hand. “Sometimes it terrifies me that you might leave me.” It seemed he wasn’t able to utter the word die where I was concerned. “But I know I can’t protect you from everything. If I tried, you wouldn’t like me very much for it.”

  “No,” I agreed. “But I like being cared for. No, I love it. I’m still not used to it, though.”

  “Martha cared for you.” He put down the brush and used his hands instead, smoothing my hair, running his fingers through the waves. It felt wonderful.

  “Not as you do,” I told him.

  “I should think not.”

  I stood and went to his waiting arms.

  “Would you like me to get Nichols back for you?” he murmured. “Or will you accept me as your lady’s maid?”

  “Do you need to ask?”

  He laughed and kissed me, his tongue caressing my mouth with a gentle insistence I could never tire of.

  He unhooked my gown at the front, pushed it off my shoulders and let the garment fall to the ground, leaving me in my stomacher, stays and petticoats. The stomacher was easily got rid of, being attached to the stays by a few pins only. It fell to the floor with a heavy thump, as the topaz brooches were still fastened to it. He reached round to the back and began to loosen my stay laces, taking the opportunity of our proximity to kiss me again, sweet kisses over my cheeks and throat, pausing to nip at my earlobe. While he was performing these actions for me, I wasn’t idle.

  I undid the buttons on his waistcoat, feeling the hard, nubby surface of its heavy embroidery, then I slid my hands under it and felt his body beneath the fine linen of his shirt. He chuckled softly, and I felt my stays give way. The drawstring of my outer petticoat proved no obstacle to his questing, skilled fingers and my under petticoat and side hoops swiftly followed.

  “Why do you like to undress me? I could come to you in my night rail.” I ran my hands up his back, feeling the hard, lean muscle respond to my touch.

  “Because, my sweet delight, it’s unwrapping the best gift in the world. Because it prolongs the moment in a delicious way. I love to touch you, to hold you, and this way I can touch every part of you.” He kissed me and then bent his he
ad to kiss my throat, and to push away the loosened drawstring of my shift, exposing my breasts to his caresses. I pressed myself against him, felt the buckles holding his stock at the back of his neck and unfastened them.

  Then I put my hand up to undo the topaz necklace I still wore, but he lifted his hand and put it over mine. “Leave it. It looks lovely against your skin. Let me look.”

  I let it be, instead pulling at the drawstring of my remaining petticoat and my pockets until they fell away. He removed his shirt in one smooth movement, so I could see and touch his chest and his back. The touch of my bare skin against his made me tingle, drew my nipples into peaks. The drawstring at the neck of my shift was now fully open, so I let it go all the way down my body to pool at my feet.

  I was naked now, except for my stockings, and I knelt to help him with his breeches, unfastening the glittering buckles at his knee, the buttons at the sides, and the buttons holding the garment up at his waist, beginning to understand his meaning about unwrapping.

  I touched, caressed, kissed him, and heard his sigh and murmur when I stroked the swollen, silken flesh before me. I bent my head, took him into my mouth, and ran my tongue around the tip.

  He gasped and murmured, “Oh Rose, oh sweetheart,” and he touched me, digging his fingers into my hair when I deepened the caress. I loved the feeling of control doing this gave to me and I felt him moisten, tasted the pearl of liquid he granted me and knew he wouldn’t last too long if I did this. I wanted him inside me so I released him with some reluctance, watching the glistening member strain as I drew back.

  I sat on the floor, on top of the discarded heap of clothes, and slowly removed my shoes and stockings, drawing out the moment, displaying myself to him. He watched me, before he put his hands under my armpits and pulled me to my feet.

  His eyes, usually such a gemlike sapphire, had softened to the blue of the sky just after dawn, and the smile playing about his mouth was the one only I ever saw. “You’re a witch,” he whispered, as he sought my mouth with his. He thrust his tongue into my mouth, sensuously exploring, sending flutters of sensation through my whole body.