by Anne Gracie
“On wet days I used to love to curl up there and read,” Nell said, noticing her look.
The room where baby Torie was asleep in her cot was, by contrast, freshly wallpapered in yellow and white, with everything gleaming new.
“Harry did it all himself,” Nell told her with a little smile. “For himself, he could happily sleep in a barn, but when it comes to Torie, he’s very particular.”
Maddy smiled and squeezed her arm. She’d noticed at dinner that the taciturn Harry Morant was equally particular about his wife’s comfort and well-being. The love between these two was almost palpable.
Would Nash ever feel that way about her? She ached for it to be so.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride . . .
A nursery maid sleeping in a bed in the corner of the room stirred and sat up. “It’s just me, Mary,” Nell whispered, and the girl lay down again.
They tiptoed to the baby’s high-railed cot and looked down. Torie slept on her side, curled up like a sweet little caterpillar. In the light of Nell’s candle, Maddy saw a tumble of brown curls, the rich curve of a baby’s cheek, a sweep of long lashes, and a tiny thumb wedged firmly in the baby’s rosy little mouth.
“She’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Nell nodded. “My precious.” She blinked fiercely and Maddy realized her hostess was fighting tears.
“Oh, how silly, please forgive me,” Nell muttered. “I have nothing at all to be weeping about. I just . . . get emotional for no reason at the moment.”
Maddy touched her arm gently. “My mother was like that whenever she was increasing.”
Nell gave her a searching look and then a watery smile. “It’s early days. We haven’t told anyone yet.”
Maddy assured her she would say nothing. She wished Nell good night and went to tuck her own brood into bed.
Henry and John, worn out from all the excitement of driving the carriage, fell asleep almost as soon as Maddy kissed them good night. She tiptoed into the girls’ room and found Lucy so heavy-eyed that in minutes, the little girl was also sound asleep. Jane and Susan, however, were wide awake.
“Maddy,” Jane asked her, “when you marry Mr. Renfrew, where will we live?”
“With us both, of course,” she assured them, and saw from the easing of tension that the girls had been worried. “Silly, of course I wouldn’t leave you behind. We’re a family and we stick together, no matter what.”
She hugged Jane. Of all the children, Jane felt any disruption to their life most keenly. It was only natural; she had the strongest memories of losing both her parents. “You don’t just lose people from a family, my darlings, you gain them, too.”
“Like we gained you?” Jane said.
“Yes, and I gained you,” she said, hugging them both. “And now Mr. Renfrew joins our family. You’re still happy about that, aren’t you?” The girls assured her they were.
“But where will we live?” Jane asked. “Will we be going to Russia, with Mr. Renfrew?”
“Yes, of course. A family sticks together, remember? And since Mr. Renfrew’s work takes him to Russia, to Russia we will go.”
“Will we see bears and have sleigh rides over frozen lakes and be chased by bloodthirsty wolves?” Susan said, her eyes wide.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure it will all be a splendid adventure,” Maddy told her. She was excited by the prospect, too.
“To Russia we will go, to Russia we will go, hi-ho the derry-o, to Russia we will go,” Jane sang.
Maddy laughed and tucked her in tightly. “Now, go to sleep and dream of Cossacks and onion-domed towers . . .”
“And sleigh rides through the snow pulled by horses with bells on their harnesses . . .” murmured Jane.
“And ladies wearing dozens and dozens of petticoats . . .” Susan drifted off.
Twenty
Maddy closed the nursery door quietly behind her, turned, and almost dropped the candle holder as a shadowy figure loomed out of the gloom. “Oh, it’s you,” she gasped. “You gave me such a fright.”
“Sorry, I just came to check that all was well with the children,” Nash said quietly. “Strange house and all that.”
“They’re all asleep.” She was touched at his concern.
“Good, and how about you?” The light from the single candle caught the facets of two crystal wineglasses dangling from his fingers. In his other hand he held a crystal decanter containing some dark liquid. “I thought you might like a small composer before bed. A glass of Harry’s best Madeira, to help you sleep.”
Maddy was so tired she didn’t need anything to help her sleep, but she wasn’t going to turn down a moment alone with Nash. Besides, she was so full of questions. “Madeira? All right.” She looked around. “Where shall we go to drink it?”
“Here, on the stairs? Or I suppose we could return to the drawing room downstairs.”
“I’ve always thought stairs were a cozy place to sit and talk,” she said and caught a flash of gleaming white as he smiled.
They sat, side by side, though he sat one step lower to bring their faces level. The stairs were narrower than she thought, and their bodies touched. Echoes of the previous night shimmered through her.
Nash put the glasses and decanter between them, took the candleholder from her, and set it on the steps behind them, so it cast their faces half in shadow, half in a soft golden glow.
“Your hair was made for candlelight.”
“Because it dulls the red?” Grand-mère thought her hair too bright and frequently regretted the passing of the fashion for hair powder, which would have disguised it.
“Perish the thought. One of the things I love about your hair is the way it’s different in different light, and beautiful in all of them, but in candlelight, it gleams like fire. Try this, I think you’ll like it.”
She took the glass he handed her with a murmur of thanks, a warm glow inside her from the unexpected compliment.
She’d never tasted Madeira before. She swished the heavy, silky-looking liquid around in the glass and inhaled the aroma. Slightly smoky with a tang of sweet almonds. She held it to the light. It glowed a beautiful dark gold.
“The exact color of your eyes.”
She looked at him, startled. His eyes were in shadow but she could feel the intensity of his gaze and the warmth of his body beside her. Was he going to make love to her here on his sister-in-law’s steps? She took a large gulp of Madeira, and immediately choked.
“Madeira is not meant to be gulped,” he said, taking the glass from her hand and patting her back soothingly. “You should sip it.”
“It went down the wrong way,” she muttered.
His hand didn’t stop moving, up and down her back, soothingly. She didn’t feel the least bit soothed. Every stroke sent warm, delicious shivers through her.
“It’s meant to be sipped slowly, and savored. Like this.” He put her glass to her lips, and feeling a little foolish, she sipped. The sweet, spicy wine slid down her throat like warm, honeyed silk. His hand moved up and down her spine, slowly, sensuously.
“It’s delicious,” she whispered, not entirely sure whether she was talking about the wine or his touch.
“So are you.” His breath was warm on her cheek. His hand slid around her waist and drew her closer.
“The girls are so excited about going to Russia.” She snatched the topic from the air.
“Were they?” He drew back with a frown. “It might be better not to discuss it with them just yet,” he said after a moment.
“But why? If they’re going to—”
“I haven’t sorted everything out yet,” he said.
“Sorted what? I don’t—”
“Let’s not discuss this now.” His lips brushed her cheek, a featherlight brush of skin against skin, barely discernible, but she lost all track of what she was saying.
“But I want to kn—”
“You want what?” he murmured against her skin. The deep timbre of his voice vibrated through
flesh made suddenly more sensitive. “This?” His lips touched hers lightly, once, twice.
“Or this?” He trailed his knuckles slowly across her aching breasts and a hot shiver of anticipation thrilled through her.
“Or this?” He made a low sound deep in his throat, his arm tightened around her, and he licked at her lips like a big hot cat, teasing at the seam until she parted for him. He entered and tasted her slowly, deliberately, languorously but with a sharp intensity that thrilled her to the marrow.
“Delicious,” he murmured, and kissed her again, and she grasped his shoulders and kissed him back, tasting the sweetness of Madeira and the hot dark salt intensity of the man.
“Nash . . .”
He kissed her then with a delicate ferocity that thrilled her to the marrow, nipping, tasting, possessing. His mouth was his instrument and she unraveled beneath it, joyously.
She ran her palms along the harsh, pure line of his jaw, reveling in the abrasion of the masculine bristles; she speared her fingers through his thick, soft hair, and wriggled closer and closer, until she was plastered against his hard, masculine body, squirming against him; and all the time kissing, kissing, kissing him as he devoured her in return.
His big warm hands ran over her, feverishly, and she wished they weren’t on the stairs, were in her lovely bed back home, in her own red-curtained alcove, cut off from the world. But the guest room she’d been given had a large and comfortable bed . . .
“My bedchamber is just past the landing,” she murmured.
He hesitated, then kissed her with renewed passion, then gave a groan and lifted her from his lap back onto the stairs. “No,” he said in a harsh voice.
She blinked at him, dazed, dizzy with passion, barely able to sit straight. “But it’s just down there.” She pointed. Her hand was shaking.
He groaned again, groped for the glass of Madeira, and gulped it down in one mouthful. He was breathing heavily. She was panting, too, she realized, as if she’d run up all the stairs and down again. “No,” he repeated. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?” They were going to be married, after all. She wanted him, and now, suddenly, with no warning, he seemed to want her at last, and she wanted to seize the opportunity while it presented itself.
But Nash Renfrew, it slowly dawned on her, was not presenting himself. He drew back, and when his hand encountered her glass that he’d put down, he drained it, too, putting his mouth deliberately over the smudge left by her own mouth and putting it down again without looking, his eyes never leaving hers. He stood slowly and held his hand out to assist her to rise.
Her heart leapt with hope. Her body throbbed, tense with longing, aching with need. And he—she glanced at him with a knowing eye—his long, lean body was tense, hard, visibly aroused. There was no reason to wait.
Nash waited, his face in shadow, his hand outstretched. She allowed him to help her stand and was glad of the leashed strength in the light clasp, for her legs trembled beneath her, all their strength drained.
He led her to her bedchamber door, opened it, handed her the candle. “Come in with me,” she whispered.
He shook his head and kissed her lightly on the mouth, a firm, possessive promise of a kiss, tasting of Madeira and Nash, and tinged, she fancied, with regret.
“Sleep well, Maddy,” he said softly and strode away down the dark corridor, leaving her clutching the door, staring after him.
It was the very definition of control, Nash told himself. To send her to bed—alone—with nothing but a chaste—chaste-ish kiss and then walk away. To his own bed. His own, empty bed.
It was the civilized thing to do.
Nash let himself into his bedchamber. A cozy sight greeted him. His valet, Phelps, was waiting, a fire crackled merrily in the grate, a glass of brandy sat on the bedside table, and the bedclothes were turned down, ready for him to slide into bed. Perfect, Nash told himself. Everything he could possibly want. Except one.
Desire gnawed at his vitals.
Leaving her to sleep alone was the wise thing to do, he told himself. He wasn’t besotted by lust. He was not his father. He would not be ruled by passion.
He could wait for the wedding before bedding her again. He wasn’t an animal, governed by primitive instincts. He was a gentleman. A gentleman in complete control of himself.
“Evening, Phelps.”
“Good evening, sir.” Phelps helped Nash out of his coat and waistcoat and hung them up. “I trust Lord Ripton made his departure in good time.”
“He has, yes.” Nash didn’t bother to ask how Phelps knew Luke was taking his place. Phelps always knew everything. Nash yanked the arrangement of his neckcloth apart and tossed it on the bed, then dragged his shirt off over his head.
Phelps stood by with Nash’s dressing gown ready. “Shall you require this, sir?”
“Mmm, yes. I might read for a bit by the fire.” Nash shrugged on the dressing gown, then sat for Phelps to assist him in the removal of his boots. Nash pulled off his stockings, then dragged off his breeches and kicked them aside. “That’ll be all, Phelps.”
“Very good, sir,” Phelps brought the brandy glass and a bottle to the table beside the fireside chair. “The cognac you enjoyed so much last time we were here,” he murmured. “Mr. Bronson sent up a bottle.” He picked up Nash’s discarded clothing. “Good night, sir, sleep well.”
“’Night, Phelps.” Nash picked up the crystal glass and swirled the cognac around, watching the fire through it. The rich aroma of the cognac teased his senses, reminding him of the way her kisses had tasted. Madeira and Maddy, a headier combination by far than the finest French cognac.
Come in with me.
He glanced at the bedclothes, turned back so invitingly on his bed. Damn it all, why should he wait?
She’d invited him in.
It wasn’t gentlemanly to turn down a lady’s invitation.
And Nash was a gentleman to his fingertips. A gentleman under perfect control. Making a rational, logical, polite decision not to disappoint a lady.
He put down the brandy glass and let himself quietly out into the dark corridor.
He eased open her door in case she was already asleep, but she was kneeling by the fire in her night rail, her head bent over, vigorously brushing her hair.
Her spine formed a graceful arch. The thin, worn fabric of the nightgown pulled tight over the sweet curve of her hips and bottom. The undersides of her small pink toes peeked from under her buttocks. Her body moved gently with each movement of the brush, her breasts swaying gently as, like a living thing, her hair lifted and crackled with each stroke, gleaming in the firelight.
His mouth dried. His body hardened in a rush of hot blood. God, but she was beautiful. His bride-to-be.
He must have made a noise, for she looked up. And waited for him to speak.
His throat was tight, too tight to speak.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Are you sure you want me to stay with you tonight?” he croaked.
She set down the brush and gave him a slow smile. “Of course I’m sure.” She rose to her feet in one graceful movement, running her fingers through her hair to tame its wildness. It crackled and clung to her skin. He knew just how it felt.
“Don’t.” His voice sounded hoarse.
A pucker formed between her brows. “Don’t what?” she murmured, moving toward him. Her hair was damp, curling in tendrils around her neck and ears.
She placed her hands on his chest—he wondered if she could feel the pounding of his heart—and raised her face for his kiss. The fragrance of new-washed hair and warm, clean woman enveloped him. His body throbbed, hard and wanting. Demanding.
“You smell so good,” muttered the man of words. But he could barely string two thoughts together, let alone a sentence.
With Maddy like this, so warm and close and beautiful and welcoming, his brain was empty of all except desire. Thick, pulsing desire, hot and heavy, urging him to just toss her on the be
d and take her, possess her, bury himself deep. Mindless, savage, desire.
He fought for every shred of control. Tonight, since his ability to resist her had proven so weak, he was going to make it good for her, to take her slowly, gently. Even if it killed him.
He trailed his fingers through the thick silky mass. “Don’t ever cut this.”
“I won’t.” Her lashes lowered demurely and she brushed her body lightly against him, moving in a slow tantalizing dance. Innocent eroticism, he told himself. Unbearably delicate friction.
His pulse pounded through his body, his body racked with agony, craving possession, demanding release. He groaned and she smiled a small, feminine smile.
“Shall we move to the bed?” she murmured.
Without a word, he swung her into his arms and in two long strides reached the bed. But he couldn’t seem to let her go. Her arms twined around his neck and she pressed kisses on his jaw, his neck, the opening of his dressing gown.
Nash closed his eyes, savagely leashing his rampant desire into something resembling control. Like a tiger held by a ribbon. At this rate, he was going to fall on her and ravish her like a mindless beast. He forced himself to set her gently on the bed and stood back, breathing heavily.
She leaned back on her elbows and regarded him thoughtfully, her glorious hair spread out in a wild, beautiful mass, her thin cotton night rail rucked up, revealing the pale, sweet slenderness of her thighs. Parted slightly in unknowing invitation.
He forced his eyes away from the velvet shadow between her thighs and gave her a searching look. “Are you sure you’re not too sore from . . . the other night?”
Again, that small, female smile. Mona Lisa in a worn cotton nightgown. “I ache,” she told him, and his heart sank. It was as he thought. It was too soon.
“I ache for you,” she said. “And if you walk out of here now, after leading me on and getting me all hot and bothered—for the second time tonight—I—I’ll strangle you.”
It took a moment for the meaning of her words to sink in, and in that moment, she’d unfastened his dressing gown and was pushing it off his shoulders. “It seems my French blood, once aroused, demands satisfaction,” she murmured in dulcet apology. “I do hope it won’t be a problem.”