The Countess's Groom (4 page)

She took a long shuddering breath, swallowed, found her voice, and asked: “What was that?”

Will released her hips. “That’s how it’s meant to be.”

Rose didn’t tense as he settled himself between her legs. Pleasure quickened in her veins as she felt him push inside her.

When he was fully sheathed, Will halted and met her eyes. His gaze was dark, passionate.

Rose arched her hips. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He grunted a hoarse laugh and obeyed. Rose sighed with pleasure.
Yes. This is how it’s meant to be
.

The rhythm Will set quickly became urgent. The world receded. There was no folly, no rain, no Creed Hall. The universe narrowed to one man: Will Fenmore. Rose clung to him, moving with him. Pleasure spiraled inside her, tighter and tighter, until she splintered with it—

She heard Will groan, felt his muscles clench, felt his body shudder in helpless climax.

Rose floated slowly down.

Will rested his forehead on hers, panting. She put her arms around him. Her awareness of the world returned: the cool, shadowy folly, the patter of rain on the roof, and Will. The weight of his body. The warmth of his sweat-damp skin. The sensation of him still inside her. She closed her eyes and held him tightly.
I love you, Will Fenmore
.

After a moment, Will pulled back, separating them. Rose uttered a wordless protest, but he took her in his arms, rolling onto his back, holding her on top of him, his grip tight, as if he was never going to let go.

She laid her cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “I didn’t know it could be like that.”

Will stroked her back. “With the right person, it should always be—” He released her abruptly and sat up, turning her so that he could see her back.

Rose squeezed her eyes shut, knowing what he was seeing: the dozens of scars marking her skin.

“Quayle?”

She nodded.

“I swear to God that if I ever see him again, I’ll kill him.” Will’s voice was hoarse, vibrating with rage.

Rose opened her eyes. She turned and looked at him. Fury was stark on his face, and beneath that was something else: grief.
For me
.

They were such very different men, Will and Henry. One an aristocrat, the other a commoner. One kind, the other cruel. “Forget Henry.” She took his hand and lay down again.

For a moment Will resisted the pull of her hand, rage still vivid on his face, then he lay down and took her in his arms. She felt the tension in his muscles.

“Where did you learn to have union with a woman like that?” she asked to distract him.

For a moment she thought Will wouldn’t answer, and then he sighed and some of his tension eased. “From a woman called Bess. A widow.” Will stroked her back again. She knew he felt the scars, but this time he didn’t stop speaking. “I was eighteen, she was several years older. We were lovers for three years, until she remarried.”

Rose pillowed her cheek on his chest and breathed in the scent of his skin. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-four.” His fingers traced a scar as it curved across her shoulder blade, legacy of one of Henry’s more brutal whippings. “You?”

“Nineteen.”

Will stroked her shoulder, the nape of her neck—and then released her. “The rain’s stopped. We’d better get back to the hall.”

Rose sat up reluctantly.

“You should wash,” Will said. “If Boyle smells me on you...”

Her skin prickled with fear. She shivered. “Yes.”

Rose washed quickly in the lake and dried herself with the rug they’d made love on, and then Will dressed her carefully. “I love you,” Rose told him when he was finished.

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Five

JUNE 21, 1763

It rained for two days, steady rain that meant they couldn’t go riding, but on the third day the sky cleared in the afternoon. Will saddled Dancer and led the mare to the mounting block.

He heard footsteps and turned his head. His heart kicked in his chest. Rose.

She walked across the courtyard, as she had done a hundred times before, dressed in an emerald green riding habit. Black ringlets curled beneath the brim of her hat. Her skin was pale and smooth, her lips rosy, her eyes lustrous.

Will did his best to appear stolid and disinterested as she approached.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon, Fenmore.”

The sound of Rose’s voice brought a flood of memory: the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin, what it had felt like to bury himself in her and come to a shuddering, heart-stopping climax.

Will swallowed. He helped Rose mount and rechecked the girth, methodical, business-like, forcing himself not to look up and smile at her, not to show that their relationship was anything other than mistress and servant. Then he swung up on his own mount, where the picnic hamper was strapped behind the saddle.

Once they were within the woods, Rose halted and turned to him. “Will...”

He saw her shyness, her nervousness, the doubt in her eyes—as if she thought his love for her had evaporated in the past two days.

Will brought the gelding alongside Dancer and reached for Rose, leaning across to kiss her. “I love you.”

Rose’s stiffness melted away. She kissed him back, shy and sweet and eager.

After they’d galloped the horses, Will undressed Rose in the little Grecian temple and made love to her until they were both breathless with pleasure. Afterward, he held her in his arms. “Rose, I’ve been thinking about money.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “Isn’t there enough for the voyage?”

“There’s more than enough.” He wondered if she understood how much money two hundred guineas was. “But I’m wondering what to do with the rest of your rubies. Will you get a better price for them in England, or the colonies?”

“Oh.” Her brow furrowed as she thought. “What do you think?”

“I think we should sell one more piece here. But not in Falmouth. Someone might remember, put two and two together. If Quayle should suspect—” He felt her shiver, and tightened his grip on her. “And that’s another thing, Rose. We can’t call ourselves Fenmore.”

“I like Fenmore. It’s your name.”

He felt an absurd flush of pleasure.
“We need a plain name, Rose. Something no one will remember. What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Elphinstone.”

He shook his head. “Your godmother’s name?”

“D’Alpuget. She was French.” Rose stroked his chest. “What about your mother’s maiden name?”

“Cobb.”

She tilted her head back and smiled at him. “I like Cobb.”

“You do?”

She nodded.

“Then Cobb we shall be.”

…

The next week passed swiftly. They rode to the lake for the last time together. Will watched Rose feed the squirrel, sitting on the ground with her skirts spread around her. “Do you think there are squirrels in the colonies?” she asked, once the creature had scampered off.

“We’ll find out.” He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.

“You’ll never see this in daylight again.”

“No.” Will looked across the lake to the woods, the hills. He’d lived his whole life in Northamptonshire. He felt no regret at leaving, just a keen eagerness for what lay ahead.

“What will you do to be dismissed?”

“Pretend to be drunk. I saw it often enough as a lad.”

They climbed the steps to the folly. “Will,” Rose said, once they were in the cool, round room. “I brought this.” She pulled something from her pocket.

“What is it?” He unwrapped the linen handkerchief. Pillowed in the middle was a necklace of rubies and gold. His mouth dropped open.

“Take it when you leave. Sell it in London or Birmingham or wherever. Somewhere nowhere near Falmouth.”

Will reverently touched one ruby with a fingertip. If the brooch had been worth two hundred guineas, the necklace must be worth a thousand.

“It’s the best Paris workmanship,” Rose said. “It should be enough to buy us a farm and some horses, don’t you think?”

Enough to buy a dozen farms, more like
.

“Sell it, Will. It’ll be one less thing we need to do. We can go straight to Falmouth and be gone from England all the more quickly.”

Will carefully placed the necklace in his pocket, and took out a folded banknote. “And you must take this, Rose. In case something happens to me.”

Fear blossomed on her face. “But Will—”

“I’ll be back, Rose. I promise.” He gripped her shoulders, holding her gaze. “Even if the gates of Hell open, I’ll come back for you. Trust me.”

She inhaled a shaky breath. “I do trust you.”

“Take the money. I’ll feel better knowing you have it. Just keep it hidden from Boyle.”

She took another breath and nodded jerkily, clutching the banknote. “I’ve found a place to hide things.”

“Good.” He pulled her gently into his arms. Rose clung to him. He felt her tension, her fear.

Will kissed her brow, her eyelids, her lips. “One last time?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

He slowly removed Rose’s clothes, marveling in her beauty—the smooth, creamy skin, the rosy nipples, the slender curves of waist and hip and thigh. He wanted to tell her how lovely she was, but held the words back. Instead, he pressed light kisses to her skin as he bared it. When she was naked, she sat on the rug on the divan and watched him undress.

“Will,” Rose said as he stripped off his drawers. “May I...” She hesitated and blushed vividly, visibly gathering her courage. “May I kiss you there?” She reached out and touched his erection.

Will lost all ability to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again. After a moment he managed to say, “If you wish.”

Rose met his eyes shyly. “I do.”

Will stretched out on the divan. His heart began to beat faster. “Come here,” he said softly.

Rose blushed even more deeply as he drew her to kneel between his legs. “What do I do?”

“Whatever you want. There’s no right or wrong, Rose.”

She moistened her lips and nodded. Will inhaled in anticipation as she bent her head—and then her mouth was on him. He tried to hold himself still, but his hips moved slightly.

Rose explored him, kissing, tasting with her tongue, drawing him into her mouth, slowly gaining confidence. Will clenched his hands in the rug and stared up at the ceiling. His lungs squeezed. His body was tight with need. Finally he could bear it no longer.

“Stop,” he said hoarsely.

Rose raised her head. ”Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Will could barely get the word out. “Quite the opposite.” He reached for her, pulling her up on his body. “Come here. Ride me.”

“Ride you?”

He spread her legs until she straddled him. “Like this.”

Rose gasped as he pushed inside her.

Will held her hips, showing her how to move, how to find the rhythm. He managed to hold on to his control long enough for her to come and then he tipped over the brink of a shuddering climax.

It took him a long time to find his breath again, and even longer for his heartbeat to steady. He opened his eyes. Rose lay on top of him, her head resting on his shoulder.

Will stroked her back, feeling the tracery of raised scars. Rage surged inside him, bunching his muscles. He forced himself to relax.

After a moment Rose stirred and sat up. Her lips were soft and rosy, her eyes lustrous.

Will brushed his knuckles lightly over her cheek. “That’s the last time, until I return.”

…

Rose helped Will to dress her. She loved watching the concentration on his face, loved watching the blunt, strong fingers fastening the ties and laces. When he was finished, she took his hand, interlacing their fingers. Henry’s hands were soft and plump and cruel. Will’s were calloused and sun-browned and incredibly gentle.

“I hope we have children.” Children with white-blond hair and eyes as blue as the sky.

“I hope so too.”

Rose looked down at their linked hands and made a confession: “Henry says I’m barren.”

“I doubt it.”

“I was married to him for eight months, Will, and I didn’t fall pregnant.”

“That’s his fault, not yours.”

Rose shook her head. “How can you know that?”

“Quayle’s raped a number of the maidservants.”

“What?” She stared at him, appalled.

“It mostly stopped after he married you.” Will’s hand tightened around hers. “The thing is, Rose, none of them fell pregnant. Not one. So I don’t think you’re barren. I think it’s him.” He bent his head and kissed her. “And even if we don’t have children, we’ll have each other.”

They repacked the picnic hamper and carried it outside. “Next time I’m here, it’ll be with one of the other grooms,” Rose said, staring at the lake. She shivered. “I don’t like them. They look at me the way Henry does.”

“That’s because they’re only seeing this.” Will touched her face. “Not this.” He placed his hand over her heart. “They don’t see who you truly are.”

Will did. She saw it in his eyes every time he looked at her.

“Two weeks, Rose.” Will held her gaze, his hand still resting over her heart. “And we can be together as man and wife.”

“How will I know which night to come here?”

Will walked to where she had fed the squirrel, beneath a young oak. He crouched, laying his hand in a hollow formed by the tree’s roots. “When you see a stone here, you’ll know. Come at midnight and I’ll be here.”

Rose nodded.

Will straightened. “Rose...you’re certain about this. Absolutely certain?”

She crossed to him with quick steps. “Of course I am!”

“We’ll have money, but nothing like you’re used to.” His gaze was intense, serious. “You’ll never see your family again.”

“I know.”

“You can still change your mind, Rose. If you wish to. It’s not too late.”

“I’ll never change my mind.” Will was her future. She knew that with fierce certainty. “Never.”

Will’s expression relaxed. He pulled her into an embrace. “Then I shall see you in two weeks’ time. Here. At midnight.”

As Rose sat down to dine that evening, she heard muffled shouts outside. “What on earth was that noise?” she asked the footman, when the second course was placed in front of her.

“One of the grooms has been drinking,” the footman said, his voice prim with disapproval. “He made a mess of the grooms’ quarters. Broke several chairs.”

“Goodness,” Rose said. “How dreadful.”

“He’s been turned out, ma’am.”

Rose stared down at her plate.
It’s begun.