To Be Seduced (4 page)

He straightened and crossed his arms. “That you won’t, Mistress Dallison. I can afford one meal this evening and ’tis laid out in the parlour below. You either join me or go hungry.”

Bethany capitulated to her betrothed and her growling stomach. “Oh, very well! I shall join you, but not until I’ve made myself presentable.” She opened the door. “If you would be so kind?”

“Of course,
dear sister.
” With a mocking laugh, he left Bethany alone to reorder herself. As she knotted the cap’s muslin ties firmly under her chin, a startling reflection entered her mind. Lord Harcourt—Richard—had called her hair beautiful.

On the balcony surrounding the inn yard, Richard’s thoughts ran along similar lines as he pulled his cloak closer against the winter afternoon. He had thought Bethany a pretty girl, but opening the door to see that cascade of golden red glowing in the sunset light had stolen his breath.

His first impulse had been to bury his face in it, to discover its scent and softness. The rules of polite society precluded such outrageous behavior, but he’d had no scruples about stroking his hands into those bright strands.

Her initial response to his kiss had matched that fiery hair, warm and soft. He turned his head to consider her still-closed door. He’d told her he would not touch her during this journey, but he had not expected to find his Puritan bride so very pleasing. Strictly speaking, his intentions were honorable. They had to be in order for him to keep his promise to his father. But he now found little inclination to wait for the pleasures of the marriage bed.

He loosened his cloak to allow the chill breeze to cool his heated body while he pondered how he might join his betrothed in her bed after supper.

When Bethany emerged from her room, cap and hair firmly in place, she took Richard’s proffered arm with some nervousness. To her immense relief, he made no mention of their embrace. Instead, he spoke lightly of the meal awaiting them as he led her down the steps, apologizing in advance for its plainness.

The unexceptional conversation settled her, although apprehension fluttered through her when he opened the door and waited for her to enter the private room. Her heart pounded as she transgressed one of her mother’s cardinal rules: Never be alone with a single man. Following her, he shut the door on the roar of the customers in the common room beyond.

“Have a seat by the fire for a few minutes, dear girl. You looked somewhat pale.” She glanced sharply at him, expecting to see mockery in those green eyes. He only waved a hand toward the small settles on either side of the hearth before picking up the crockery pitcher of ale and pouring out some for each of them.

Trying to match his casual manner, she removed her woolen cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. Her hands felt unaccountably cold. She walked over and held them out to the fire. Richard spoke to her from his place by the table.

“Once you’re warmed, we had best enjoy our meal. I find cold mutton most unappetizing.” Bethany managed a strangled assent. To calm her jangling nerves, she looked about the room.

Light came from the fireplace and from several candles in wrought iron sticks on the table and on a plain sideboard at the room’s far end. It gleamed softly off the pewter dishes and tankards. Linsey-woolsey curtains in the shade of amber obtained from onionskin dye hung in the window frames. The inn’s goodwife had placed a matching runner down the middle of the dark wood tabletop before setting out their food.

Certainly he had not exaggerated the meal’s simplicity. A saddle of mutton sat on a platter among dishes holding bread, cheese, and dried apples. The earthy scent of ale reached Bethany’s nose as Richard held out her tankard.

“I ordered this instead of wine this evening. I doubt Master Gatwell carries a potable vintage, but his homebrewed is quite palatable. The only other alternative here would be water and I doubt you’d care to risk that.”

Bethany agreed, well aware of the dangers of drinking plain water. She approached him with all the care of a horse skirting a dangerous precipice. Gingerly taking the mug from him, she sipped carefully. The frothy liquid flowed over her tongue, leaving a pleasant tang of yeast and anise. “Most palatable! My mother’s brewmaster does not do so well.”

His eyes glinted. “You have a brewery on your estate?”

She met his look, seeing the greed behind the question. “I regret disappointing your lordship, but we don’t sell any. ’Tis only for use in our household.”

He bowed slightly, hand to heart. “A hit indeed, madam. I admit to a flash of hope that I might become possessor of a thriving alehouse upon our marriage. A number of noble houses have magically revived their fortunes by alliances with daughters of the Brewer’s Guild.”

“Feel free to join them!” Stung, Bethany retorted before thinking. She stopped short. Spending this night at the Bell and Moon made marriage imperative. Besides, she had an excellent reason to wed, if she could keep Richard at arm’s length.

He chuckled. “Vigilant fathers take care to keep their daughters away from me.” His gravelly voice lowered. “Happily, I found a most gratifying alternative.”

Although he made no attempt to touch her, she stepped away, placing the table between them. He followed. Alarm pulsed through her. His smile flashed as he pulled out her chair with a flourish.

Torn between nervousness and laughter, she allowed him to seat her. He did not discomfit her again as they dined. His charm of manner relieved her as he recounted amusing stories about his boyhood in Yorkshire. Chuckling at a particularly funny episode about Gloriana getting stuck in a tree, she watched him finish a second helping of meat. His pleasure in such a plain meal surprised her into commenting upon it.

“I’ve spent too many days hungry to complain about a full stomach, my dear.” He raised his tankard to her. “I may not be able to command the elegancies of life, but my expectations improve daily.”

“When does a lord go to bed hungry?” She bit into a dried apple, enjoying its sweetness. “Gloriana never mentioned any such thing.”

“When he’s living in exile. Glory was the youngest; we made certain to fill her plate first with whatever food we could afford.” He leaned back in his chair, brooding. “Our years in France were—challenging.”

An instant later he smiled at her, his easy mood returning. “Good preparation for life at Court, I daresay. You’ll be presented, you know.”

“What?” She nearly choked on her apple. “At Court? To the King?” Her voice subsided to a squeak. “Unthinkable! I have nothing to wear.”

He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “The first concern of every woman since Eve! Faith, I should have known you’d say that.”

She watched him, concerned. Both her mother and Mr. Ilkston disapproved of females who spent excessive time considering their appearance. Miss Gloriana Harcourt’s elaborate toilettes, for example, often aroused their ire.

To her relief, Richard’s eyes twinkled at her from across the table. “I expect you wish to refurbish your wardrobe at the first opportunity, my dear. Once we’re settled in town, I’ll whisk you off to the shops.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can recommend some very fine mantua makers.”

“Oh!” Bethany gasped as she realized the implication of his words. “Forgive me, your lordship, but I would prefer not to patronize the same shops as those who provide for your—your women.” She pushed her chair back and marched to the closed door. “I think it best to return to my chamber.”

He stood, too, but remained by the table. “I fear you must wait until I am finished. Unless you care to traipse through a public house unescorted.” Raucous laughter burst from the common room beyond as if to punctuate his remark, followed by a bawdy song.

She halted, one hand on the handle, debating whether it would be more tolerable inside the parlour or outside. Before she resolved the matter, her betrothed crossed to her side.

“Stubborn girl. Did that stiff-necked pride get you in trouble often?” He lifted her hand in his warm one. Ignoring the pleasant flutter of her heart, she pulled it out of his grasp. He let her go but leaned one shoulder against the door and crossed his arms, blocking escape.

“You’ll do well in London.” His green eyes softened as he murmured the words. She swallowed nervously, but his intense gaze hypnotized her into immobility. “You shall wear the finest silks and velvets, not dull wool. And in colors to show off that lovely skin.”

She started at the touch of his fingertips against her cheek. He continued speaking softly, his eyes locked on hers. “I’ll be the envy of every man at Court with you on my arm. They’ll wonder what your beautiful hair looks like unpinned and falling over your shoulders.” His hand slid around to the back of her neck and the other grasped her waist, holding her to him.

He did not let her escape from this kiss. She found herself wrapped in his arms while his mouth played over hers. Her lips opened of their own volition to admit his searching tongue. He tasted of ale and sweet apple. When she shyly touched it with hers, he growled and delved farther into her mouth.

She tried to protest when he lifted her and moved toward the fireplace, but she could not form the words. Instead her arm slid to his chest, feeling the heartbeat pounding beneath her palm. She gulped for air against his neck, inhaling the faint lavender scent of his shirt and neck cloth.

Moments later, he reached the settle, pulling her onto his lap. Before she could utter a word, he bent to her lips again, this time merely brushing them before moving on to whisper her name against her cheek.

When he nuzzled his way to an exquisitely sensitive place on her neck, she gasped and dropped her head back over his arm to allow greater access. Heat gathered in her stomach at his groan of pleasure.

Overwhelmed by the new sensations coursing through her, she stroked his hair, marveling at the softness of the dark gold strands. Only when his hand slipped beneath the kerchief shielding her breasts did she struggle to push him away.

“Enough!” She looked into his darkened green eyes inches from hers. Horrified, she realized that her kerchief was nearly undone while Richard’s neck cloth hung loose. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with her pounding heart. His arms tightened around her, pulling her more firmly onto the ridge of flesh pressed up against her bottom.

“Sweet Bethany.” He rocked his hips under her, and her breath caught. “Let me come to you tonight, lovely girl.” His free hand stroked her neck. “We can be wed as soon as we get to London tomorrow.”

“No! We can’t.” She scrambled to her feet despite the fear that her shaking knees would not support her. She did not know if the angry cast of his face resulted from a trick of the firelight or his own feelings. In any case, she did not dare give in to the carnal urges sweeping over her. Despite the evidence of his need for her money, she would be at a disadvantage until he placed a wedding ring on her finger. She seized on their earlier conversation.

“I won’t be married in rags.” Cringing inwardly at the incredulity gathering on his features, she tossed her head. “As you said, a woman’s first concern is dressing well. I shan’t marry you until I can do so in something other a travel-stained dress and an old cloak.”

“I wholeheartedly approve your plans, madam, but that has nothing to do with our more private relations.” He unfolded himself from the settle. Although her height prevented him from towering over her, she had to look up a few inches to meet his glare. Unnerved, she stepped back a few paces.

“Tell me you don’t enjoy my touch.” She dropped her eyes at his taunt. “Or that you don’t wish to explore my body the way I want to discover yours.” Bethany stared at the floor.

“Please don’t make me do this yet.” She raised her head and entreated him. With an exasperated sigh, he grabbed her cloak from the back of the settle and tossed it at her. Mechanically she caught it.

“Cover yourself. I’ll take you back to your bedchamber.” She nodded at the curt order, not trusting herself to reply as she wrapped the faded wool around her.

He strode to the door and wrenched it open. Tight-lipped, he awaited her approach. Grasping her arm painfully, he accompanied her past the cheerful crowd in the taproom.

At her chamber, he unexpectedly pushed her back against the door. The night hid his face, but Bethany could feel every inch of his body as he leaned into her, pressing her to the hard wood.

“Tell me you won’t dream of this, little Puritan.” His whisper warmed her cheek before he ravaged her mouth. She felt his triumphant smile as she instinctively softened beneath him. She heard him fumble with the door handle. Before she knew it, she stumbled backward into the room.

His eyes blazed in the light of a single candle, but he did not follow her inside. “I bid you good night, madam.” With those cold words, he slammed the door shut, leaving Bethany alone with her jumbled thoughts.

Trembling, she hastily undressed down to her shift and climbed between the sheets of the feather bed. Blowing out the candle, she tried unsuccessfully to convince herself that she shook from cold and fear.

One story below, Richard crossed the inn yard to the stables. He swore under his breath as he stumbled over a stray piece of firewood. Carefully easing the door open, he slipped inside. A horse whickered, reminding him to stop at the stalls where his hired animals rested. He trusted Lane’s report that they had been fed, watered, and groomed, but they had served him well this day. Depositing a dried apple from supper in each manger, he made his way to the hewn bars of wood that served as a ladder into the loft.

His sour mood worsened when a splinter jammed its way into his forefinger halfway up. Damning his lean purse, his debts, and his stubborn fiancée, he heaved himself up and made a place in the clean hay. A few yards away, Lane snored blissfully.

Wrapping himself in his cloak, he stretched out on his back, hands behind his head. Thinking of Bethany only worsened his temper. Visions of her fair skin and coppery hair vied with that of her curled up on a soft mattress. He knew not which he desired more, the girl or the bed.