Vixen (29 page)

Samuel, chuckling, left the kitchen.

“Come on, lass.” Hugo beckoned again. “It’s bath time.”

Chloe stood her ground, holding on to the back of the chair, regarding Hugo with the deepest suspicion. “I don’t want a bath.”

“Oh, you’re mistaken, lass. You want a bath most urgently.” He walked toward her with soft-paced purpose and she backed away.

“What are you going to
do?”

“Put you under the pump,” he said readily, sweeping her easily into his arms.

“But it’s freezing!” Chloe squealed.

“It’s a warm night,” he observed in reassuring accents that Chloe didn’t find in the least reassuring.

“Put me down. I want to go to bed, Hugo!”

“So you shall … so you shall. All in good time.” He carried her out to the courtyard. “In fact, we’ll
both
go to bed very soon.”

Chloe stopped wriggling at that. Despite fatigue and the events of the night, she realized she was far from uninterested in what such a statement might promise.

“Why can’t we heat some water and have a proper bath,” she suggested carefully.

“It would take too long.” He set her down beside the pump, maintaining a hold on her arm. “And it would not convince you of the consequences of headstrong, willful behavior. If you dash into the midst of an inferno, you’re going to come out like a chimney sweep.” Releasing her arm, he pulled the nightgown over her head so she stood naked in the moonlight.

“And chimney sweeps go under the pump,” he declared, working the handle.

A jet of cold water hit her body and Chloe howled. He tossed the soap toward her. “Scrub!”

Chloe thought about dashing out of the freezing jet and into the house, but the filth pouring off her body
under the vigorous application of the pump convinced her that she had no choice but to endure this punitive bath. She danced furiously for a few moments, trying to warm herself, then bent to pick up the soap and began to scrub in earnest.

Hugo watched her with amusement and rapidly rising desire. The gyrations of her slender body, silvered in the moonlight, would test the oaths of a monk. She was in such a frantic hurry to get the job over and done with that her movements were devoid of either artifice or invitation, which he found even more arousing.

“I hate you!” she yelled, hurling the soap to the ground. “Stop pumping; I’m clean!”

He released the handle, still laughing. “Such an entrancing spectacle, lass.”

“I hate you,” she repeated through chattering teeth, bending her head as she wrung the water out of the soaked strands.

“No, you don’t.” He flung the thick towel around her shoulders. “Rarely have I been treated to such an enticing performance.” He began to dry her with rough vigor, rubbing life and warmth into her cold, clean skin.

“I didn’t mean to be enticing,” she grumbled somewhat halfheartedly, since the compliment was pleasing.

“No, that was part of the appeal,” he agreed, turning his attentions to the more intimate parts of her anatomy. “But I trust that in future you’ll think twice before you fling yourself into whatever danger presents itself, my headstrong ward.”

Chloe knew perfectly well that given the set of circumstances, she would do the same thing, but it seemed hardly politic or necessary to belabor the issue, particularly when he was doing what he was doing. Warmth was seeping through her in little ripples, and, while her skin was still cold, her heated blood flowed swiftly.

Finally, Hugo dropped the towel and wrapped her in
the velvet robe. “Run inside now and pour yourself another tot of rum. You can dry your hair at the range. I’m going to clean myself up.”

“Oh?” Chloe raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure it would be easier for you if I worked the pump.” She turned up her blistered palms. “I’ve had a deal of practice already … and besides, I’m entitled to my revenge … or do I mean
my
pleasure.”

Hugo smiled and stripped off his clothes. “Do your worst, then, lass.” He faced her, his body fully aroused, his eyes gleaming with challenge and promise.

With a gleeful chuckle she sent a jet of water over him, careful to circumvent that part of his body that most interested her. Hugo was unperturbed by the cold, having enjoyed many baths under the deck pump of one of His Majesty’s ships of the line. The secret was to know it was coming. The other morning, when Chloe had chucked a jug of the icy stuff over him in the bath, he’d been expecting the benediction of steamy liquid warmth.

With the utmost seriousness he washed himself as she continued to work the handle, but deliberately he offered himself to her wide-eyed gaze. She worked the pump with breathless enthusiasm, her tongue peeping from between her lips, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Enough!” Finally, he held up his hands, demanding surcease. “The show’s over. Pass me the towel.”

Chloe grinned and continued to work the handle for a few more minutes. Hugo leapt out of the stream and grabbed the damp towel. “You’re asking for more trouble, young Chloe.” He rubbed his hair and abraded his skin.

“Inside with you, unless you want to go under again.” He took a menacing step toward her and with a mock scream she ran into the house, but instead of going to
the kitchen she went into Hugo’s bedroom, diving beneath the sheets.

When he came in five minutes later, she was lying in his bed, the sheet pulled demurely up to her chin, her cornflower eyes filled with the rich sensuality that never failed to overwhelm him.

“Good morning, Sir Hugo.” She kicked off the cover, offering her body, naked, translucent in the pearly dawn light.

“Good morning, my ward.” He dropped the towel from his loins and came down on the bed beside her.

“I
F WE WENT
to London and you married a rich wife, then you could repay whatever of my fortune you had to use to make your house habitable.” Chloe’s tone was casually conversational. “You wouldn’t have to repay what we spent on my come-out, of course. Clothes and balls and things like that …”

She twirled a silky chest hair around her little finger, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. She’d never managed to get this far without being cut off before.

“There must be lots of rich women in London—widows or some such—who’d love to marry you. You’re handsome and clever and—”

“Enough flattery.” Hugo interrupted at last. “As it happens, I’m not in the least interested in rich widows, although I’m deeply complimented that you should imagine ranks of them falling at my feet.”

“Oh, but you have to be sensible,” she said earnestly. “It’s possible that they won’t be pretty … or even very young … but if they’re rich—”

“What have I done to deserve being leg-shackled to an ancient widowed antidote, Chloe! You really have a low opinion of my charms, don’t you?”

“No! I do not!” She sat up, her expression genuinely horrified that he should have thought such a thing. “I said you were handsome and clever and kind. But wouldn’t a young, rich, pretty woman expect to marry a tide and a fortune? I thought that was what happened.” She frowned down at him. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you silly child, of course you didn’t.” Smiling, he reached up and twined his hands into the radiant cascade of hair falling around her face. “I am well aware of my handicaps on the marriage mart—elderly baronets in straitened circumstances are considered poor catches.”

“You are not elderly!” Chloe laughed at this absurdity. Emboldened by the absence of the customary brusque interdiction on the subject, she went on. “But if you won’t marry a rich widow, then why can’t we pay to put your house in order as part of the expenses of my come-out? I have to live somewhere while I find a suitable husband.”

“Very well,” Hugo said.

“What?”
Chloe sat back on her ankles, blinking in disbelief. “Did you just say we could go to London?”

“That would be a correct interpretation,” he agreed solemnly.

“But why … when … did you change your mind?”

“Why should that interest you?” he teased. “Isn’t it enough that I said yes?”

“Yes … no … yes … but … but up to now you wouldn’t even entertain the idea. I expected it to take weeks to soften you up!”

“Soften me up!” He pulled her down on top of him. “Of all the unscrupulous, sly little foxes!”

She was malleable satin, her body sweetly molding to the contours of his as he parted her thighs and entered her with a slow twist of his hips.

Her eyes widened as she absorbed the very different sensations of this novel position. “I didn’t know you could do it this way.”

“There are many ways, sweetheart.” He stroked down her back.

“And we’ll do them all,” she declared with a smile so like a contented cat that he burst into laughter.

He’d never before made love with a partner so deliciously full of uninhibited joy. She was always eager,
seizing on
each new experience and sensation with hungry passion. And what he loved the most was the way she told him what she wanted even while she demanded he tell her what he wanted of her. She told him what she was thinking throughout, what pleased her both about what he did to her and what she did to him. It made lovemaking the most shared and sharing experience he could ever have imagined, and when he was with her in this way, the tarnished memories of the travesties in the crypt lost their bite.

“If I do this,” she now said, moving her body over and around him, her teeth clipping her bottom lip, a frown of concentration drawing the fine eyebrows together, “does it feel nice for you?”

“Wonderful,” he said, smiling at her through narrowed eyes, as entranced by her expression as he was by her movements.

“And this”—she leaned backward over her ankles, arching her body, and then gasped—”oh … perhaps I shouldn’t do that just yet.”

“Whatever and whenever you wish, lass,” he said, holding her hips. “The conductor’s baton is in your charge this afternoon.”

“But it has to be right for you too,” she said seriously. “You always make sure it’s right for me.”

He smiled again and reached for one perfect round breast; the small firm swell fit his cupped palm neatly. “Such a bundle of love you are, young Chloe.”

Half an hour later, Chloe gathered her scattered attentions together again and returned to the subject uppermost in her thoughts. “How will we travel to London? It’s a dreadfully long way.”

“Two hundred miles,” he agreed. “We’ll hire a post-chaise.”

“And change horses along the road,” she said with a knowledgeable little nod. “Miss Anstey was to do that.”

“That reminds me, we have to find you a duenna,” he said, hitching himself up against the pillows. “You can’t live in London alone in a bachelor household without scandalizing society.”

“But you’re my guardian.”

“You still heed a female chaperone … someone to accompany you to parties, to help you receive visitors, to shop with you.”

“I had thought of asking Miss Anstey if she’d like to be a companion if I set up my own establishment,” she said thoughtfully, a fingertip tracing the coiled serpent on his chest. “When you were being so horrid to me and I thought I couldn’t bear to stay with you.”

He caught her wrist, trying not to let her see how he hated her touching the mark of Eden. “Was I horrid enough to drive you to that, lass?”

“Yes, but not for long. Shall I write to Miss Anstey?”

“No, a governess won’t do,” he said. “You need a chaperone of some social standing.”

“But who?”

“Leave it to me.” He swung out of bed and stretched. “What a shameless way to spend an afternoon.”

“It was a lovely way,” Chloe disagreed. “And it’s still pouring with rain. What else could one do?”

Hugo regarded her quizzically. “There are many useful things to be done on a rainy afternoon, lass.”

She shrugged. “But none so pleasant, I’ll lay odds.”

“No, there you have me, I have to admit.” He pulled on his shirt.

“So when shall we go?” Chloe made no effort to leave his bed, snuggling farther under the covers.

“As soon as I’ve talked to Childe at the bank, hired the chaise, arranged matters here. A week maybe.”

“That soon!” Her indolent posture vanished. “But Beatrice won’t have weaned the kittens by then.”

“No!” Hugo said, stepping into his britches. “No and no and no.” He came up to the bed. “I repeat, Chloe:
no.
I am resigned to Dante, but I will not journey to London with a cat, six kittens, a one-legged parrot, and a barn owl.”

“Of course we won’t take Plato,” she said, as if the very idea were ridiculous. “He belongs here and his wing is almost healed.”

“I’m relieved,” he said dryly. “However, neither will we be taking the rest of the menagerie.”

“I should think you’d be glad of Beatrice and her litter if your London house has as many mice as this one.”

“No. No. No. Must I say it again?”

Chloe stared past him, apparently gazing with unwarranted interest at the rain-drenched windowpane.

S
even days later, two fascinated postilions watched as one of their passengers busily ensconced a basket of mewling kittens and a bird cage inside the chaise. The occupant of the bird cage offered a ripe opinion on this change in his circumstances and then cackled with the appearance of self-satisfaction. A tortoiseshell cat leapt into the chaise after the kittens and curled on the squabbed seat by the window. A huge brindled mongrel ran, barking excitedly, around the chaise, his feathered tail flailing all and sundry.