How to Marry a Highlander (falcon club ) Page 8

  “Not intentionally.” She held her breath. “What I would really like is to know more about you.” She craned her neck to look into his face.

  He was no longer smiling. “Ye must make an end to this wager.”

  “I shall. In a fortnight.”

  He moved away. She put on a genial face and laughed and chatted with everybody. But that night when Diantha and Wyn had gone to bed and the house was again dark, she stole down to the parlor and wrote a little piece she titled “The Maid Milliner of Harpers Crest Cove and the Trouble With Desire: A Story of Seed Cakes.”

  When she was finished she sanded it and tucked it into the drawer. The pile of pages seemed thinner than before. But she was weary and discouraged and not thinking perfectly straight. In the morning she would pull out all the stories and send a few to Freddie. He would laugh himself to pieces.

  She went to bed telling herself that would be enough. It must be enough.

  It was all the real happiness she would ever have.

  Duncan read the London journals. He knew as well as anybody that scandal was afoot at one of the town’s rag sheets. The editor had hired a lady journalist and he was giving her a byline. Gossip was flying, but the column was already wildly popular.

  It seemed to him that the London public would also enjoy satirical snippets of life in a provincial town written by a lady humorist. It so happened that he had several such stories in his possession now. So, after he spent the morning riding in the park with his sisters and the lady from Cheshire that made him forget his past, he paid a call on the offices of TheLondon Weekly.

  A woman with a rich fantasy life should have an outlet for it that did not involve ruining her future.

  The weather grew warm and fine, and for a single day Teresa wanted nothing to do with searching fruitlessly for suitors. It seemed that everywhere Lord Eads escorted them, no eligible gentlemen were to be found anyway.

  She almost believed he was trying to sabotage his sisters’ chances.

  But if they were to engage in gentleman-scarce outings, one may as well be of her own creation. She made plans and called at the hotel to invite her friends.

  “Lily’s no been herself since the ball, an Effie’s itching to make trouble again.” Una took Teresa’s arm as they went into the parlor. The same ancient little grey lady draped in black wool sat staring out the window.

  “Good day, ma’am,” Teresa said, then to Una: “I have something planned that should put both Lily and Effie to rights. I came to tell you.”

  “I’ve news first. Mr. Baker-Frye asked ma brither for Moira’s hand this morn.”

  “But that was very quick!”

  “She’s verra beautiful.” Una winked. “But I think he cares for her. For all that he’s worth twenty thousand a year, he’s a kind man. Moira says they agree on everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “How remarkably dull and wonderful for them.”

  Una laughed.

  With a light step, Teresa went around telling the sisters about her planned outing at week’s end and bidding them all dress suitably for the outdoors.

  Moira’s cheeks glowed.

  “May I invite Mr. Baker-Frye, Teresa? He’s fond o’ growing things.”

  “Of course. What a merry party we will be.”

  Only Abigail and Lily could not be found, but Teresa suspected where to search for at least one of the missing sisters.

  In the kitchen, quiet in the lull between breakfast and lunch preparations, Lily was arranging sprigs of fresh herbs about the edges of two dozen little chicken carcasses laid out on a roasting pan.

  “Abby’s gone back to the bookstore.” She offered a game smile.

  “Dearest Lily, you must pull yourself out of this brown study and—”

  “Qu’est-ceque—What are you doing?” Monsieur Le Coq rushed forward from the doorway, throwing off his hat as he came.

  “Dressing these capons,” Lily said. “They look so much prettier this way.

  And they will taste divine.”

  “Mais, vous—” Then he looked up and his dark eyes opened in wonder.

  “Mon ange,” he whispered.

  Lily cocked her head. “What does that mean?”

  And so Hotel King Harry’s exclusive French chef was obliged to translate for the seventeen-year-old Scottish angel who had appeared in his kitchen days earlier for so brief a moment that he thought he’d imagined her, though she’d left behind the most miraculous cakes he had ever tasted. He not only translated but he rhapsodized in a manner only the French could affect, with such mellifluous praise that Lily’s eyes were shining by the time he finished.

  “Monsieur, yer a poet,” she said brightly. Then more hesitantly: “Might I make cakes again today? Or mebbe a pudding?”

  “I would be honored, mademoiselle!” he said with a flourishing bow that encompassed the entirety of his realm.

  Lily beamed.

  Disconcerted, Teresa left them to their cakes and chickens. She did not recall ever seeing Lily’s eyes shine at Tobias quite like they had at the fastidious little French chef. Bemused and not liking where her thoughts brought her, she set off on foot for her brother’s flat four blocks away.

  “Walk aboot wi’ yer head in the clouds, lass, an yer likely to take a tumble.”

  She snapped her cloudy head up to see Lord Eads astride his beautiful big roan stallion on the street beside her.

  “Good day, my lord. My head was not in the clouds but in the hotel with your sisters. Congratulations on your acquisition of another brother-in-law.”

  “Will ye claim ye’d no hand in that one too?” The shadow cast by the brim of his hat fell across his eyes and she could not tell if he was smiling.

  “No, for I did. Although they might have encountered each other in the corridor any day, it’s true.”

  “Do ye niver have a maid wi’ ye, Miss Finch-Freeworth?”

  “Annie walked with me to the hotel but she was distracted by a footman, I think. I could not find her when I departed.”

  He dismounted and drew his horse toward her. “’Tis no way for a leddy to go aboot town. Alone.”

  “I am always alone, my lord.” Even with Annie. Painfully alone. The only real friend she’d ever had in Harrows Court Crossing had gone away to school when she was only ten years old and then to war when she was fifteen, and until he inherited Brennon Manor from their father he was unlikely to return. Her three years at the Bailey Academy for Young Ladies had afforded her the dear friendship of Diantha, and lately she had grown deeply fond of Lady Una. But at home in Cheshire she had no one with whom to share her stories and dreams. “And I hardly see how a man who has committed crimes and kissed a lady in a foyer after midnight can lecture me on propriety.”

  “I wasna lecturing ye on propriety, but safety.”

  “Then what about the foyer?”

  “A man o’ honor pays his debts.”

  “And . . .” Something seemed to be caught in her throat. “The crimes?”

  His horse scraped a hoof. A carriage rattled by. The sun tried to peek out from a cloud then lost courage and inched behind it again.

  “I killed a man,” he finally said.

  This had not been part of Teresa’s fantasy of the handsome Highlander.

  “Was it a duel?”

  “No.”

  “An accident?”

  “Cold bluid.” He seemed to study her. “Nou will ye cancel the wager, lass?”

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I admire yer honesty.”

  “You admire one thing about me and it is my honesty?” She shook her head.

  “’Tis no the anly thing aboot ye I admire.”

  A hesitant smile shaped her pretty lips that Duncan hadn’t stopped thinking about in a sennight since he’d had them at his command.

  “What else do you admire?” she asked.


  “That ye dinna tolerate the unkindnesses others show ma sisters.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “An I admire yer courage.”

  “Courage?”

  “An yer brazen cheek.”

  “Brazen cheek?” A crease ticked the bridge of her nose. “Now then, my lord, I don’t—”

  “An hou ye pretend yer doing this all for yerself when ’tis clear ye thrive on helping others.”

  “I am doing it for myself.”

  “An I already told ye I admire the lips I kissed in that foyer.”

  Her eyes took on a slightly confused, sultry luster. “And I already told you that you may kiss them again if you wish. But despite your pretty words I don’t think you do.”

  “Aye, I do.”

  For a moment she did not speak. Then: “I don’t trust you.”

  A weight seemed to press upon his chest. “Years ago a blackguard enticed ma sister Miranda from home wi’ fine promises, forced her into foul service in Lunnon, then left her on the street to die. That was the man I killed.”

  Her throat jerked. “I am sorry,” she said softly. “More sorry for you than I can express.” Then with an air of firm decision, she stepped away from him.

  “Come to the picnic tomorrow, my lord. If you are very well behaved I will let you again kiss these lips that you so admire.” She set off, striding down the walkway alone, her coppery locks shimmering beneath her bonnet, leaving him bemused and wanting more.

  He put his horse into a lad’s keeping and went after her. Her eyes were wide when he took her hand and laid it upon his arm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Escorting ye to wherever it is yer going.”

  “Is this only about your concern over my safety?”

  “Aye,” he lied. “’Tis anly that.”

  8

  Friday dawned bright and clear, ideal for the picnic. Four carriages were loaded with Eads ladies, servants, and baskets of savories and sweets prepared by Diantha’s cook. The gentleman rode alongside.

  Ascot Manor, the estate of retired naval commander George Finch-Ascot, sat at the end of a spectacularly long drive miles outside of London. Its extensive grounds included a collection of Greek and Roman sculptures, vast gardens, and several famous hothouses.

  Admiral and Mrs. Finch-Ascot were not in residence, the housekeeper informed them. But in his absence the admiral extended a warm welcome to his cousin and her friends, and begged them to enjoy the park at their leisure.

  A suitable spot for a picnic was agreed upon and the ladies set to laying out blankets and baskets.

  Teresa chatted with everyone, and she studied Una for signs of interest in Toby’s friends from the War Office. But she could not eat a morsel. Since the earl had escorted her to her brother’s apartment building the previous day her stomach had been tied in knots. They had spoken nothing more of his violent and tragic past, instead mostly of Harrows Court Crossing and his sisters.

  She knew so little of him, all of it confusing, yet when he bid her adieu with a proper bow she only wanted to ask him to remain with her, to stretch the moments into hours and make it last.

  He laughed at her quips and tales as though he understood them. He said he thought she was mad but he never actually treated her as though she were a curiosity merely to be tolerated. Except for his regular offers to end the wager prematurely, he gave her no sign of disliking her company.

  Rather the contrary. When she spoke he often watched her lips but he never stared at her bosom.

  She was more than halfway to falling in love with a man with a dark past who would never marry her.

  Admiral Finch-Ascot’s gardener appeared and offered a tour of the park’s cultivated beds and impressive statuary. Teresa went gladly; she needed a moment away from the earl to order her feelings.

  Her brother and Lady Una walked together. As the gardener led them about, every so often Una would lift her face and speak quietly to Tobias. For an hour he did not leave her side.

  Teresa was standing at the back of the group, brow furrowed as she stared at Una and Tobias and considered what it might take in the next two hours to lead them to a secluded place and abandon them there, when a man’s large hand covered her behind.

  She gasped. But she knew whose hand it was, and she did not move.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered nonsensically because she knew perfectly well what he was doing.

  His hand slipped away. “Stroll wi’ me,” he said in that deep, slightly rough brogue that made her liquid inside.

  They left the group and followed a path that meandered toward a hothouse. When they were well away from the group she could bear the suspense no longer. She snatched open the hothouse door, poked her head in, and beckoned to him. He followed her inside and closed the door in an oddly pensive manner. Then he walked to her amidst exotic blooms and broad-fingered fig leaves.

  “Did you do that because of our wager or because you especially wanted to?” she said.

  He offered her a roguish grin.

  “Who is betrothed?” she asked.

  “It seems ma sister Lily has a fancy to bake cakes.”

  “Wishing to bake cakes does not make her betrothed to be married, my lord.”

  “Her bridegroom says otherwise. This morn he signed a contract to purchase a bakery for her.”

  “He did?” She clapped in delight. “Well, I am immeasurably happy for her.

  Monsieur Le Coq seems like a . . . a . . . that is to say, he is a—”

  “French chef.”

  Her stomach was all butterflies. The air in the hothouse was sweetly scented and warm. “Was that it?” she asked. “What you did back there? Was that the inappropriate touch I am to have?”

  “It suits the terms o’ yer wager.”

  “Our wager.”

  He moved close and the budding branches of a peach tree framed his handsome face and wide shoulders. “Our wager,” he repeated.

  “You startled me, you know. I am unaccustomed to men groping my behind.”

  His brows rose. “I should hope so.”

  “You sound like Lady Elspeth.”

  The twinkle she adored lit his eyes. “’Tis the first time anybody’s accused me o’ that, to be sure.”

  “About that inappropriate touch . . .” Her mouth was terribly dry. She licked her lips.

  “Do that again,” he said in a low voice.

  “Do what again?”

  “Lick yer lips.”

  She did it, and it felt like wicked sin to do it expressly for him.

  He took her face in his hands and covered her mouth with his. It was certainly testament to his extraordinary skill in kissing that she experienced the descent of his hand in a sort of molten haze of pleasure. When his palm came to rest at the small of her back then slipped down to possess her buttock, this time thoroughly and securely, she heard herself moan into his mouth.

  “I want to feel ye against me, Teresa Finch-Freeworth o’ Brennon Manor at Harrows Court Crossing in Cheshire,” he said huskily over her lips, his hand stroking her behind. “All o’ ye.”

  “I—” She grabbed hold of his coat and nodded. “I believe the terms of the wager allow for that.”

  He drew her against him and it did not feel distasteful like when the bounder had pushed her against the gunroom wall, but a little alarming and very good. His chest and thighs were hard and her breasts flattened as he crushed her against him. Nothing except resting on her belly had ever caused her breasts to do anything other than stick out too far, and then they always made it too uncomfortable to sleep. This was not uncomfortable. It was quite as though his broad chest and muscular arms had been made to cradle her breasts safely, securely, just as his hand was cradling her buttock. In imitation, her mouth seemed to want to make a home for his tongue, inviting him to enter her again and again, first gently, seeking, then with deeper, possessing thrusts that made her wild inside.

  Twining her hands into his wa
istcoat, she let him bear her back against the hothouse wall, and at that moment was introduced to that particular hardness the likes of which Annie had been telling her about for years—a masculine hardness that told a woman a man was fully prepared for the marriage act.

  But they were not married and were unlikely to become married. He was kissing her because she had invited him to do so with a wager, the terms of which were truly impossible to fulfill even given her early serendipitous success. And although he wanted her to go away and had in fact told her so in no uncertain terms, she was kissing him back and allowing him to press her thighs apart with his knee and massage her behind with his strong fingers until she was mad for some uncertain satisfaction. When his hands urged her hips against his she arced to him. For a fleeting instant she knew a frisson of gratification, an instant that made her seek it again. It felt so good. Far too good. Better than her wildest imaginings.

  “Oh.”

  The rumble in his chest echoed her gasp. He kissed her neck, his mouth hot on her tender skin, and the humid air of summer bursting with life and sex surrounded her and filled her head and body with yearning. Six years of need, a young womanhood of frustrated passion desperate to find a mate, seemed to burst from her and fed itself into her clutching hands and her gasps of pleasure.

  He held her against him and spoke at her throat. “Why did ye chuise me, Teresa?”

  “Why did I— Oh.” She nestled her hips into his kneading hands.

  “I’ve nothing.” He nipped at her lower lip and a tingling rush filled her belly.

  “No money.” His hands bracketed her hips, his fingertips caressing, pleasing.

  “A crumbling castle. A brood o’ wimmenfolk I canna even clothe properly. A benighted title no proud man would wish to claim.” His voice was heavy with bewilderment and need. “Why me?”

  She ran her palms along his arms, solid and bunched with tension, and groaned from the echoing tension deep in her. “I don’t know.”

  His hands stilled. “Ye dinna ken?”

  “I dinna ken!” She opened her eyes. “It was a fantasy, a dream, a make-

  believe story like the stories I always tell. But this time I told it to myself.” The words stumbled from her tongue. “I saw you that night at the ball, and you were so far beyond my reach, and I invented it but I never expected it to come true. I don’t really know how I actually went through with it, came to London and went to your flat and proposed to you. Propositioned you. It was a dream.