Regency Surrender: Scandalous Return: Return of Scandal's Son / Saved by Scandal's Heir. Janice PrestonЧитать онлайн книгу.
lips twitched. ‘I promise I will not hold your scandal against you.’
‘It is not my scandal. It was my mother’s. And I do not wish to talk about it.’ She put her glass on the mantelshelf. ‘I am going to bed.’
Matthew caught her hand. ‘No, don’t go. I didn’t mean to offend your sensibilities.’ He smiled, ruefully. ‘I fear I am out of practice in how to treat a lady. I promise to pry no further.’
His touch sent a tremor racing through her and she snatched her hand from his. For some reason, his assumption that she needed protection from the truth—that her female sensibilities somehow precluded her from facing up to the harsh realities of life—irritated her. She was an independent woman. She flattered herself she was strong. She was capable of facing up to reality. She did not need a man’s protection from that.
‘My mother left my father and me when I was eleven,’ she said. ‘She lived openly in London with another man. That was the scandal. I never saw her after she left and she died in childbirth a few years later. You asked why I hated my come-out and that was why—the whispers, everywhere I went. The eyes that followed my every move. The gentlemen who seemed to believe “like mother, like daughter”.’ The memory of that horrible time choked her voice. She paused; shook her head; huffed a short, bitter laugh. ‘This time I vow I shall be the perfect lady. My behaviour will be beyond reproach and I will have vouchers for Almack’s. You see if I don’t.’
She stared belligerently at Matthew.
‘I have no doubt you will be a complete success,’ he said, soothingly, as he grasped her arm and turned her towards the door. ‘Now, however, it is time you went to bed. Come.’
He guided her to the door, his hand at the small of her back. Warm. Comforting. His scent was in her nostrils—musky, male, a hint of citrus. She spun to face him and had to steady herself with a hand on his chest.
‘Whoops. That brandy was stronger than I thought.’ And it’s loosened your tongue, Eleanor. Take care. She focused her gaze on Matthew’s neckcloth.
Matthew removed her hand from his chest and reached for the door latch.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I must be quiet, mustn’t I? Can you imagine what Aunt Lucy would say were she to see us here like this? She would, quite rightly, wash her hands of me.’
She lifted her gaze to his face as she spoke. Swayed towards him. His eyes caressed her, warming her as the brandy had done. He lifted one hand, trailing a long finger down her cheek, before tracing the outline of her lips, which parted as she drew in a shaky breath. She closed her eyes, revelling in the swirl of need burgeoning inside her.
‘You are very beautiful, Eleanor,’ he murmured. ‘So hard to resist.’
Her soul blossomed at his words. She was standing so close she could feel his coat brush the tips of her breasts. Her nipples tingled and tightened and her bones felt like they were melting.
Matthew brushed her lips—hardly even touching them—with his own. ‘Goodnight.’
Her hands lifted of their own volition and clutched his lapels. She rose on tiptoe. Her kiss was no fleeting flirtation of the lips, but a warm, moist pressure as she angled her mouth to his. Matthew responded with a groan, his arms enfolding her, pulling her against the full length of his hard body. One splayed hand supported her back and the other cradled her head as he returned the pressure of her lips and increased the intensity of the kiss. Warm, brandy-flavoured lips parted and she opened in response. He captured her breath as his tongue caressed and explored. She followed his lead, surrendering to a deeper, darker, more wanton kiss than she had ever imagined possible. She never wanted that kiss to end.
She threaded her fingers through his hair as he gathered her closer, his hand tracing the curve of her spine to her bottom. She lost track of time. The only reality was in their kiss—a wicked, glorious promise of greater delights to come. She clung ever closer, her hands exploring the width of his shoulders and the long line of his back until she reached his taut buttocks, so very different to the soft roundness of her own.
He gasped into her mouth and, with another groan, tore his lips from hers, taking her by the shoulders and holding her away from him, steadying her as her knees threatened to buckle. Bemused, she studied his features, reading his regret and his resolve.
‘I think,’ he said, his voice husky with desire, ‘you should go. This is not wise. It can never be.’
His words brought her back to reality. Heavens! What was she doing? She searched his eyes, deep blue, swirling with so many complex emotions.
‘I should not have stayed,’ she whispered. ‘It was reckless. You are right. This can never be. We should not be alone together.’
He gave a shaky laugh. ‘No, we should not and, as you said, heaven help us if your aunt should discover us. Go on, now. Go. We will forget this ever happened.’ His deep tones resonated through her. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
Eleanor returned to her bedchamber as if in a dream, her emotions in turmoil. Thoughts and memories tumbled through her mind. What had she done? Dismay at her disgraceful behaviour clashed with desire; regret with joy; mortification with a guilty longing for more. Confused, she slipped into her dreams.
The following morning Eleanor breakfasted in her bedchamber.
‘She has the headache,’ Lady Rothley announced when she joined Matthew at the breakfast table. ‘I’m sure it is not to be wondered at, with all these goings-on.’
No, indeed it is not, Matthew thought, with a wry inner smile.
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘I hope she will feel well enough to travel today.’
‘Oh, I am sure she will bounce back. My niece is a strong woman. She will not allow a headache to overset her, or her plans.’
That I can well believe.
‘I will send a message to the stables to delay our departure for an hour,’ Matthew said. ‘Hopefully by then she will feel better.’
‘That is most thoughtful, Mr Thomas,’ Lady Rothley said, beaming as she beckoned to a serving girl, who had just entered the parlour with a plate of freshly cooked eggs.
The maid curtsied. ‘Yes, milady?’
‘Please ensure a message is taken to Lady Ashby to tell her our departure is delayed until half past ten.’
‘And ask Mr Brooke to relay the same message to one of our men, will you?’ Matthew added.
‘Yes, milady. Yes, sir.’ The maid hurried away.
‘I very much appreciate your sacrifice, Mr Thomas,’ Lady Rothley said, as she nibbled at a slice of toast. ‘This will, I am afraid, delay you even further. I cannot tell you how much better I slept for knowing you are to accompany us on the rest of the journey.’
‘I am delighted to be of service, my lady.’
If only Lady Rothley knew how close he had come to leaving the inn at first light, urgent with the need to put Eleanor, and the conflicting emotions she aroused in him, out of his mind for good. He had a plan for his life. And that plan most definitely did not include a beautiful, strong-willed baroness who—having blithely informed him how determined she was to prove to society that she was not her mother’s daughter—had then kissed him. Very thoroughly. And most enjoyably. His blood thrummed at the memory.
‘She is not a bad girl, Mr Thomas.’
Lady Rothley’s attention was on her plate, so she did not notice Matthew’s start at her words. Was she a mind-reader? He blanked his expression, lifting his coffee cup to his lips.
‘She