To Be Seduced. Stephens Ann SophiaЧитать онлайн книгу.
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