Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.
way his face paled, and the muscles in his jaw twitched, she guessed he’d just had a vision of setting the chimney on fire and burning his house down around his ears on the very first night he took up residence.
‘Now, you don’t need to sit in the kitchen any longer, not now we’re back,’ said Mrs Brownlow, laying her hand on the teapot, then whisking it off the table with a rueful shake of her head. ‘Mr Brownlow will light the fire in the drawing room.’ She shot a speaking look at her husband, who scurried off in the direction of the coal store. ‘It will be warm as toast in next to no time. And I’ll bring you a fresh pot of tea in there.’
Lord Havelock set his cup down and got slowly to his feet.
‘See that you do,’ he drawled. His attempt at nonchalance was good enough to deceive the Brownlows, but not Mary. She could tell he was still reeling from that casual reference to highly inflammable nests, which often did get lodged in chimneys.
‘Lady Havelock,’ he snapped. ‘Remove your apron and leave it behind. I sincerely hope never to have to see you in it again.’
Well, he had to give vent to his feelings somehow, she supposed. Lowering her head, in token meekness, she untied her apron strings. But she had to press her lips together to stop a smile forming. She kept her mouth firmly shut all the while Lord Havelock led her to the drawing room.
But once they were standing in the middle of the cold, inhospitable room, it struck her that they were behaving more like two naughty children caught out by their governess, than the lord and lady of the house.
And the giggles that had been building finally began to bubble over.
‘What are you laughing at?’
Lord Havelock turned to her, his brows drawn down repressively.
‘N-nothing,’ she managed in between giggles. ‘E-everything,’ she admitted, dropping on to the nearest sofa and pressing her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to stop.
‘There’s nothing funny about nearly burning the house down.’
‘Y-you didn’t, though. There must not have been,’ she said in a vain struggle to both reassure him and bring herself under control, ‘any n-nests up the ch-chimney, after all.’
‘Don’t say that word!’ He planted his fists on his hips and glared down at her.
‘Which one? Ch-chimneys? Or n-nests?’
She was laughing so hard by now that she had to wipe away the tears that had begun to run down her face.
‘Neither,’ he snarled, though his eyes had lost that dead, hollow look. ‘Both.’ As though coming back to life, he began to stalk towards her. ‘Do you hear me, woman? You are never, ever, to mention birds’ nests, or chimneys, to me again.’
His words were firm, but his lips were starting to twitch, too.
‘Or...’ she said, gratitude that he was a man who didn’t take himself too seriously surging up within her on a tidal wave of joy. ‘Or what?’
He was almost upon her now and his eyes were smouldering with such heat it made her want to lean back into the sofa cushions and open her arms to him.
‘Or,’ he growled, ‘face the consequences.’
With a little shriek, she leapt up off the sofa just before he lunged for her. For the next few minutes, he chased her round and round the sofa, uttering dire threats of what he would do if he caught her, which he could have done any time he chose since she was laughing too hard to properly control her movements.
And then the door opened and Mr Brownlow appeared with a full coal scuttle. And came to a dead halt at the sight of his master and mistress playing chase.
‘Dashed cold in here,’ panted her husband as Mary froze in place. ‘Just keeping warm, with a little exercise.’
The look on Mr Brownlow’s face, the knowledge that had he come in a few seconds later he would have caught them rolling about on the sofa rather than running round and round it, was too much for Mary. With a shocked little cry she darted past the scandalised caretaker and out into the corridor, where she made for the stairs.
She heard her husband’s footsteps pursuing her, but this time she wasn’t playing. She really did just want to run away and hide. Without thinking, she made for the only room in the house where she would feel safe. The bedroom in which they’d slept the night before. The embers still glowed in the grate, making the room less chilly than any other, except the kitchen.
Lord Havelock reached it only a few seconds behind her. Before she could even turn round, he’d grabbed her by the waist.
‘Got you,’ he cried, propelling her across the room and flinging her down on to the bed.
‘Now, my girl, we’ll see how long you can keep on laughing at me,’ he growled. Not that she felt like laughing any more. All the humour had gone out of the situation.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
She hadn’t realised she’d communicated her chagrin to him. But she’d definitely tensed up and he’d noticed.
‘I...I’m sorry,’ she said, tears starting to her eyes as he reared up and looked down at her in confusion. ‘It was just...’ She gulped. ‘I can’t believe I forgot Mr Brownlow was on his way to make up the fire in there. A few more moments, and he would have found us... He would have found us...’ She couldn’t go on. Her face flamed though, at the knowledge she’d been about to let her husband catch her and tumble her to the sofa he’d been chasing her round. And let him commence the perfectly thrilling punishments he’d been threatening.
He started to chuckle.
‘It isn’t funny.’
‘But it is, though. Far funnier than almost burning the house down around my ears. And you, madam...’ he gave her a squeeze ‘...couldn’t stop laughing about that.’
He kissed her brow in a comforting sort of way. And then her mouth, as his fingers sought the ties of her bodice.
‘Surely you cannot still be thinking about...about...’ Oh, but he most definitely was. And the minute he slipped his hand inside her gown, she was thinking about it again, too. Not just thinking about it either, but wanting it.
‘Since we’ve been married,’ he groaned, pushing aside an inconvenient swathe of material so that he could get at bare skin, ‘it seems to be damn near all I can think about.’
‘B-but we can’t.’
‘I don’t see why not. Mr Brownlow already knows what we’ve come up here for.’
‘Oh, surely not!’
‘Of course he does. He almost caught us at it in the drawing room, don’t forget.’
‘As if I ever could,’ she cried in mortification.
‘Mary,’ he said more gently, stroking the hair from her forehead. ‘You don’t really want me to stop, do you? Not...now?’
He ran his hand up the outside of her leg, pushing her skirt out of the way. A thrill shot through her, making her heart beat faster, her insides melt and her hips squirm.
‘It would be a positive crime to disappoint Mr Brownlow.’
‘Oh, don’t speak to me of him,’ she whimpered, torn between giving way to the delicious sensations he was rousing and the notion that she oughtn’t, she really oughtn’t, behave like this any more, not now they had indoor servants.
‘Not another word,’ he agreed affably. ‘In fact, I’m sure I can put my mouth to much better use.’
He did. He set about making love to her with such skill that before long her world shrank to the size of one bed, and the only two people left were the two people on it. What had started out downstairs as playful rose swiftly again to