Читать книгу To Be Seduced - Stephens Ann Sophia - Страница 8

Some time later, Lane wheeled the coach onto the London road. His route, as far as Bethany could discern, had ranged over a series of ill-kept tracks in an attempt to remain hidden from everyone in the Stanworth area. The jostling she experienced in the rickety vehicle surpassed her earlier imaginings, and she prayed the smoother surface of the highway would bring some relief to her aching head. It did not, but the sight of Lord Harcourt bracing himself against the squabs next to her proved obscurely comforting. She stiffened her spine, determined not to complain.

As the coach traveled farther and farther south, her resolve dwindled. The ache in her head spread down and formed an alarmingly familiar heaviness in her stomach. For some time, deep breaths of the chilled air seeping around the window frame kept her nausea at bay. When the fresh air no longer helped, she turned to her new fiancé, trying not to show her distress.

“Excuse me, my lord. I believe I should like to avail myself of the vinaigrette you offered earlier.” His only reply was an arched brow, but he produced it willingly enough. Bethany took it from his outstretched hand and held it under her nose, inhaling the acrid odor thankfully. The leaden ache in her stomach receded slightly, but she feared her relief would only be temporary. Attempting to distract herself, she spoke again.

“Will it take long to reach London?”

“We should arrive near midday tomorrow,” he replied. Bethany felt another lurch in her midriff, this time caused by the reminder that she would be spending the night in an inn with a stranger, fiancé or not. At her choice, she reminded herself firmly.

Her companion looked out the window. “I believe we have another two hours of daylight. We should start looking for a decent place to stay before dusk.”

Bethany nodded, hoping her stomach would remain calm that long. She cast about for another subject to speak of. “Where exactly are your lodgings in London?”

“Not far from Somerset House.” His sharp glance in her direction belied his civil answer.

“What are they like?” she persisted.

“So many questions, so suddenly,” he mused softly. “Not thinking of changing your mind, are you?” He grasped her jaw and forced her to look into his furious green eyes.

“As if that would do any good now,” she gasped. “It’s too late to turn back.”

“Aye. You’d do well to remember that.” As his gaze flickered over her face and down her body, she realized he was not referring to the distance they had traveled. She supposed she should feel threatened, but another violent bump in the road caused her stomach to reel in misery.

After pausing for another sniff at the vinaigrette, she asked, “My lord, do you think we might start looking for a place to stay soon?”

“Now you’re eager to stop? You’re rushing your fences, my girl. Few men are stupid enough to think even a woman can change her mind that quickly.” His handsome features contorted into a sneer.

“I am not changing my mind, sir,” she said stiffly, trying to hang on to what dignity she could. “But I feel most unwell and would be grateful not be shaken about like dice in a box.”

“Unwell? You can’t be trying to gammon me with that excuse.”

“It is not an excuse,” Bethany stated in between deep breaths. “And if you do not stop this horrible contraption very soon, the consequences will be unpleasant.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Exceedingly so.”

“Oh my God.” Lord Harcourt immediately opened his window and shouted wildly for Lane to stop the coach.

Bethany did not wait for it to come to a complete halt. As soon as possible, she wrestled the door open and jumped onto the ground. Desperate for privacy, she headed toward a line of trees several paces from the road. But before she took ten steps, she doubled over, stomach heaving.

As she finished retching, she became aware of two arms firmly supporting her. Lord Harcourt murmured into her ear as she tried to compose herself. “Shhh, there now. There’s a girl.” The stream of phrases meant nothing, but his deep voice soothed her so that she ceased shaking. A folded square of clean linen was pressed into her fingers. He helped her straighten up, holding her against his chest until she could stand on her own. Even then, he kept a steadying hand at her elbow.

Humiliated, Bethany could not bring herself to look anywhere but at the dead leaves around her feet as she wiped her mouth with Lord Harcourt’s kerchief. One of his elegantly shaped hands slid into her line of sight, holding a small flask.

“Drink,” he ordered. Too ashamed of her weakness to argue, she opened it. The pungent odor of strong spirits nearly gagged her and the fumes brought tears to her eyes. She took a swallow, swirled it around in her mouth, and spit it out.

“God’s teeth, woman! That’s French brandy,” he exclaimed.

“It wouldn’t have stayed down,” she said weakly. “I’m sorry. It did help get the taste out of my mouth. Thank you, my lord.” She still could not bear to raise her head.

She felt him shake with repressed laughter. “Considering that we are betrothed and have just shared a highly intimate experience, I think it’s time you called me Richard.”

Bethany looked at him for a long minute. Then she bent over and retched at his feet.

His lordship scrambled out of the way, mindful of his boots, but slipped a supporting arm about her waist once her stomach had emptied itself. He sighed and offered the brandy flask once more, wincing when she spit a second mouthful on the ground.

He peered down at her quizzically. “Under the circumstances, I shan’t complain, but I am curious. Do you often become violently unwell on long journeys?”

Her stiffening spine assured him of her recovery. When she pulled away, he let her go easily and stood, waiting for her answer.

“Only in badly sprung vehicles.” Her frosty stare swept over him. “Where did you unearth such a monstrosity?”

“Simply by telling the livery stable what I could afford, love.” The sun had dipped lower in the west while his unwilling betrothed dealt with her indisposition. Bandits and worse haunted the roads after dark, and Richard wanted to find a place for the night before much more time passed. He bowed and indicated the coach. “Your monstrosity awaits.”

She did not argue, although neither did she appear remotely enthusiastic about resuming their drive. He watched her square her shoulders and walk to the vehicle. Hiding a smile, he followed.

As they approached, the patient driver greeted them affably. “Mistress done casting up her accounts?” He climbed down from the box and opened the door. “Here you go, my lady. We’ll take it a bit slower now.”

Bethany could not meet the man’s eyes despite his kindly meant words. Richard took pity on his companion’s obvious embarrassment and assisted her into the carriage before addressing his servant in a low voice. “We’ll stop at the Bell and Moon. We can reach it before sundown.”

“Should we take the lady there, milord?” Lane scratched his graying head. “It ain’t a place what gets much of the Quality.”

“It’s clean and I should be able to afford at least one room for the night.”

The rest of the afternoon’s drive passed without further disturbances, although by the time they reached their destination, Bethany once again clutched the vinaigrette. Clearly relieved by the end of the day’s drive, she assured Richard that she suffered from nothing more than a headache. Eying her pallid face, however, he suspected she deprecated her discomfort. Ordering her to stay in the coach, he entered the building to make arrangements for the evening. Lane remained on the box to ward off strangers.

Bethany had indeed minimized the depths of her discomfort. She rested her head against the squabs, eyes closed. Her head pounded and her empty stomach clenched mercilessly. Past experience informed her that she needed a nap and a light meal, and the wait for them stretched endlessly.

The bustle of the inn yard did little to relieve her throbbing head. Other travelers wishing to find an evening’s shelter arrived. Hoofbeats, creaking wheels, and shouts for the ostler combined with barking dogs and the shrills of the barmaid to assault her ears in a painful cacophony. Finally rescue appeared in the creak of the coach door and his lordship’s voice.

“I’ve bespoken a room for the evening and a private parlour for our meal.” Bethany raised an eyelid to discover her betrothed holding out a hand to assist her. She accepted his help gratefully, swaying slightly as her feet touched the ground. Instantly his arm slipped round her waist. “Are you able to walk?” His lordship made as if to pick her up but she forestalled him.

“I am somewhat light-headed, sir, but quite capable of remaining on my own feet.” She refused to disgrace herself by being carried into a public house. Another wave of dizziness assailed her and she hastened to add, “If you would permit me to lean on your arm.”

“Of course.” Bethany ignored the laughter behind his polite words. He kept his arm firmly under hers as they crossed the yard and entered the half-timbered building. Once inside, he introduced her to a woman about her mother’s age. “This is Mistress Gatwell, the innkeeper’s wife. I’ve asked her to show you to your chamber while I see to ordering our supper. Mistress Gatwell, my sister.”

Concluding that her abductor betrothed had not exposed her real name or their relationship, she bestowed a grateful smile on him. “Thank you—Richard.”

As she followed the landlady up a set of dark wooden stairs to the gallery, she became aware that this was not an establishment of the highest quality. The whitewash on the walls covered wattle and daub instead of solid wood, and the customers arriving in the yard below consisted largely of farmers and carters. However, the landlady escorted her to a clean, if small, bedchamber. There, she curtsied and told Bethany that the gentleman said she was feeling poorly, and would she like some lavender water and a cloth for her head?

The girl accepted the offer with profuse thanks, and Mistress Gatwell whisked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. The furnishings consisted of a wide bed and a washstand. A square mirror hung above the stand. One window overlooked the road below. Bethany noted the spotless diamond panes favorably, and a closer inspection of the bed disclosed that the sheets smelled of soap rather than mildew.

After a serving girl delivered the promised water and cloth, she removed her white cap and the hairpins holding her braid in a heavy coil at the back of her head. As she undid her hair, she sighed in relief. Dipping the cloth into the pitcher and wringing it out, she then sank blissfully onto the bed’s woolen coverlet and placed the cool length of linen over her forehead.

She awoke with a start at the sound of knocking. Disoriented, she clambered to the floor and stood looking about the room in confusion. Judging from the early evening light shining in through the window, she had not slept long.

“Mistress? ’Tis nearly time for supper, if you’re of a mind to eat.” After a moment’s thought, she recognized the voice as belonging to the landlady. “Shall I tell your brother to expect you?”

Her brother! The day’s events rushed back to Bethany, along with the realization that the last thing she had eaten was part of a Shrewsbury cake in her mother’s library that afternoon. Homesickness battled with her rumbling stomach. By now, her mother had probably visited every home in the neighborhood searching for her. Practicality won out over conscience. “Please tell”—she stumbled over the words—“my brother that I shall join him,” she called through the door. “And would you be so kind as to bring paper, ink, and a quill to my room?” She could at least write to assure her mother of her well-being.

Relieved that Mistress Gatwell had not entered to see her mussed hair, Bethany went over to the mirror. As she suspected, she would have to rebraid it before replacing her cap. Freeing the mass, she finger-combed it until it lay smooth enough to manage.

Concentrating on taming the fine strands, she did not hear the well-oiled door open.

“Jesu.” She whirled around at the soft expletive. Richard Harcourt’s cloaked form stood in the doorway, staring at her. Horrified, she grabbed the cap to cover her head.

He put out his hand to stop her. “No.” He shut the door and stalked toward her. She instinctively backed up until the wall stopped her retreat. He stared at her with smoky eyes, then reached out to wind a strand around his fingers.

“I had no idea you were a redhead,” he murmured, watching sunlight from the window gleam across the fiery tendril.

She closed her eyes in humiliation. Her wretched hair had been the bane of her existence as long as she could remember. “Please let me put my cap on.”

“Why? ’Tis too beautiful to be bound up and hidden.” His hand slid into the silky mass, further entangling his fingers.

She jerked her head away. “I’m sure you find it most pleasing, but rest assured, sir, that despite my hair I am no wanton.” To her concern, a wicked smile spread across milord’s face.

“Oh? Let’s find out. I already know you’ve the temper that matches Judas hair.” Mesmerized by his gravelly murmur, she froze, heart pounding, as he placed his forearms against the wall on either side of her head. Trapped, she could only watch his face descending to hers.

When their mouths met, she gasped at the unexpected jolt of pleasure that lanced through her. Taking advantage, he swept his tongue between her lips. She shivered at the sensation of warmth in the pit of her stomach.

Her upbringing reasserted itself. Pushing him away, she managed to slip beneath his arms and away from him. He made as if to follow her, but she held up her shaking hands to fend him off.

“Please, no! I have no idea what possessed me, just—leave me at once.” Irritated at her betrothed’s ability to disconcert her, she wanted nothing more than to be rid of his presence.

He smiled sweetly, clearly amused by her discomfort. “But I’ve come to escort you to supper.” With a slight bow, he gestured to the doorway.

She fixed him with an icy stare, but the effect was ruined when her stomach rumbled loudly. Ignoring his quivering lips, she announced, “Then I shall sup in here, thank you.”

He straightened and crossed his arms. “That you won’t, Mistress Dallison. I can afford one meal this evening and ’tis laid out in the parlour below. You either join me or go hungry.”

Bethany capitulated to her betrothed and her growling stomach. “Oh, very well! I shall join you, but not until I’ve made myself presentable.” She opened the door. “If you would be so kind?”

“Of course, dear sister.” With a mocking laugh, he left Bethany alone to reorder herself. As she knotted the cap’s muslin ties firmly under her chin, a startling reflection entered her mind. Lord Harcourt—Richard—had called her hair beautiful.

On the balcony surrounding the inn yard, Richard’s thoughts ran along similar lines as he pulled his cloak closer against the winter afternoon. He had thought Bethany a pretty girl, but opening the door to see that cascade of golden red glowing in the sunset light had stolen his breath.

His first impulse had been to bury his face in it, to discover its scent and softness. The rules of polite society precluded such outrageous behavior, but he’d had no scruples about stroking his hands into those bright strands.

Her 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 tried to protest when he lifted her and moved toward the fireplace, but she could not form the words. Instead her arm slid to his chest, feeling the heartbeat pounding beneath her palm. She gulped for air against his neck, inhaling the faint lavender scent of his shirt and neck cloth.

Moments later, he reached the settle, pulling her onto his lap. Before she could utter a word, he bent to her lips again, this time merely brushing them before moving on to whisper her name against her cheek.

When he nuzzled his way to an exquisitely sensitive place on her neck, she gasped and dropped her head back over his arm to allow greater access. Heat gathered in her stomach at his groan of pleasure.

Overwhelmed by the new sensations coursing through her, she stroked his hair, marveling at the softness of the dark gold strands. Only when his hand slipped beneath the kerchief shielding her breasts did she struggle to push him away.

“Enough!” She looked into his darkened green eyes inches from hers. Horrified, she realized that her kerchief was nearly undone while Richard’s neck cloth hung loose. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with her pounding heart. His arms tightened around her, pulling her more firmly onto the ridge of flesh pressed up against her bottom.

“Sweet Bethany.” He rocked his hips under her, and her breath caught. “Let me come to you tonight, lovely girl.” His free hand stroked her neck. “We can be wed as soon as we get to London tomorrow.”

“No! We can’t.” She scrambled to her feet despite the fear that her shaking knees would not support her. She did not know if the angry cast of his face resulted from a trick of the firelight or his own feelings. In any case, she did not dare give in to the carnal urges sweeping over her. Despite the evidence of his need for her money, she would be at a disadvantage until he placed a wedding ring on her finger. She seized on their earlier conversation.

“I won’t be married in rags.” Cringing inwardly at the incredulity gathering on his features, she tossed her head. “As you said, a woman’s first concern is dressing well. I shan’t marry you until I can do so in something other a travel-stained dress and an old cloak.”

“I wholeheartedly approve your plans, madam, but that has nothing to do with our more private relations.” He unfolded himself from the settle. Although her height prevented him from towering over her, she had to look up a few inches to meet his glare. Unnerved, she stepped back a few paces.

“Tell me you don’t enjoy my touch.” She dropped her eyes at his taunt. “Or that you don’t wish to explore my body the way I want to discover yours.” Bethany stared at the floor.

“Please don’t make me do this yet.” She raised her head and entreated him. With an exasperated sigh, he grabbed her cloak from the back of the settle and tossed it at her. Mechanically she caught it.

“Cover yourself. I’ll take you back to your bedchamber.” She nodded at the curt order, not trusting herself to reply as she wrapped the faded wool around her.

He strode to the door and wrenched it open. Tight-lipped, he awaited her approach. Grasping her arm painfully, he accompanied her past the cheerful crowd in the taproom.

At her chamber, he unexpectedly pushed her back against the door. The night hid his face, but Bethany could feel every inch of his body as he leaned into her, pressing her to the hard wood.

“Tell me you won’t dream of this, little Puritan.” His whisper warmed her cheek before he ravaged her mouth. She felt his triumphant smile as she instinctively softened beneath him. She heard him fumble with the door handle. Before she knew it, she stumbled backward into the room.

His eyes blazed in the light of a single candle, but he did not follow her inside. “I bid you good night, madam.” With those cold words, he slammed the door shut, leaving Bethany alone with her jumbled thoughts.

Trembling, she hastily undressed down to her shift and climbed between the sheets of the feather bed. Blowing out the candle, she tried unsuccessfully to convince herself that she shook from cold and fear.

One story below, Richard crossed the inn yard to the stables. He swore under his breath as he stumbled over a stray piece of firewood. Carefully easing the door open, he slipped inside. A horse whickered, reminding him to stop at the stalls where his hired animals rested. He trusted Lane’s report that they had been fed, watered, and groomed, but they had served him well this day. Depositing a dried apple from supper in each manger, he made his way to the hewn bars of wood that served as a ladder into the loft.

His sour mood worsened when a splinter jammed its way into his forefinger halfway up. Damning his lean purse, his debts, and his stubborn fiancée, he heaved himself up and made a place in the clean hay. A few yards away, Lane snored blissfully.

Wrapping himself in his cloak, he stretched out on his back, hands behind his head. Thinking of Bethany only worsened his temper. Visions of her fair skin and coppery hair vied with that of her curled up on a soft mattress. He knew not which he desired more, the girl or the bed.

“Curst virgin!” With that final imprecation, he rolled over and tried to sleep.