A Wild Pursuit (10 page)

Helene smiled weakly and took a sip of wine. “It would appear to have slipped Rees's mind.”

Bea felt a surge of admiration. She herself would likely have lost her temper by now and started screeching at that harpy.

Mrs. Cable shook her head. “A man shall leave his father and mother, and cleave unto his wife, and so it says in the Bible.”

“Alas, Rees is notorious for his defiance of authority,” Helene replied.

Bea watched Helene trying to defend herself and felt a surge of fury. Who was this old harridan, and what right had she to say such an unaccountably insulting thing to Helene?

Mrs. Cable looked at Stephen. “I'm certain you won't mind if I act as if we are all old friends,” she informed him. “I have given much thought to Lady Godwin's situation in the ensuing months since I dined with her husband.” She paused for a drink of water.

Bea saw that Helene's slender hand was clenched so tightly on her napkin that her knuckles were white. “Were you not quoting Genesis just now, Mrs. Cable?” Bea cooed.

Mrs. Cable gave her the approving look of a headmistress with a promising student. “Precisely, Lady Beatrix. It's a true pleasure to meet a young lady with a proper education. Now, Lady Godwin, if I might offer a few—”

“My father puts great faith in religious instruction,” Bea interrupted.

“Quite right,” Mrs. Cable rejoined. “Now I think that I can bring some wisdom to bear on the situation.” And she turned back to Helene.

That old snake can see that Helene is defenseless, Bea thought in a fury. “Why, when I fell in love with one of my father's footmen,” she said in a high, ringing voice, “my father made me memorize the entire Book of Maccabees in punishment.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Cable said, obviously taken aback at this information.

“Yes,” Bea said, favoring her with a dulcet smile, “I offered myself to the footman in question, you see, and my father truly did think that I should not have done so.”

Mrs. Cable's eyes widened.

“But I don't agree,” Bea continued blithely. “Because, of course, the Gospel of John counsels us to love one another. That's chapter thirteen,” she told Mrs. Cable. “But I expect you know that.” Stephen was shaking with suppressed laughter. Helene's hand had relaxed, and she was biting back a smile as well.

“Yes, I—”

“Even if my love was unconventional,” Bea said with a soulful tremor in her voice, “I'm quite certain that it was ripe with virtue.”

“Ripe would be the word,” Stephen said dryly.

Bea ignored him. “After all, while it is true that a footman would have had difficulty supporting
me
as a wife”—she glanced modestly at her gown, which cost more than a footman earned in six months—“Proverbs does say that where love is, a dinner of herbs is better than a stalled ox. Although I always wondered what a ‘stalled ox' is? Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, perhaps you have come across the term in your many years in Parliament?”

Alas, Stephen didn't have a chance to deliver his opinion because Mrs. Cable sputtered into life again, like a candle that found itself briefly in the path of a rainshower. Now she was viewing Bea with the acute horror of someone who has discovered that an exquisite pastry is rotten in the center.

“Lady Beatrix,” she said on an indrawn breath, “I am quite certain that you do not realize the impression your little story might create on the assembled company.” She swept a glance around the table.

Helene met her eyes blandly. “Lady Beatrix never fails to surprise me, for one,” she said. “A footman, did you say, Bea? How very adventuresome of you!”

“I don't know that I agree,” Stephen drawled. He felt a thrill of danger when Bea's eyes met his, especially since the thrill went right between his legs. She was a glorious, impudent piece of womanhood, and he liked her defense of Lady Godwin. If only she knew, she had utterly ceased to look sixteen years old. Her face was too alive for all this nonsense she affected. “I, for one, would like to know how the footman answered Lady Beatrix's overtures,” he put in. “Didn't you notice, Mrs. Cable, that while Lady Beatrix apparently offered herself to the footman, she said nothing of his response. Can it be that the man in question refused her?”

Mrs. Cable huffed. “I cannot fathom why we would even discuss such a repellent subject! Surely Lady Beatrix is merely seeking to shock us, for—”

“Not at all,” Bea said. “I would
never
do that, Mrs. Cable!”

Mrs. Cable narrowed her eyes. “And where is your father, my lady?”

“At his house,” Bea replied, suddenly reverting to her maidenlike docility. “I'm a sad disappointment to him,

Mrs. Cable. In fact I make my home with Lady Withers now.”

Mrs. Cable huffed. “And the footman—”

“Oh, it wasn't due to the footman,” Bea said blithely. “Father moved the footman to a house in the country. It was—”

“I'll not listen!” Mrs. Cable said shrilly. “You're making a May game of me, my lady, and it's not kind of you. I could take one look at you and know that you aren't one of those scandalous women you're pretending to be.”

Helene threw Bea a warning look and put a gentle hand on Mrs. Cable's wrist. “You're absolutely right, of course,” she said. “I do keep begging Lady Beatrix to be less frivolous, but I'm afraid that she's quite a romp. But, naturally, it's all in fun, Mrs. Cable.”

“I knew that,” Mrs. Cable said, blinking rapidly. “I'm a fair judge of character, to which Mr. Cable agrees. Now Lady Beatrix, you may attempt to shock us, but your true purity of character shines through. It's written all over your face. What did you say that was?” she asked the footman. “A regalia of cowcumbers? Indeed, I'll try some.”

Stephen looked at Bea for a moment, and she had no trouble deciphering his thoughts. He was thinking of the goat pasture, and the true purity of her character.

B
y the time that Esme finished luncheon, she was resigned to the fact that the house was gradually filling with her aunt's friends, not one of whom was precisely respectable. Her Sewing Circle was doubtless scandalized by her guests, since the said guests substituted cynical wit for gentility. And since they delighted above all in displaying that wit, the house rang with laughter.

Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that the house simply rang with noise. Lady Arabella had taken charge of the housekeeping from top to bottom and seemed to be bent on proving her mothering ability by cleaning from the attics to the cellars. Mind you, it wasn't as if she touched dirt herself.

“I've instructed the maids that we want this house to shine from top to bottom,” she announced to Esme. “This is what a mother would do. Remove all worries! You have enough to think about. When
will
that child come?”

Never mind the fact that Esme had no interest in the attics at all. She was hardly the matronly sort, even in her current respectability. But Arabella didn't stop with the attics. “And I've sent men up on the roof to fix the slate. I've no tolerance for gardeners simply sitting about, and there's nothing to be done outside at any rate.” March rain was taking fitful turns with sunshine.

Esme had been listening rather absentmindedly, but she snapped awake at that one. “You sent the gardeners up on the roof?”

Arabella blinked at her. “Haven't you heard the hammering? They started first thing this morning. I noticed that the slate had practically evaporated from your roof in several parts. Without repair, we shall have leaks in short order. No doubt the task will take a few weeks or perhaps a month. But it needs doing.”

“It's not safe!” Esme said. Panic surged into her stomach, and she suddenly felt a little dizzy.

“Of course it's safe,” Arabella said. “They won't drop slate off the roof. Most of the work's being done in the back of the house. But perhaps I'll station a footman at the front door so he can check that the coast is clear before anyone leaves the house. In fact, darling, that is an excellent idea. We have far too many footmen as it is. I seem to have overestimated the difficulty of hiring staff in the country.”

“It's not safe for the gardeners,” Esme said, trying to calm her racing heart. Sebastian was up there. Up on a slippery roof, likely on the verge of falling to his death. She could not bear it if that happened. Not—not after Miles.

“Gardeners? Gardeners? They're likely ecstatic to be up in the air,” Arabella said, waving her beringed hands. “
Much
more engaging than digging up weeds, believe me.”

She left before Esme could say another word. Perhaps she should tell Arabella the truth about Sebastian. There was probably no one in the world who would be more receptive to the idea that Esme had her former lover installed in the bottom of her garden. Panic beat in her throat. Sebastian had to come down from the roof this very moment.

She went downstairs, bundled herself into a mantle, and slipped out the side door. The sound of hammering bounced off the neighboring hills. Starlings were converging on the elms at the side of the house, pirouetting against the grayish sky. Every blade of grass bent with rain. Now and then she heard the echo of male voices, but she walked all the way to the back of the house without seeing a soul.

And then, as she rounded the house to the west, there he was. Sitting with his back to a chimney, eating a hunk of bread as if he hadn't a care in the world. Marquess Bonnington wasn't hanging from the gutter by one fingernail. He wasn't spread-eagled in the rainy grass, face drained of color. He was—he was
fine!

In fact, Esme could hardly believe that Sebastian was a marquess. Not this great muscled man, wearing a rough white shirt and sleeves rolled up to show great muscled forearms. No gentleman had muscles like that. Nor thighs, either.

She pulled herself together. What was the point of staring at Sebastian like a lovesick cat? The man would probably roll off the roof in a moment. He wasn't trained for this sort of activity.

“You!” she shouted. Her voice evaporated into the air. He tipped his head back against the chimney, turning his face up to the sun. It turned his neck to honey, kissed his hair with gold…that hadn't changed. He was just bigger…stronger. There was more of him.

What was he calling himself these days? She couldn't remember. But she could hardly shout “Bonnington!” either. If any of her guests discovered that Marquess Bonnington was snugly living on her estate, they'd dine out on it for days. Her name—and her child's name—would be mud. The thought gave her backbone.

She picked up a rock and threw it at the roof as hard as she could. It skittered across the sandstone. She tried again and managed to get up to the level of the slate roof, but all the rock did was ping gently and fall to the gutter.

“Drat!” Esme muttered, eyeing the ladders that were braced against the house. Of course she couldn't climb a ladder.

At that moment a voice spoke nearly in her ear. “May I be of service, madam?”

Esme jumped into the air. “Slope!” she gasped.

Her butler bowed. “I noticed your progress from the Rose Salon, my lady, and I ventured forth in the hopes of being of service.”

Esme's cheeks burned. What was she to say? What the devil was she doing out here, anyway?

But Slope didn't wait for a reply. “Baring!” he bellowed at the roof. “Her ladyship wishes to speak with you. Be quick, man!”

Baring—or Marquess Bonnington, however one wished to think of it—looked down the roof with such a sweet smile that Esme felt her stomach turn over. He pulled on a cap and descended the ladder. Esme watched for a moment as he climbed down, but she found her eyes lingering on muscled thighs, so she turned to Slope.

“I simply wished to ascertain if the gardener—” she began.

But Slope raised a finger. “If you and the marquess were to retire to the rose arbor, my lady, you would be less likely to be seen from the house.”

And with that astounding statement, he bowed and retreated.

Esme stood staring after him, mouth open. But here was her gardener, doffing his hat and fingering the brim, for all the world as if he were indeed an outdoorsman, planning to give his account to the lady of the house.

“How dare you climb my roof!” she snapped, turning her back on him and walking toward the rose arbor, which had so many ancient rose trees growing up its latticed sides that it was impossible to see in or out.

“I wish I could take your arm,” Sebastian said, his voice so low that she could hardly hear it.

She didn't bother to turn around. It was quite difficult to pick her way down a slope slick with rain. The last thing she wanted to do was slip off her feet; Sebastian would likely strain his back heaving her back up.

“What the devil are you doing up on that roof?” Esme snapped, turning around the moment they entered the arbor.

Sebastian smiled, that easy smile that never failed to make her feel—
greedy.
The very thought made her indignation rise. “You have no right to risk your life on my roof! I want you off my property, Sebastian. Today!”

He strolled toward her. The rain had dampened his shirt and it clung to his shoulders, outlining a swell of muscles.

“What do you have to say to that?” she demanded, feeling her advantage weaken. Damn him for being so beautiful.

“I say,” and his voice was as slow and deep as the rest of him, “first I say hello to your babe,
here
.” He walked just before her and cupped his great hand over her belly.

“Hello,” he whispered, looking straight into her eyes, not at her stomach. As if he could hear, the child stirred under his hand.

Sebastian laughed. “He must be rather cramped in there these days.” He dropped to his knees and cupped her stomach with both hands. “Hello!” he said against the cloth of her gown. “Time to greet the world.”

He looked up at Esme, and there was such wild joy in his eyes that she shivered all over. Then he stood up, and his hands slid around her body to her back.

“First I say hello to the babe,” he said, and his voice was as slow and wicked as molasses, “and then I saw hello to his mother.”

There wasn't even a thought in her head of avoiding that kiss. He bent his head and his hands pulled her against him, lips settling to hers as gently as the kiss of the sun. “Oh God, Esme, I've missed you,” he groaned against her lips. And when she opened her mouth to reply, he plundered.

His tongue was rough and warm and God help her—a woman with child, a widow, a mature, respectable widow—Esme leaned into his kiss and wound her arm around his neck. He tasted like farmer's bread and he smelled like rain. He didn't move his hands. They stayed, huge and powerful, on her back, making her feel as delicate as a bird. He didn't even twitch a finger toward her breasts, and yet they melted toward him and longed, and other parts of her too…

That wave of longing brought her hands from his neck to his shoulders. It was more than longing: it was exquisite relief. He was whole. He hadn't fallen from the roof. The very thought brought her a measure of rationality.

“What were you doing up on the roof?” she said, frowning.

He ignored her. His warm, rough tongue plunged into her mouth, stole her words, brought that melting weakness to her knees. Willy-nilly, she curled her fingers into his hair, returned his kiss fiercely, until—

“You could have broken your neck!” Her voice sounded weak, a thread away from silence.

“No,” he said. His hands were starting to roam now. He cupped her stomach again, kissed her so sweetly that tears came to her eyes. “Hello there,” he whispered, “mama-to-be.”

He scooped her up without even seeming to notice what an elephant she'd become and sat on the wrought-iron bench, holding her on his lap. She could feel his welcome stiffly, right through her pelisse.

It had never seemed to matter to Sebastian that her breasts were now so large that she couldn't wear the delicate gowns in fashion. His hands ranged, not roughly but possessively, over the front of her gown. It was almost embarrassing. Her nipples were so tender these days that he merely drew a thumb across her gown and a low moan hung in the air between them.

He looked at Esme's eyes then. They had lost all the fierceness. They didn't snap at him like a mother lion. He pulled her head against his shoulder, brushed a silky black curl from her ear and whispered, “What's the most beautiful mother in the world doing out in the rain, then?”

Her head popped off his shoulder before he'd had a chance to kiss her ear. “Rescuing you!” she said, and her eyes were snapping fire again. “What in the bloody hell were you doing up on the roof?”

He couldn't help it; a smile curled the corner of his mouth. She wouldn't be so fierce if she didn't care for him.

“Mending the slate,” he said, knowing it would drive her mad. But he liked her furious, those gorgeous eyes blazing at him, breasts heaving, focused on
him.

She jerked her head away from him. But she didn't move to stand up, so he kept his hands exactly where they were. One on her narrow back and the other cupping the swell of her breast. His fingers longed to move, to caress, nay to take her breast and—

He pulled himself back to a state in which it was possible to listen. She was scolding him for being reckless, heedless, brash, daring, inconsiderate…His fingers trembled, and so he allowed himself to take her breast more snugly in his hand. He imagined its glorious weight on his chest.

He was imprudent, unwise and altogether foolish….

He was maddened by the desire to push off her pellisse, sweep a hand under her gown and claim her as his. Again. Every time. Those few times she had visited his hut, he'd found that his sense of ownership, of a primitive she-is-
mine
feeling had lasted only an hour or so after she'd left. She'd returned to the house, and he'd stayed in his hut and dreamed of her.

His hand closed on her breast, and his thumb rubbed over her nipple again. The flow of words stopped and there was a tiny gasp. He did it again, and again, and then bent to her mouth. Those lips, so dark, cherry dark, were his. She whimpered and trembled against his chest. He memorized each quiver.

“You are
mine,
” he said, and the growl of it surprised him.

She leaned back against his shoulder, silky curls falling over his shirt, her eyes closed. Her breathing grew shallow, and she clutched his shirt as his thumb rubbed again and again with the roughness of desire, with the roughness with which he wanted to plunge between her legs.

But he couldn't. They were in a rose arbor, after all. Slowly he eased her back against his shoulder and let his hand cup her breast, sending a silent apology to the nipple that begged against his palm.

He knew instantly when she returned to herself. It wasn't that she sprang to her feet. It was an imperceptible change in the air, in the very air they were breathing.

“No,” she said, and the anguish in her voice struck him in the heart. “I don't
want
this!”

“I know,” he said, as soothingly as he could, tracing with one finger the graceful curve of her neck. “I know you don't.”

“Obviously, you don't care for my wishes! Otherwise you would have returned to the Continent by now. What if one of my guests decides to take a breath of fresh air?”

“I
do
care for your wishes. You wish to be respectable. You wish to remain a widow. You also”—he dropped a kiss onto the sweet cream of her neck—“you also wish to bed me.”

“I can live without the latter.”

“I don't know that I can,” he said, his mouth glazing her neck. Her perfume was surprisingly innocent for such a worldly lady. She didn't smell like some sort of exotic inhabitant of the East Indies, but like an almond tree in flower.