Authors: Joan Johnston
His ears reddened as he realized she was offering to wipe
his
face!
“You have some apple tart on your face, Uncle Marcus,” Reggie said.
Before he could wipe it away with his hand, Miss Sheringham was standing in front of him, and the damp cloth was brushing the corner of his lips. Marcus was both appalled and amused by her daring. He grasped her wrist to stop her and felt her pulse beneath
his fingertips. His heart began to race, keeping beat with hers.
“Captain?” She glanced at her wrist, and he released it.
And then wished he had not. He had never experienced anything so erotically exciting in his life. He kept his eyes on her face and saw the flush rise beneath her skin. She felt it, too, though he did not think she recognized it for what it was.
“Are you finished?” he asked, when the cloth had paused for the second time at the edge of his mouth. His voice was harsh with desire, irritable because he knew there was no chance of quenching it. “How much longer is this going to take?”
She gave him a beatific smile. “When a mouth has been as many places as yours has, Captain, one can never be too careful.”
His eyes narrowed. Marcus suddenly realized that Miss Sheringham knew full well his reaction to her ministrations. That she might even have been prolonging the encounter to tease him. Although it seemed to have backfired slightly, since she was no less vulnerable to his charms than he was to hers.
Just when he had made up his mind to grab the rag from her hand, she stepped back and said, “There. I’m finished.”
So was he. The chit had done her work well. He would be lucky if he could sit in a saddle.
Marcus caught Griggs laughing and glowered.
It was time to get them on the road, before he made a total cawker of himself. He turned to Reggie and said, “I think Frances and her kittens would be
happy riding in that basket I saw on the floor of the carriage.”
The twins exchanged guilty glances.
“Is there some reason why that is not possible?” he asked.
“I suppose we have to tell you,” Becky conceded with a sigh. “The basket is already occupied. By Gretchen.”
He hesitated to ask, but finally said, “Who is Gretchen?”
“My rabbit.” Becky hung her head, but glanced up at him with penitent blue eyes. “I could not leave her behind, Uncle Marcus. She might need me.”
Marcus was afraid he knew exactly what that meant, so he forbore to ask. As they rose and headed for the carriage, he said, “I think Frances and her kittens need the space in the basket more.”
“I can hold Gretchen,” Becky offered.
Since by then the small white rabbit was wriggling frantically in his strong hands, he doubted it. Marcus had visions of an escaping rabbit halting their journey for another night. He had no way of knowing for sure whether Gretchen was in a family way, but since rabbits were notoriously fruitful, he thought it better to be safe than sorry. Lured by the promise of a fat carrot, Gretchen was coaxed to take Frances’s place in the leather valise.
“Well done, Uncle Marcus!” Becky said, clapping her hands. “I would never have thought of bribing Gretchen.”
“You would be amazed what a bribe can accomplish,” he said with a wry grin, thinking of all the pretty baubles he had dispensed to help an undecided
lady make up her mind to indulge in an affair. He caught Miss Sheringham eyeing him with a raised brow, but refused to argue ethics with a woman who thought nothing of passing herself off as a man.
With the twins and their pets settled, he turned to Miss Sheringham. “Do you have a dress in that traveling bag of yours?”
She nodded.
“Why are you not wearing it?”
“It would not be very practical to ride astride in a dress.”
Marcus’s heart gave an anxious thump. “There is no need for you to ride astride when you have a carriage at your disposal.”
She glanced at the elegant, well-sprung carriage that bore the Blackthorne crest. “I prefer to ride,” she said, her chin lifting stubbornly.
“I am afraid I must refuse to accompany you to London if you insist on riding astride.”
“Very well. I will go by myself.”
She had already turned and headed back toward the stable when he caught her arm. “Why are you so insistent on doing things your way?” he demanded. “Would it not be more politic to conceal yourself in the carriage from anyone who might recognize you on the road?”
“I do not expect to meet anyone I know,” she said.
“Nevertheless, I must insist—”
“You have no right to insist I do anything, Captain.” Her voice was sharp-edged, and her eyes glittered with irritation. “Neither that I wear a dress, nor that I dress a child.”
Marcus stiffened. “I am sorry I imposed on you to
help with the twins. Be assured I will not do so again,” he said in a cold voice.
“You idiot!”
He was so surprised, he completely dropped his haughty manner. “What did you call me?”
“Idiot,” she repeated just as loudly. “How could you possibly think I would mind helping those poor, innocent children? But I would prefer to be
asked
not
ordered
like some lackey. If my father had not been disinherited, I would, in fact, outrank you. So, if you please, I will be treated with respect.”
He gave her a stiff bow. “Very well, Miss Sheringham,” he said, letting his face reveal his displeasure and disapproval. “You may ride.”
She turned her back on him and marched into the stable. Only moments later, she returned with that black brute she called a horse, saddled and bridled. He watched anxiously for a moment, until he saw her not only mount by herself, but control the animal with calm capability.
He turned to his batman and said, “Griggs, I think it best you travel inside the carriage to keep an eye on things.”
The sergeant gave him a woeful look, but knew better than to argue with his captain. Griggs tied his gelding behind the carriage and, with great trepidation, settled himself across from the twins with his back to the team. The coachman from Blackthorne Abbey took his place, and they set off for London.
Miss Sheringham seemed to fool everyone they passed on the road with her disguise as a young man. Unfortunately, it was not working on him.
He had a vivid memory of what her breasts felt
like against his chest and what her silky hair looked like falling about her shoulders. He had not been able to keep himself from staring at her whenever her attention was diverted by something the twins said from the carriage.
The sunlight loved her. Its golden glow highlighted the freckles on her nose and the peachlike color of her skin. One lip was temptingly swollen where she had a habit of clasping it in her teeth. He remembered the supple warmth and wetness of her mouth when he had kissed her. How she had looked up at him dazed and unsure. Sweetly vulnerable.
Marcus felt his body go rock hard and swore.
“Is something wrong, Captain?” she asked.
“Nothing that will not be cured when we reach London,” he muttered.
This was all Julian’s fault for filling Marcus’s head with those intriguing stories about his “funny little cousin Eliza,” who made him laugh.
She had made Marcus laugh, too. But there was nothing funny about the situation in which he found himself. He had kissed his best friend’s innocent cousin. He had wanted to do far more and might have, if the girl had been willing. He had been lusting after her as though she were a Cyprian.
Julian would kill him.
Or maybe not, since they were, after all, best friends.
Marcus had met Julian at Oxford, and they had found in each other the sort of honesty and courage that had made them fast friends. They had both planned to join the army, for which it was necessary to buy a commission. Since Marcus’s means were
greater than Julian’s, he had surreptitiously lost enough to his friend gambling to ensure that Julian could afford a commission with the same elite regiment he planned to join himself.
Or rather, he had thought himself surreptitious. It was not until years later, when Julian slowly but steadily lost the exact cost of his commission back to Marcus in cards, that Marcus realized he had not fooled his friend.
Marcus had met Julian’s dark eyes across the table, uncertain what to say. “I only meant to help, Julian.”
“I know. That is why I took the money.” He smiled. “And because I could not have afforded it myself.”
Marcus smiled back. “We are even now.”
Julian shook his head. “I will always be in your debt.”
Over the years they had fought together, Julian had repaid him time and again by saving life and limb.
Here, at last, was a chance for Marcus to even the score in some small measure. All he had to do was protect Miss Sheringham’s reputation—and keep himself out of parson’s mousetrap—until he could reunite the chit with Julian in London.
Marcus suddenly remembered something else Julian had said about his cousin that took on a looming importance in light of the advances he had made to Miss Sheringham last night.
“
I believe she has a tendre for me. Merely a calf’s love, you understand. But even so, innocent and true and utterly devoted.
”
Marcus felt sick to his stomach. Was it possible he had been kissing the woman Julian intended to make his bride? Surely not. Marcus was almost—but not
entirely—certain Julian neither loved his cousin nor intended to marry her. But what if he was mistaken? What if Julian planned to make Miss Sheringham his wife?
He could certainly see why Julian might. She was exquisite. Not beautiful in any conventional sense. Exotic. In fact, he was certain the
ton
would find her too odd for acceptance. Too dauntless, too daring and, he was discovering, entirely too direct.
“Captain?”
“Excuse me. What did you say?”
“What is it like to be a rake?” she repeated.
His jaw dropped in stunned disbelief. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
She frowned. “What is so funny?”
“That is the first time a young lady has asked me that particular question.”
“Were none curious?”
He cocked a brow. “None were forward enough to say so.” He waited for a blush to appear, but none was forthcoming.
“I am in the habit of asking what I want to know,” she said, looking him right in the eye.
“A quality I admire,” he conceded.
Miss Sheringham’s peach flesh turned a deep rose.
Strange. The insult had caused no noticeable reaction in Miss Sheringham’s demeanor; the compliment had elicited an enchanting blush.
“Will you answer the question?” she demanded.
They were paddling in deep waters, but he considered himself a good swimmer—almost as good as his brother—certainly good enough to rescue them
both if a storm should arise. He decided to tell her what she wanted to know.
“A rake is not much different from any other man—except that he acts upon his desires without any thought to the consequences.”
She turned to him, a wary expression on her face. “For example?”
“Like gambling on horses and cards until he is rolled up. Like drinking until he is corned, pickled, and salted. Like quenching other … thirsts … as often as they arise.”
“Have you seduced many women?” she asked boldly.
“Hundreds,” he shot back. He looked to see if she had believed him. The silly chit had.
“I see,” she said at last. “That must be what makes you such a legend among the ladies.”
He shot her a skeptical glance. “Legend?”
She reined her horse close enough that their legs were almost touching. With her legs spread suggestively wide over the horse, he could not help thinking how easy it would be to reach out and stroke the damp heat between her thighs. His body throbbed with arousal.
Marcus focused on a point between his horse’s ears and willed his pulse to slow.
“I had heard you were practiced at seduction,” Miss Sheringham said in a nonchalant voice that denied the inappropriateness of their discussion. “But I had no idea you had so many conquests.”
“I might have exaggerated the number slightly,” he said.
“Why?”
His mouth curved. “To see the look of outrage on your face.”
“It was an outrageous number,” she retorted, reining her horse to put distance between them again. “Hundreds! I should have known better than to believe something so preposterous.”
He kept his lips firmly sealed. The number was considerably less, but she did not need to know that. After all, he had his reputation as a rake to uphold.
“You would like my cousin, Julian,” she said, changing the subject to something that should have been more comfortable, but was not, at least for him.
He smiled, but was careful not to look at her. “Would I?”
“Julian is a hero. He was mentioned several times in the dispatches from the front during the Peninsular Wars.”
“Do you know precisely where the major is billeted in London?” he asked.
“I am sure he will not be difficult to find. How many hotels could there be?”
He bit back a gust of laughter. She had to be joking! It was a good thing he knew exactly where to look, or they might have been forced into each other’s company for weeks, instead of days. He remembered suddenly that Julian was keeping a ladybird. Marcus would have to get word to his friend to send the demi-rep away. Otherwise, the major was going to break Miss Sheringham’s heart.
Marcus had been so concerned about someone recognizing Miss Sheringham on the road, he had
completely forgotten the fact that
he
would not go unrecognized. They had not been on the road for very long before a gentleman approaching in a yellow-wheeled curricle, whom Marcus knew from his club in London, hailed them.
“Lord Marcus!”
Marcus had no choice but to stop and greet the fellow. Diebold was a viscount, some ten years older than Marcus, but still unmarried.
Marcus was aware of the tension in Miss Sheringham, whose shoulders had squared and whose chin had come up enough to tip her nose into the air. He hoped she would not speak. Her voice was low-pitched and gravelly, but he could not believe another man would not recognize her for the female she was.