Her Proper Scoundrel (26 page)

It wasn’t like his kisses before. This kiss was gentle, tender, even reverent. As if he worshipped her with his lips.

His teeth nipped her lower lip and then his tongue danced against hers.

“Come.” He pulled away his face.

It was a command yet not a command.

“Christopher,” she breathed.

I love you
.
I’ll come anywhere with you.

She couldn’t tell him that yet. Not yet. Not until they recovered the “Bessie” and she gained his approval. Then he would see she truly shared his dream.

He threw aside her wrapper then picked her up and carried her into his room. Candles flickered on the mantel and on the bedside table. His room was dark, masculine, dominated by a luxurious Persian carpet on the highly polished floor on which stood a four poster bed with canopy. A bed truly fit for the master of his own domain.

A mountain of blankets and coverlets draped the end of the bed, exposing clean, crisp sheets. He placed her gently in the middle of the mattress.

“I want to show you how a man should love his wife.” He started with her toes, nibbling them and kissing each one. He worked his way up, kissing every inch of her calves, her thighs. He pushed up her nightgown to expose her stomach. It caught on her buttocks but she shifted her bottom so he could shimmy it over her hips. Finally he undid the ties and tugged it off.

“I want to see all of you,” he whispered, “all of you, my beautiful, beautiful wife.”

The cool air kissed her skin; goose bumps rippled along her arms but she wasn’t sure if it came from the air or the sweetness of his words.

“You’re cold. Here.” He lay down beside her and pulled up the blankets, turning her and pulling her close so that her back was tucked up against his front.

With one arm, he held her close, nuzzling past her hair to kiss her neck. He cupped one breast, teasing the nipple with gentle fingers while his tongue flicked against the smooth skin in the little hollow beneath her ears.

“You smell delicious,” he murmured. “Promise me you’ll use that scent always.”

Was she supposed to answer?

She couldn’t. Remembered feelings ricocheted through her body, from her breasts to the woman’s place between her legs and back to her breasts. Something hard jammed against her buttocks. His penis. Rock hard. Ready for her.

She shifted away and rolled on her back to look at him. In the dim light, his dark, mysterious eyes glowed with love for her.

He lowered his head and his mouth found the neglected breast. He nipped it, flicking his tongue against it until it pebbled to match its partner.

“Oh,” she breathed. “That’s so much better.”

He smiled down at her then moved to his knees, nudging apart her legs to kneel between them. He loomed above her, a handsome shadow.

“Let me love you,” he whispered, leaning down on one elbow. With his free hand, he guided his engorged tip, nestling it securely between her cleft before settling himself between her thighs.

She could tell him now, she thought. She could tell him now she loved him. Then he started to move and her mind emptied of all thoughts.

* * *

Christopher awoke the next morning to find himself lying on his back, one arm around Josceline and her head snuggled up against his shoulder. A feeling of contentment filled him like a jib sail billowing before a fresh breeze.

He glanced down to find himself being sharply regarded.

“You’re awake.” He dropped a kiss on her head.

“I am,” she nodded. “I’ve been awake for a while, thinking.”

“Thinking?”

Thoughts of last night rose in his head and he felt himself grow hard. Making love to her now, this very instant would be a delightful way to start the day. He dropped another kiss on her head.

“It is Sunday today. We shall go to the parish church for service,” Josceline said firmly.

“I see.” He scowled. His brief thought of pleasurable morning activities tempted him much more but Josceline had already sat up and was casting around for her nightgown. “I must say attending Sunday services is not my cup of tea. Won’t it bring unwanted attention to us?”

“Of course. But we must show we have nothing to hide. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Very well.” He sighed. Lud, Sunday morning church. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d attended church.

He wasn’t going without at least one last cuddle. He pulled her down beside him again and nudged her head onto his shoulder.

However, it was what Josceline wanted and he had to agree her suggestion made sense. They had done nothing wrong and for them to keep themselves secluded at Midland House would only make them look suspicious.

He rubbed his chin against the top of her head. The way he felt right now, he thought wryly, he would swim to the West Indies if that was what she wished him to do.

Chapter Twenty Three

A misty rain had started by the time they stepped down from the carriage. It turned the Cotswald stone of the church into dark gold on which the ivy stood out in stark green relief, and gave the air the clean, fresh scent of budding life. Josceline took an appreciative sniff then yanked the hood of her cloak over the battered bonnet she wore. By the time they reached the shelter of the doors, a fine silvery sheen covered both her and Christopher.

“Mr. Sharrington, Mrs. Sharrington,” nodded the kindly vicar, standing just inside. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” murmured Josceline, throwing back her hood to bob a small curtsy. They entered the sanctuary and amidst a sea of swiveling heads, made their way to an empty pew.

Throughout the service, Josceline felt the prick of enquiring gazes. She could only hope it was the surprise of seeing her here with Christopher, and not for the sad state of her bonnet. Paying scant attention to the uninspiring sermon, she mentally prepared herself for after the service. She was fairly certain curious worshippers would approach them then.

The notes of the final hymn died away and Josceline laid her hand on Christopher’s elbow, giving him an encouraging smile. His eyes twinkled in return and together, they followed the congregation outside.

It rained still. Josceline wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or disappointed that most people hurried off on foot, umbrellas in hand, or into the refuge of waiting carriages.

“How lovely to see you both here.” An elderly, small, bird faced woman in an unflattering brown bombazine frock and charcoal pelisse stopped them, apparently unbothered by the constant drizzle. Her wet hair stuck to her head like grey plaster.

“I must beg pardon, to whom do we speak?” Josceline wrinkled her brow. “Have we met?”

“Yes, well, no, not really. I am Lady Lucy Westfall. My husband is Baronet Westfall. He and I were at Oakland Grange last Friday evening but you left before we were able to be introduced. Sadly he has taken a bit of gout and did not accompany me this morning.” She unfolded her umbrella and held it out to Christopher. “Perhaps you could hold this up for us. I declare, this thin rain is the worst and soaks through in a matter of a minute or two.”

“How nice to make your acquaintance.” Christopher stepped forward and bowed before taking the proffered umbrella. “I fear my wife and I are not acquainted with the local society.”

“Lady Oakland fancies herself the matriarch of the region but rest assured, not all of us are in awe of her self-imposed status,” sniffed Lady Westfall. “Oh look, here comes Mrs. Grenville. She’s the wife of the local magistrate.” She waved one hand frenetically. “Yoo hoo, Mrs. Grenville, this way.”

A tall, thin woman with scraped back features darted over.

Josceline marveled how perfectly the woman held her umbrella above her - rain dripped off the edges in an exact circle yet not a drop touched her clothing.

“Oh my, this rain is dreadful,” chirped Mrs. Grenville. Guileless, she inspected Josceline and Christopher from hazel eyes. “What an appalling display at the Oakland’s event and a well-deserved set down for Lady Oakland. Pay no mind, she’s quite harmless.”

“You were there as well?” asked Josceline, astonished. How fortuitous the trip to church seemed at this very moment. It was clear not everyone had succumbed to the ploys of Lady Oakland and Lady Swinton. Indeed, there appeared to be little sympathy for the woman and her ruined fete.

“Oh yes. It is like a penny novel. You escaped the clutches of your father and an unwanted suitor to marry for love. How romantic,” sighed Mrs. Grenville, fluttering her hands over her heart. “Robert Burns could not have done better, I swear.”

Romantic? Romantic if it were true but Josceline knew better.

“And how horrid of Lord Candel to tease you so,” interrupted Lady Westfall, beak-like nose wrinkling in contempt. “The man is an unmitigated rogue and an embarrassment to the Candel Company. The wretch,” here Lady Westfall leaned over to whisper conspiratorially, “Leaves their warehouse by noon every day. It’s common knowledge he spends his afternoons and nights gaming at the Clifton Hotel.”

Beside her, Josceline could feel Christopher’s interest had been piqued by the woman’s statement for he pulled himself up ramrod straight.

“The Candel Company warehouse? Where might that be?” His voice was casual yet his eyes were steely.

“On Back Bridge Street. It is one the better locations for a warehouse for the river widens a bit there.”

“Oh dear” interjected Mrs. Grenville apologetically. “Do excuse me, I must run. Mr. Grenville comes with the carriage.” She darted off, her spare, angular frame slicing through the rain.

“Oh yes, you must excuse me as well. The baronet waits for my return.” Lady Westfall held out her hand for her umbrella. “If you please.”

“Of course.” Christopher inclined his head and passed it over.

Lady Westfall nodded her thanks and turned away. She took a step then turned back. “Are you receiving visitors? There has been much to do about the goings on at Midland House.”

“We are,” Christopher replied.

“With pleasure,” Josceline added.

“Look for my card, then.” And the woman hurried off, umbrella in hand, leaving Josceline and Christopher in the downpour.

“Ah, curiosity. Apparently it is not limited to cats,” Christopher joked.

Josceline couldn’t keep the delighted smile from her lips.

“She wishes to call on us. Others will take her lead. All is not lost, Christopher. We may find our investors yet. What’s more, we know where best to find Oliver. In the warehouse of the Candel Company.” She beamed at him. “See? Attending church was a brilliant suggestion.”

Christopher wasn’t quite willing to agree. His idea of how to spend the morning had been as good, if not better. At the thought, he felt heat pool in his loins. Nonetheless, Josceline’s excitement was contagious and Christopher felt an answering enthusiasm well within his chest. He tamped down his rising desire to comment. “Candel’s not the only thing we should find at the warehouse.”
 

“Yes?” Josceline’s emerald gaze swept over his face.

“The deed to the “Bessie”. It would be kept there, would it not? But,” he grabbed her hand. “We’re both soaked to the skin. I see the carriage waiting for us.”

Briskly, he moved off, towing Josceline behind him.

Despite the grey sky and unending rain, the day seemed suddenly bright and full of promise.

* * *

If there was one thing Lord Oliver Candel hated, it was being made to wait. Particularly after Fitzsimmons, the haberdasher, had informed him his new overcoat would be ready by Monday morning and in fact, the man was still sewing on the buttons when Oliver swung by in his phaeton to pick it up.

He could wait, Oliver decided sourly, but it was sure to cost Fitzsimmons for now he fully intended to haggle over the price. And if the man refused to drop the fee, then he, Lord Oliver Candel, would make sure everyone in this hellish backwater that was Bristol would know of the poor service of the Fitzsimmons establishment.

And so he waited, one satin clad knee draped over the other, staring with distaste at the street outside with its rowdy sailors, grizzled fishermen and farmer’s carts. If not for the edict of his father, he would be ensconced somewhere in Pall Mall, watching handsome carriages and their matching teams trot by, genteel ladies strolling arm in arm and finely clad gentlemen out for a brisk stroll.

Oliver meant to return to London, sooner rather than later. In the meantime, he presided over Bristol’s society. A poor second but it was better than nothing.

He continued to stare outside while behind him could be heard the snip of the scissors and the frantic whispers of the tailor and his assistant. The sound filled him with satisfaction. Good. The tailor knew with whom he dealt.

Oliver sighed and uncrossed his legs.

Frankly, if he were honest with himself, he would admit it wasn’t really Fitzsimmons who had set him on his ear. It was that lackwit, Christopher Sharrington, who annoyed him no end.

Sharrington’s insistence on getting the prize won over the gaming table was becoming annoying. If the man had any sense of his own proper place in the world, he would forget about it. The man’s impertinence was beyond the pale; his accusations at the Oakland’s fete ridiculous.