Authors: Kieran Kramer
“Let go,” he whispered, and with his other hand, found the portal to her sex and sheathed two fingers inside her.
Oh, God. It was too much!
“Gregory—”
“Let
go,
Pippa.”
It was a command. Not a request, and somehow—even though she’d always balked at Gregory’s commands—this one worked. It reached a primal place, and she let go with a cry from her very essence.
When the waves of pure pleasure finally subsided, she leaned her forehead against the door and sucked in a large breath. Her legs trembled, and so did her arms from pressing so very hard against the door.
Gregory stood up and rested a hand—musky from the scent of her—lightly on her shoulder.
“You were right about something,” he said close to her ear. “The Gregory the world knows—the well-rounded, successful man about town—isn’t happy, and you seem to be the only one who notices. But giving
you
pleasure reminds me that there’s a part of me that yet knows joy. And I liked it. I liked it so much, I want to do it to you again. And again.”
His confession broke her heart and thrilled her all at once. She longed to turn and throw her arms around his neck. But she didn’t know what he’d say. She couldn’t act like that girl in the garden, the one who’d sketched his face and a heart beside it. He’d despised that girl.
Not that it mattered, really. She was leaving.
“We can’t do this anymore,” she said in a thin voice, her eyes on the door. “I’m going to Paris.” She’d said it so often in the last twenty-four hours, it was beginning to sound as familiar as a nursery rhyme—a singsongy wish that pleased her but that no one else believed.
“I’m afraid you’re not,” Gregory said.
“I knew you’d say that. I don’t know why I even bothered talking to you.”
“In a few minutes,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “I’m taking you back to your uncle’s. After things are settled there, you’ll come up to London and stay with my family. Surely the city has its share of expert sugar sculptors. I’ll wrangle you an audience with them.”
She swiveled to face him, her legs still so weak, she leaned on the door. “In between all the balls I’m to attend to find a man to marry me? A man who’ll extinguish all my little joys, one by one, the way the Toad has Mother’s? No, thank you.”
She slid around him, but he followed and got to her trousers before she did. He tossed them to her, and she turned away and pulled them on before tucking in her shirt. “Your words were very pretty. I was even
moved
by them. But now I have to wonder if you were trying to seduce me into submission.”
“Think what you will.” He appeared in front of her again and looped the leather braces over her shoulders. “But the fact is, you can’t go to Paris. And not just because you’ll be largely unprotected pursuing Monsieur Perot. But because you’ll be disappointed. The first time you go to Paris has to be when you have a light heart. And you won’t when you know you’ve misled Uncle Bertie. He’ll be worried. And you’re too kind not to let that bother you.”
She gave a little cry of frustration. “I wish you’d just—go away.” She threw her coat on without his help. “Please. Go to your house party. Don’t change your plans for me.”
At the door she gave a desperate twist to her shoulders to shake him off, but he held her fast and laid his hand over the bolt. “It’s not that simple, and you know it, in your heart of hearts. If I have to, I’ll pick you up and carry you and put you in my carriage myself.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she whispered, a lump in her throat.
“It certainly feels like it at the moment,” he replied, “but I’m preventing a bigger one, whether you believe it or not.”
And with that, he unbolted the door.
Chapter Nine
Pippa put on her spectacles and stood blinking for a few seconds. Then she began to move, wending her way through the inn dining room to no fanfare, Gregory behind her. She was numb with exhaustion
and
pleasure by this point, furious at Gregory and at herself for giving in to temptation when he was thwarting all her plans, and keenly desperate to escape, to the point that when the inn door blew open and a well-to-do family fairly stumbled in with three rambunctious children, she considered volunteering on the spot to be their nanny—anything to avoid going back home.
It wasn’t home, really, anymore. Not after today. Not as long as the Toad was there.
Then she remembered she was dressed as a man.
A portly young man with an extraordinarily high collar and carrying a beautiful cherrywood cane hurried in behind the family of five and made a studied assessment of the company in the taproom. As he shook the rain off his tight auburn curls, he saw Gregory, and his mouth became a thin line.
“Hello,
Marbury,
” Gregory said.
“
Hello,
Westdale.” The newcomer had a gritty, unpleasant voice. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He had a large forehead, beady eyes, a disagreeable mouth, and he sported exceptionally spindly legs that appeared incapable of supporting his short, rotund torso.
Why, he looks like a bowling ball balanced on two pins,
thought Pippa. However, in his navy coat with gold buttons and starched, white cravat, he wore the understated look of a follower of Beau Brummel, the sort of London guise that announced wealth and prestige.
Gregory wore a coat and buckskin breeches better suited to the country, yet he was the more imposing—and by far the more winning—of the two. “It’s been at least a year.”
“I’ve hardly noticed,” Marbury said, and Pippa nearly gasped at his blatant rudeness. But Gregory seemed to expect it. “I’m on my way to Thurston Manor. And you?”
“To Plumtree to visit friends.”
“Oh. Friends.” Marbury let the word hang in the air like a curse.
Pippa felt he was quite ridiculous. One obviously had to meet certain expectations with him, or be judged lacking. Whereas Gregory, as controlled and commanding as he often was, gave the impression that he was well aware that the cosmos didn’t spin around his needs and wants.
Of course, all of London society was critical, Pippa knew—it was a sport among the beau monde. Perhaps Marbury was only tired or hungry. He wouldn’t be the first traveler to be grumpy. Why, in that cold, wet space between the coziness of napping on Gregory’s shoulder and the moment she took her first bite of hot beef pie, she’d been ready to bite off the head of anyone who came near her. And after the fiery encounter she’d just had with the man—in which she went from soaring heights to the lowest low when he told her he was taking her home—she felt that same cross way again.
Someone who looked the exact opposite of cantankerous—a sweet, older man—ventured into the taproom then. He had silver hair receding at the temples and intelligent eyes. His clothes were neat but unexceptional, though the expensive cut of his jacket and the fine supple leather of his boots revealed that he was a man of some means.
“Get Mr. Dawson anything he wants.” Marbury spoke with unnecessary harshness to the barman. “And do you take good care of your dogs here? I don’t approve of people who don’t.”
He stole a quick glance at Mr. Dawson, who apparently wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. He was eyeing the inn yard, where the branches of an enormous tree swayed heavily in the wind. Pippa exchanged a bemused look with Gregory.
What an odd thing for Marbury to say, especially as three dogs lay in a heap, legs before the fire, contentedly snoozing.
The barman, who’d probably seen everything under the sun when it came to human nature, wiped his hands on his apron and looked only mildly askance at Marbury. “We take excellent care of our dogs here. Anything else, sir?”
“Just that we don’t have all day.” Marbury’s tone was cold and aloof.
Many people seemed to treat their servants that way, Pippa noted, but Gregory, whenever he was at Uncle Bertie’s, never made a request of the house and stables staff without being gracious at the same time.
She crossed her arms over her breasts, and remembered with a shock that they weren’t bound and that Gregory had known that and explored her there as if she were an undiscovered treasure.
He’s not for you
, she reminded herself.
He might be kind to servants, and he does know how to make your body exquisitely happy, but he’s bossy and difficult and not—I repeat—
not
for you.
“We’ll eat in the private dining room,” Marbury said to Dawson, his confident tone implying tacit approval of the plan. “Nothing but the best for a cousin of Lady Thurston.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” the older man said. “The weather being as it is, I’m content to sit by the fire out here and have some tea.” He looked at the barman. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit, sir.” The barman turned away to do his job.
“I’d prefer to be alone for a few minutes,” Mr. Dawson said to Marbury. “I’ve reading to do.”
“Of course you do.” Marbury was the epitome of bored politeness. “So do I. The history of the Thurston line. I hear it’s quite noble.” But when Mr. Dawson walked past him, Marbury turned to Gregory and made a disgusted face.
What a rude man he was! Pippa felt immediately sorry for Mr. Dawson, who wended his way through the tables and chairs to the fire, oblivious to his traveling companion’s slights. She could tell Mr. Dawson was a nice man, like Uncle Bertie—and Gregory, when he felt like it—although he didn’t fill the room the way those two seemed to do.
Uncle Bertie was a proper baronet—and proud of his place in society—but once a year from the time she’d turned thirteen, he’d taken her on a regional tour of all his theaters. He called it their “annual adventure,” and it was always a special time, one that spawned many heart-to-heart talks as their carriage rumbled down the roads leading from one bustling town to the next. Pippa knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Uncle Bertie wanted her to lead a life of freedom, a life he himself had prepared her for. If she managed his theaters properly, she’d always have an income and a certain level of independence—and with that a chance to indulge in her own dreams.
Which was why his insistence that she and Gregory marry made no sense.
The popping sound of a new keg of ale being opened by the barman brought her to the present, and she watched as he poured two pints and passed them to Marbury and Gregory.
“I leave after one pint,” Gregory said.
“Oh, come now. What’s happened to the London partygoer?” Marbury jeered in his grating nasal tone.
“I can drink you under the table, Marbury, as you well know.” Gregory stated it as an inconsequential fact. “Would you like something … Harrow? Valets get thirsty, too.”
Pippa realized he was looking at her. Oh.
She
must be Harrow! “Uh, no, thank you, my lord.” He was her jailer, essentially, and she wanted to be as rude to him as Marbury was, but she couldn’t—not in her role as his valet.
That was a clever identity to take on, but she’d never tell Gregory so.
Marbury leaned against the bar and met her eyes for a moment before going back to speaking with Gregory about the latest goings-on in Town. He’d looked through her as if she were invisible, which was typical of the upper classes—not to mention a good thing in her case.
“So,” Gregory said to him, “you’re attending the same house party I plan to get to—eventually.” He tossed a quick glance at Pippa.
Why should she feel guilty? She nearly stuck her chin in the air but thought better of it. Valets wouldn’t dare.
“
You’re
attending?” Marbury winced, then he jerked his head away from Gregory to observe a comely barmaid washing glasses.
At least Pippa thought it rude. Perhaps gentlemen did things like that all the time in each other’s company.
Marbury slurped his ale and took his time returning his narrowed gaze to Gregory. “You might want to extend your stay with your friends in Plum Valley.”
“Plumtree,” Gregory corrected him.
Marbury waved a hand. “I hear the goings-on at Thurston Manor will be terribly dull.”
There was a slight arch to Gregory’s brow. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
Oh, really? What
had
he heard? Pippa bristled. Was he going to enter upon a seduction campaign at the house party, too, with some other unsuspecting young lady—or ladies?
“Lady Thurston is purported to be full of surprises,” Gregory said. “One never knows whom to expect among the company.”
Marbury gave a droll laugh. “It’s no secret Lady Damara’s coming. I hear she’s anxious to see you. I’d give anything to—”
And then he began to describe what he’d do to Lady Damara if he could get her alone and naked. Pippa’s eyes widened, and her stomach churned with disgust at the thought that any woman would be subject to Marbury’s pawings.
“Enough.” Gregory cut him off testily, and it was a good thing he did. She nearly had steam coming out of her ears. “You’re speaking of a lady.”
Marbury’s own eyebrows shot up. “That hasn’t stopped you before. I heard the rumors. The new Lady Morgan’s firstborn looks a bit like you, so they say.”
The new Lady Morgan was Eliza! A ringing started in Pippa’s ears at those shocking words, and her heart—her heart began to beat so fast, she had to put her hand on the back of a chair.
But Gregory moved faster. He grabbed one of Marbury’s jacket lapels and yanked him up and toward him. “I advise you,” he said through gritted teeth, “not to repeat rumors.” And then he shoved him away.
Marbury almost lost his footing but recovered it by grabbing onto the bar. “God, man! I never said it was
fact
.”
“Let’s go, Harrow,” Gregory said, and began to move toward the inn door.
Good for him!
Pippa couldn’t help but feel a small surge of satisfaction as she watched him stride away with an assured gait, his broad shoulders imposing, his general air unassailable. There wasn’t an ounce of guilt in that walk. None.
She couldn’t believe it of him—that he’d gotten Eliza with child.
Absurd. There was no way that baby was Gregory’s. Much as she knew he’d enjoyed his share of women, this accusation was beyond the pale.