The Outrageous Debutante (38 page)

‘Very well. I will marry you.’

‘Is that all?’ One brow rose a fraction of an inch in astonishment.

‘Is that not enough, dear Nicholas?’

‘It is.’ A soft sigh. ‘So much more than enough. You can never know.’

He touched her cheek, a light brush of his fingers against the satin curve, as if he could not quite believe her reply. Or when she turned her face into his caress.

‘I thought that I would have to persuade you, you know.’

‘And how would you have done so, my lord?’

He smiled against her palm, where he had pressed his lips, at her deliberately predictable response. ‘Like this, of course.’

Releasing her, he slid his hands up, and up, until he could draw her close, imprisoning her against his chest within his embrace. His mouth was warm and most persuasive, brushing softly at first, encouraging her to accept the delicious caress of his tongue as her lips opened willingly in acceptance of so intimate an invasion. Her skin was soft, so very soft and seductive. Whereas he … He held her body firmly against his, so that she might know her power over him, for the desire made him hard as stone. But who seduced whom? With a little cry Thea stretched her arms to slide around his neck and angled her head to allow his mouth to take even further liberties. So much heat, so many impossible sensations that raced through her body, leaving her totally at his mercy. It stunned her that he could take her over, demanding and receiving every shivered response to his touch. It stunned them both, a mutual joy and possession that stole their breath and raced through their limbs, a promise of even deeper passion. Control was destroyed, replaced by a simple desire to love and be
loved, to pleasure and be pleasured. When his kiss became hot, now a demand rather than a request, it demolished her defences against him utterly, as his, too, were destroyed.

Nicholas lifted his head, as sense prevailed to restore some element of self-control in the breakfast parlour in the full light of day, but not before kissing her closed eyelids in gracious acknowledgement of her power over him.

‘Would I have persuaded you, do you think?’

‘I think you might.’ Thea turned her face into the curve of his throat, a little shy of the depth of emotion that had wrapped around, enclosed them like a velvet cloak.

‘I thought I had lost you,’ he murmured. She felt his lips against her hair. ‘The flames still haunt my dreams. It brought me to my senses as nothing else could. I need you in my life, Theodora.’

‘Nicholas—are you sure?’

‘Of what?’

‘That you love me. I think … I think I might be difficult to live with. I like my own way.’ Now she looked up into his face as she confessed. ‘You may have noticed.’

‘I would never have guessed it! But I think I am no easier.’

‘But when we argue—will you not call me a
scheming Baxendale
?’

‘Never!’

‘Good. I would not like it.’ The sparkle in her eyes was a delight to him.

‘As long a you do not insist on referring to me as one of those
damned arrogant Faringdons
.’

Laughter sprang between them at the lessening of tension, to cauterise the wounds of the past, even though both realised and accepted that they would undoubtedly find space for disagreement. Both were too strong willed to make for a placid relationship. Somehow, it no longer mattered as long as they were together.

‘Besides,’ Nicholas reassured his love, ‘you will no longer be a Baxendale. You will be a Faringdon. Will that be acceptable to you, my lady?’

‘Most acceptable, my lord. I think that I have loved you for ever—since the day I struck at you with my riding whip.’ Confession came easily, she decided, as she touched his hand where the old scar had long since faded into less than a shadow.

‘The scar has gone from my hand, but if you had refused me, my heart would have been scarred for ever.’ Meshing his fingers with hers, Nicholas brought their joined hands together against his chest.

‘I thought I had ruined everything … And Edward told me such lies. So that when we met at Judith’s …’ Thea shook her head. That image still had the power to wound her. ‘Can you truly love me in spite of all the hurt and malice of the past?’

‘Let me show you how much I can love you. Come, my affianced wife.’ Only then did Nicholas allow distance between them, but he kept her hand firmly in his as he led her to the door. ‘Let me show you the depths of my love.’

The splendour of Nicholas’s sumptuous room at Burford Hall became witness to this most private of moments. They stood in the centre, making no overt move, a little shy of each other. The tension in the air sparkled as if an entity in itself, much like the brooch, which now lay forgotten in the breakfast parlour. The rift between them had been so wide and vicious, words spoken so accusing and bitter. But now it was in their power to set all aside and become free of the past. Nicholas took his love’s hands in his, the first step to renewing his knowledge of her, to renewing his promises and avowals of love, which had been so cruelly broken.

Her eyes were captured and held in his, in the dark fire. She knew him now. She understood him so much better now, what had driven him to judge and condemn. And she had forgiven. She would trust this man with her life. He had saved her from harm, had given her comfort. He had rescued her from possible death. He loved her. She closed her hands tightly around his wrists, bonds of love and trust. Now she must convince him that the past was indeed dead and would cast no long shadows unless they allowed it.

As he must convince her.

Nicholas wanted nothing more then to take her, to love her. The bed was there, beckoning with its cool sheets and soft pillows. Such a little distance. There was nothing now to separate them, nothing to prevent them reaffirming the love that had been strong enough to withstand impossible strains. But Lord Nicholas Faringdon, for once, was uncertain, his confidence undermined. He knew that he must have a care of her after the pain and hurt of the past weeks. Guilt and self-disgust slicked his skin. The beautiful woman who stood before him, encircling his wrists with silken chains, willing to giver her heart into his keeping, had every reason to turn her back and marry her Earl with her parent’s blessing. But she would not. She would not leave him and wed another. She had said that she loved him. She would trust him. And Theodora was not a woman to break her word—or give it lightly. It was more than he could have hoped for. Now he acknowledged in his heart and soul a need to heal the hurt he had caused and to rebuild the trust before they could look to a future together.

So he set himself to woo her again, without words, but with every muscle and sinew of his body, as if he had no knowledge of her nor she of him and it was all new discovery. As indeed it was. As if she were an untried virgin again, who needed—and deserved—the most exquisite care and cherishing at his hands. Which was not so. But Thea, aware of her lover’s torment, allowed him with joy the luxury of the tender seduction.

Gilded by evening sun, stroked by its warmth, he set his mind to control the urgings of his body. Dedicated every skilful touch of mouth and hands to create a delight and a pleasure for her. Lovingly. Tenderly. Yet claiming her as his own. For she must be left in no doubt of the strength of his need for her. His unshakable faith in her. His love for her.

Thea stretched and arched languorously beneath this relentless assault, absorbing the weight and fluent power of her lover. Admiring the controlled restraint even as she fought against it. Clever hands and skilful mouth, rediscovering the secrets and
textures, the satin sweep of breast and waist and thigh. The perfumed invitation of softest skin. All thoughts were obliterated in that delicate, sensual onslaught.

For Nicholas it was in the way of a promise that nothing should stand between them. Never again. He had allowed fear and suspicion, arrogance and hatred to separate and wound. He shuddered at the memory of it as he traced the line of her ribs with heated kisses, smoothed the warm skin with a slow trail of fingers. Lingering as she gasped on an intake of breath. And poured all the love of which he was capable into that magnificent courtship as he covered her body with his own.

Thea had read her lord well. The depth of hurt and regret. The need to make restitution. So she allowed him the dominance and the freedom to make amends in his own way, seeing his need to do so, as she took on her own delicious role to soothe and reassure. Following the paths he took, the slow, thorough awakening of every nerve, of every desire, she responded to every demand. The choices were his. Yet it was no hardship for her to follow. Or to use her own experience with him to tease and arouse with a delicious sense of power. Passion was built on passion, layer on enticing layer, until Thea’s heart raced and her breath sobbed, the heat built her body crying out with desire for fulfilment. She placed a palm against Nickolas’s chest, fingers spread where his heart was as tumultuous as hers. Tears sparkled on her lashes.

‘Don’t cry, Thea. It breaks my heart.’

‘They are tears of joy. I do not regret them.’

He dried them with gentle lips, cradling her against his heart.

‘I will not break, Nicholas.’

‘No. You will not.’

Silent, they smiled, lost in each other in that instant of perfect stillness, the air around them heavy with emotion, knowing at last that the future was theirs to make of it what they would. And then, only then did Nicholas allow the pace to explode into brilliant heat. Patience was abandoned. He claimed the authority for himself, giving Theodora no choice but to allow herself
to be swept along on the storm waves of impossible longings. His mouth took and took. She gave all.

With her name on his lips, did he allow his mind to be flooded, erasing all thought but of her, to thrust deep, sheathing himself within her and claiming her for ever, taking her with him as he drove them both to shuddering delight and ultimate release.

N
ew York

In the intervening weeks since she had received her mother’s letter, Eleanor’s boudoir and bedchamber had lost the intense smell of newly sawn wood, the spicy tang of resin, and gained a certain sophistication, particularly in the way of new furnishings. The lengthy discussions between Eleanor and Sarah, the apparently endless choosing and discarding of fabrics and patterns, had resulted in tasteful curtains at the windows with matching hangings for the bed. It was now a haven of tranquillity in shades of blue and cream, always Eleanor’s preferred hues. The deeply cushioned chairs and window seats invited and encouraged one to sit at ease.

But now the bedchamber held an even more recent item of furniture.

‘D’you like it, Mama?’ Tom traced the intricate carving along the foot with a grubby finger.

‘Of course I do.’ Eleanor, newly returned to her previously slim figure and her easy tolerance of the heat, smiled at her elder son. Perhaps she looked a little tired, her fine skin pale against the lace of her wrapper as she rested back against the banked pillows, but her eyes glowed with amethyst fire, heralding both pride and achievement. And a fierce love. ‘It is quite beautiful.
You are such a clever boy, Tom. How could you guess what I would exactly like?’ She leaned to smooth the palm of her hand over the rounded edges of the cradle. Its occupant, astonishingly new to the world, slept on, unimpressed with the surroundings, the admiration or the company.

‘We guessed.’ Tom shrugged his nonchalance, a miniature copy of a gesture that Eleanor had seen so often in Henry and now made her laugh softly. ‘Papa said you like plants … and things.’ Tom followed the outline of what might have been a daisy. ‘Like this.’ The cradle was made from cedar and polished to enhance the grain, the decoration at head and foot a riot of deeply incised leaves and flowers, more to do with enthusiasm than elegant taste, but still a work of love and therefore of delight. ‘I chose the flowers,’ Tom confided, shuffling impatient feet in pleasure at the success of the gift.

‘And you made it? All by yourself?’

‘Well …’ Honesty got the better of him. ‘Papa helped. A bit. D’you think the baby likes it?’

‘I am certain.’ Eleanor kept her solemnity in place as she pushed the black hair from Tom’s forehead. The honesty had cost him! ‘Look how well he sleeps. It must be so comfortable for him. I think he looks very pleased to be here.’

‘I suppose.’ Tom peered in with a frown. One baby, after all, looked much like another.

But not to Eleanor. She was aware only of the dark hair, the straight nose. And she knew that this time their child’s eyes were blue, dark as the columns of delphinium that graced the flower borders at Burford Hall. Another Faringdon. Another son.

‘I have to go.’ Tom abandoned his brother without shame. ‘I haven’t seen my pony today. He’ll be missing me.’ He came to a sudden halt at the doorway and turned back. ‘The baby won’t be able to ride yet, will he?’ The anxiety of personal ownership was written across his face, a burning concern. He looked to Henry, a silent and amused observer of the previous interchange, who saw and understood.

‘No,’ he answered his son’s unspoken concern plainly enough.
‘He is far too small. The pony is yours, Tom. When the little one is older, we shall buy another for him.’

‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’ Life was as simple as that. Tom took himself down the stairs with a rush and slide of feet on the polished treads. Eleanor did not bother to tell him not to run.

‘I fear a pony holds more attraction for our son than a baby.’ Henry pushed himself upright from where he had been half-sitting against the open window frame, arms folded, to stride across the room with his habitual long-limbed grace. Moved to sit on the edge of the bed, where he took Eleanor’s hands in his, raising first one and then the other to his lips. ‘He is very fine, Nell. Was Tom like this when he was born?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Eleanor tightened her clasp in instant sympathy and a sharp twist of grief to put an edge on her happiness, surprised by a sudden desire to weep. Of course. Hal had missed all the early promise and progress of his firstborn son, but could now relive it through the first weeks and months of the life of this new child.