The Rake's Handbook (21 page)

A wry grin played at the corner of his mouth.

Did she hear him whisper “females” under his breath?

Ross straightened his shoulders and stood like he was about to testify in a witness box. “I can honestly say I was woefully unaware of your attendance.” He gave a desultory laugh. “No idea, I can assure you. Now if you will excuse me, I must return again to London on business in regard to the steam engine order. Apparently”—he frowned down at her—“changes will have to be made.”

“So you
will
leave.” Elinor knew he referred to arrangements to transport his engines, but she wanted to know when he would return. She smiled sheepishly, realizing here was her opportunity for a serious discussion about the lease. “I believe we might discuss the iron foundry further, if you'd like?”

He froze and searched her countenance. “Are you in earnest?”

She inhaled deeply, then held her breath. “Yes.”

The sunshine smile beamed across his face. He dropped the pineapple leaf and examined her. “Would you consider the trip I mentioned to a foundry farther northeast? The steam engine near Buxton has the new smoke catcher on a considerably taller chimney flue. This added length dissipates the smoke to a greater degree than the colliery chimney we visited.”

She nodded in agreement at his easy request. “Yes, I will visit the Buxton works with you.”

They exchanged grins and let the silence stretch.

She became spellbound. He was too handsome, too charming, and too kind to those she loved.

“How about Thursday?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“We will have a long travel day ahead. I'll pick you up early. Six?”

“Agreed.”

“Agreed.” He started forward to escort her back to the house.

She didn't move toward the door when he held out his hand to demonstrate the ladies' prerogative of going first. Fixed in place and unable to leave, she became overwhelmed by gentle panic—her mind blanked, her pulse climbed, her throat dried. She wanted his extended arm to close around her waist, so she could caress the smooth hair on his arm below his rolled-up sleeve. After this thought, she harbored no doubts she was the most foolish woman in the world.

Without any effort to move on her part, he let his arm fall to his side. “Well, then? Something else you would like to discuss?”

She tried gathering her wits, knowing enough to avoid any sight of his hair if she wanted to complete the task. Except now her vision fixed upon his jaw, where a light whisker growth shaded his chin. Why hadn't she noticed his lips before? Their slight rose color was an unusual contrast to the dark line of rough stubble.

Ross impatiently brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Let me escort you back to the house.” Again he motioned for her to lead the way. “There's a significant amount of work I must complete today in regard to the estate.”

She smiled at him in a manner she feared must have resembled the worldly intelligence of a two-year-old spying a favorite toy. Somehow his eyes had become dear eyes, very dear eyes, dear eyes indeed. “If we agree to a lease after our trip to Buxton, will you remain in Cheshire? I know both Berdy and I would like you to stay.”

He paused and examined her face for a long minute. Then returned to stroking a single spear-like leaf on top of the pineapple.

Since he failed to answer her question, perhaps he was considering his reply. Hesitant to leave his captivating presence just yet and fearing he might leave Cheshire for a long time, she tried to keep the conversation upbeat and flowing. “Besides heat, what do pineapples need to thrive?”

“What we all need: food, water”—he stared at her again—“attention.”

She took a step toward him to show her interest and demonstrate her gratitude. “It looks prickly.”

“Some are. Depends how you touch…the plant.” He chuckled. “A wise man is gentle with them.” He stepped closer to her but continued to stroke the leaf. His eyes briefly closed while he switched to caressing the leaf in small circles with his thumb.

Mesmerized by his stroking finger, she wanted to sound intelligent and racked her brain for a sensible horticultural comment. “Do pineapples require pruning?”

“No…that would tickle, don't you think?”

Caught by his hypnotic movements, and tickled herself by his deep voice, she mouthed the next horticultural word that came to mind. “Grafting?”

“Ouch.”

“Oh.” The pinery became meltingly hot, a sublime wet heat. “I've never eaten pineapple.”

His eyes bespoke laughter, or something else. “Never eaten…it's sweet like…sweet.”

“And the flesh?” The word
flesh
made her breath come in rapid pants.

His glance passed over her skirt. “Firm, but if you press the bare fruit just so—it releases juice. Your fingers can become quite sticky.” Now he began to pant too.

Heavens.
“What next?”

Mischief teased her from within those blue eyes of his. He stopped stroking the plant and stepped to close the distance between them. “What comes next are the most important chapters in husbandry.”

“And that would be?”

“Plowing and propagation.”

“No.” She chuckled softly.

He nodded.

“Ross, will you remain in London? Never come back?” she whispered, looking at the small hollow in his throat, a feature that made her eyelids heavy and spoke of her desire.

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

She froze, her silent blazing desire broadcast by rapid pants and probably every feature of her being. “Please stay.”

He failed to answer.

“Please.” She answered the question she saw within the light of his blue eyes. “Yes.”

He moved fast, spun her around, and pulled the laces of her gown and then her stays.

Reaching behind in a frantic gesture, she helped loosen her laces. Desire racing through every one of her veins.

In less than a minute, he managed to pull her bodice down to just above her stomach. He picked her up, laid her on the oilcloth covering the pile of dirt, and lifted her skirts to her waist. Next he tore at his shirt, pulling it over his head.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, quickly unbuttoning the six buttons of his falls and shoving his breeches to his knees. A few seconds passed before he covered her fully with his torso. With unbearable delight, she spread her fingers over his chest and stroked his dark hair.

A slithering growl rumbled upon her neck, then he covered her lips with his. Their lips slid repeatedly in the kiss's heated mimicry. His tongue plunged to taste her, and she returned the pleasure to find he tasted of the lemon that laced his morning's tea. They kissed each other's features in return, forehead, cheek, nose, ear, shoulder. A bliss-filled eternity of wandering, mutual kisses.

He caressed her breast, and she arched into his palm, desiring him to feel all of its aching fullness.

His moist breath warmed her breast a moment before he claimed it with his skillful mouth. While he sucked and nibbled, she stroked his soft locks, letting his hair slide between her fingers.

She glanced over the top of his dark head to the sunlight streaming through the glass panes of the roof.
Heaven
remembered.
“Plowing and propagation?” she whispered. “I've always enjoyed them.” She felt his chuckle upon her breast, and realized nothing was more enjoyable than a man's amorous laughter against her skin. Soon her heart hammered, and she gasped in desire.

His talented hand moved between her legs and circled with the same slowness he had caressed the plant.

She felt liquid and sweet. She continued to stroke his body's contours, learning the feel of the soft hair covering his chest, the taught muscles of his abdomen, and the weight of his privates against her thigh.

“I enjoy plowing,” he managed to say before moving up to kiss her again. The delicious silence broken only by her giggle and one of his ragged moans.

Joy seized her spirit. With her hand, she surrounded his member from the base of dark curls and down its length, flicking her finger over the slight ridge near the tip.

He lifted his head and gave her a look of astonishment. “We'll get to the seed bit and miss the plow bit if you continue to do that.” He quickly pressed her center, found what he sought, and thrust deep. They both moaned when he pulled back and thrust again, the force moving them together across the warm earth.

She rejoiced in his long, deep strokes and became even more stimulated by the liquid slap of their coupling as they climbed to the inevitable. Her bunched gown billowed between them with each thrust. She gasped, lifted her heels high, and gave a final shove with her hips to drive him deeper still before bliss triumphed in a succession of quivers.

He lifted himself upon stiff arms and thrust them forward another foot on the pile before a groan wrenched from his chest. He collapsed upon her, his weight resting on her chest, and his member still intimately filling her.

For several minutes, no words were exchanged between them. Then he pulled away from her and rolled off the earthen pile to stand. He turned his back and busied himself with the buttons of his breeches.

Rising to rest upon her elbows, she watched him. The relatively cool air evaporated the warmth he left between her legs and within her heart. Meanwhile, the distinctive smell of sex mingled with the musty smell of steam-heated earth.

Once his breeches were buttoned, and other clothing set to rights, he stood with his back to her, unmoving, staring at the floor.

Why
didn't he speak?
Why no fond words, a lover's final caress, or tender care rendered to refasten her garments? Like a sudden slap on the face, she felt humiliated by her physical exposure. She brought her legs together, sat upright, and attempted to dress herself. With her gown's laces mostly out of reach, she managed to loosely tie her dress. She removed the pins from her hair, twisted her locks into something suitable, and anchored the plaits firmly in place.

Ross remained still.

Heavens.
What if his mother had visited her pineapples? She had never done anything so reckless in her life—and she was a minister's widow. All of her previous actions, which she had dismissed under the bias of attraction to a handsome man, were now seen for their true worth—she had desired this lovemaking since he found her fishing at the lake. Guilt assaulted her conscience, and Ross's never-ending silence only made it worse.
What
had
she
done?

She understood his silence could mean only one thing; he was not going to offer her marriage. Men never did a second time—everyone knew that. Male pride never allowed exposure to rejection twice. Yet some sliver of hope, brought to life by the joy of their shared ardor, died from his continued silence. She felt sick.

Being a male, he probably crowed over another quick conquest. Her wanton behavior must have confirmed his worst accusations that she was some lust-driven widow, or a belief she had manipulated him into the encounter. Heat ran up her back and spread over her cheeks.
She
needed
to
flee.
Before he could sense her movement, she ran from the pinery.

Damnation, he was an ass.
Ross fell backward on the large pile of earth, his spent body seeking rest. He should have fastened her gown, at least, while he searched for the right words to propose. Only this time, ready words had escaped him. She refused him the first time he attempted this proper-gentleman farce, and everyone knew ladies never accepted a second proposal. Besides, men would rather stand naked in the streets than expose themselves to rejection twice.

Hell's fire.
Her soft plea for him to remain in Cheshire had rendered his blood hot, and he charged through the deed like old times, except afterward he never felt so vulnerable, so shattered. He could not adequately explain what she meant to him—could not explain even to himself.

She fled his presence as fast as those well-shaped legs could carry her, and he did not have the strength to make her stay. Ironic, that. He had always considered himself strong; everyone depended upon his strength. In the midst of John's illness, his strength kept both John and his mother from falling apart, but now?
Now
he
needed
strength.

The strength to run after her to request forgiveness, and the bravery to offer his hand regardless of her expected reply. He laughed at the absurdities of his situation. Tomorrow he would call upon her and apologize—an all-too-common occurrence in their relationship. His apologies had failed in the past, and there was every reason why this one would be no different. He had no idea what he would say to her, no idea how to express his feelings, no idea how to make her happy.

He lay unmoving and let a warm burst of steam smother him. In the future, she'd probably greet him coolly before their arranged visit to the foundry and then sit beside him on their journey with the same tight smile his mother wore when one of the housemaids created an accidental mess. Pounding the dark earth with his fist, he felt better, so he pounded again until dirt baptized everything within five feet.

The next day, Ross paid a morning call to make his apologies. With a flushed face, Elinor stood before him like a statue, heard his apologies, and stared like he was a lunatic. When he finished, he started toward the door, and she escorted him out without saying a word.

He returned to Blackwell, explained to his mother that business called him to London immediately. He wrote a short note to Elinor, postponing their travel plans for Thursday. Then he gathered his papers and left that very afternoon for an extended stay.

***

“How would you like to go fishing today?” Elinor asked Berdy on a warm autumn morning. “We can pack a picnic.”

“Capital idea. I know how much you enjoy fishing.” Berdy grinned. “We can also discuss m' new plan for the future.”

Elinor decided to wait until her mind settled before she inquired about the details of his plan. So she left to gather the fishing equipment, and an hour later they stood next to the dense reeds on the south side of the lake. A light morning mist still hung in the air, but the day promised to be a sunny one. They climbed onto a low rock wall some distance from the water's edge and sat in silence for several minutes, watching the mist clear.

She contemplated the dark green water lapping upon the muddy shore. “Three years ago I sat here with William,” she said, her voice unavoidably wistful. “I had everything I could ever desire, William, you, and a happy future for us all. Now I have—”

“You still have me.” He reached out to clasp her hand. “And a future.”

She gave his hand a squeeze. “I was about to say, now I have everything too. Only the nature of everything has changed somewhat. I have you, your future, and my memories.”

He squeezed her palm in return. “Together we'll survive this. Please don't fret.”

She pulled her hand free. “I'm not fretting. With all of these happy memories, I'm a grateful woman. See the thick tuft of reeds over there?” She pointed to a dense clump ten feet wide. “One time, William's line got tangled in that grass. He claimed if it wasn't for those reeds, he would've landed the biggest pike ever.” She smiled and stared off into the distance. “And see that large flat rock half-submerged? That is where I first…”

Where she first met Ross, she was going to say before her throat closed. He had left Cheshire two months ago and still remained in London. When he had paid a call at Pinnacles the day after their lovemaking, she stood shocked, mortified, incapable of responding to his apology. She was unable to explain why she behaved as she did. Now her inability to speak or even acknowledge his apology might have alienated him forever. Whenever he did return, she must keep her promise and join him to evaluate the new smoke catcher. But she swallowed hard upon the thought that he might send her a letter, canceling their trip. Her behavior may have irrevocably torn their friendship.

A startled heron took flight from the water's edge, and they watched the bird disappear over a stand of timber.

Berdy turned to face her. “I've been thinking. What do you think about emigrating to America? We could make the journey together. Johnson from school emigrated, and he lives happily in New York. The Indians now live far to the West, I'm told.”

“America? No.” The old familiarity of being broadsided by a Berdy Rash Scheme returned. Glancing at his expression, she saw the depth of his sincerity and realized she might have misjudged him. “This decision is not a result of your father's behavior, is it?”

“No, that situation was my fault. I didn't listen to him. He never wanted me in London. I realize that now. First I thought I unwittingly exposed the schemes he used to earn a living, but now I've realized he taught me a valuable lesson learned from his own mistakes. Life as a gamester is an unsuitable profession for anyone.” He inhaled deeply. “The only cost of his lesson was a brief loss of m' pride, but it made me a wiser man. So he acted like a parent should, surely?”

She did not fully understand him or actually believe in his father's motivations, but she recognized his generous spirit of forgiveness. “I hope one day you'll thank him.”

He smiled sheepishly. “One day.” Berdy tossed a pebble far into the center of the green lake, and they watched the ripple spread into an ever-increasing circle. “You know, in America we can put the past behind us and start afresh. Think of the adventure we'll have. If I left without you, I may never see you again. Not for years, at least.” The tone of his voice was both sincere and optimistic about the future.

Her heartbeat rose at even a hint of their separation. “Are you truly considering America?”

He reached for her hand again. “Yes, I am. Dr. Potts is all for the idea. He even recommended it, so I've given it serious contemplation. This week I plan to ask several gentlemen, who have acquaintances that emigrated, about the opportunities in America. I need a complete picture of the challenges we might face before making a decision.”

He spoke slowly, adding the appearance of
thought
to the enthusiastic stew of a Berdy Rash Scheme. Moreover, he voluntarily suggested seeking a profession. A comment that rendered her a tad giddy.

“I'm glad to hear you are giving the matter serious thought,” she said, hoping the more contemplative Berdy before her would remain. “Yet, America, so far.” She patted his warm hand again. Her choices seemed simple: the warm life she held in her palm or the memories associated with this rock, this bush, or this house. One choice looked forward with optimism; the other looked backward to the comforts of the past. Of course, if she found herself unwed and with child, America might be the perfect refuge for them both.

The light mist in the center of the lake fully disappeared under the heated rays of the morning's sun.

“Let me know what the gentlemen say about America,” she said. “I cannot imagine leaving Pinnacles, but our absence doesn't have to be permanent. We can always return to England someday.” She faced him and smiled. “Maybe we created another happy memory here today? The beginning of our new future. I hope so.”

After a successful morning fishing, they started home, each proudly holding one end of a stringer displaying three pike and one tench. Up ahead, Henry and Dr. Potts hailed a greeting, dismounted their horses, and joined them on the footpath home.

“My dear Elinor, Deane.” Henry gave them a curt nod. “I feel it is my duty to warn you not to venture out into society just yet.”

“Come now, Mr. Browne, charity please,” Dr. Potts said with a brief bow in their direction.

Henry scowled at Dr. Potts. “Everyone has heard of Deane's reckless behavior in London.” He glared at Berdy. “Gambled away his money and discovered naked outside an alehouse.”

She glanced at Berdy. She never inquired about his troubles in London, because she did not wish to embarrass him. Now there was surprise on his face, nothing more. “I don't believe Berdy has spoken of his adventure to anyone.”

Berdy gave her a heartfelt smile.

“I wonder how society”—she paused—“how did the two of you hear of it?”

Henry moved one step closer than Dr. Potts. “From Mrs. Thornbury, of course. She wrote to her friend, the vicar's wife, who then told me.”

She turned to address Dr. Potts. “How did everyone else hear of it?”

Dr. Potts rubbed his chin and nodded in Henry's direction.

Henry appeared busy tugging on his waistcoat, which had risen to his ribs after his dismount. “I fail to see how the news communicated is more important than the nature of the scandalous behavior. The point is, between the”—he cleared his throat—“impropriety with Thornbury at the fair, and now Deane's disgrace, you can't expect to be warmly welcomed by your neighbors any time soon, either of you. No, I'm sure forgiveness will take years and much effort.”

She and Berdy exchanged sympathetic glances.

“Mr. Browne is mistaken,” said Dr. Potts, calmly ignoring Henry's agitation. “Your neighbors no longer find you at fault and will gladly welcome you. They readily remember your many acts of kindness throughout the parish. Recent events have proved you have been ill-used by Thornbury, and the blame has fallen upon his shoulders, and rightly so.” He straightened to full military attention. “May I call upon you tomorrow?”

She flashed him a warm smile. The doctor and his daughter had informally dined every fortnight for the last five years, and she was pleased he intended to resume the tradition. Except she hoped enough time had passed that he would not embarrass either of them by mentioning his proposal. “Yes, I know Berdy will appreciate the company of Miss Potts, and I would be delighted to have you call.”

“If you don't object, I plan to arrive alone,” Dr. Potts said. “There is an important proposition we need to discuss, remember?” A tender smile broke across his tanned aquiline face.

Henry stopped fidgeting with his waistcoat, glared at Dr. Potts, and took another step forward. “I'll call the following day, for I have your best welfare in mind. To prove my sincerity, I have voluntarily gathered several opinions from the local gentlemen on what actions should be undertaken. The consensus is both you and Deane should move far away to the south of here. I'm told life is better in the South. Perhaps if you choose your destination wisely, your ignominy might not follow. You can then return here in a year or two.” Straightening his shoulders, he appeared quite pleased with himself.

“What an interesting idea, Henry,” Elinor said, giving Berdy a wink. “Actually, we are considering moving west, not south. America perhaps.”

Henry stumbled backward.

“America is the perfect country for a young man like Deane,” Dr. Potts said with a nod at Berdy before he addressed her. “But you should remain here, dear Mrs. Colton. Your many friends would truly miss you.”

“Yes, but for the near future, Berdy and I will stay together.”

They reached a fork in the footpath, where Dr. Potts then took his leave. He mentioned a sick widow needing his attention and headed off down the other footpath.

Henry watched him disappear with a scowl across his handsome face. “Regardless of
his
opinion, my suggestion of moving to the South for a year or two is the better option.”

Together, Elinor and Berdy started walking again, leaving Henry behind. “I must remember to consult Mr. Thornbury about your suggestion,” she said. “I have always found his advice invaluable.”

“As have I,” Berdy added enthusiastically.

“Thornbury,” Henry exclaimed. Pulling his horse's reins to close the distance between them, he scowled at her. “I doubt that man will be able to give you advice. His hands are full at the moment, dealing with the displeasure of his neighbors. The good doctor and I have just passed Mr. Burton, Mr. Mabbs, and others on the way to call upon him today. It seems Thornbury has returned from London and was seen at his foundry. Mr. Burton intends to confront him about it, of course.”

“Confront him about what?” Elinor asked.

“Why, the foundry,” Henry replied. “Burton, Mabbs, their tenants, and others—even I—do not wish a large number of laborers to live in the vicinity. Workers are low people given to drunkenness and filth.”

“They toil in a foundry, so soot from charcoal is inevitable,” she said.

“Still, we will be overrun by Methodists.”

“Half of Macclesfield is Methodist silk weavers and button makers. You don't object to them, do you?”

Henry hesitated. “No, but these workers will reside close to us, not far off in a town like Macclesfield, where you cannot choose your neighbors. We'll be forced to put up with their noisy habits of drunkenness and keeping bulldogs.”

“You own greyhounds. How does that differ from bulldogs?”

Henry stopped walking. “The breed of dog is not important. You surely don't support Thornbury's foundry?”