The Reddington Scandal (4 page)

“You cannot,” she said, slapping his chest, but remaining pressed against him so as not to reveal herself.

“That’s a shame, because from what I glimpsed, you are absolutely exquisite.” It was true—as he returned to the image seared in his mind, he reviewed her attributes at leisure. Her breasts were more than a handful, the nipples tilted upward in an impudent pout. The curve of her waist was as true without a corset as it appeared with the stays, and her bottom… he peered down along her back for another look. Dear God, how he wanted to squeeze those tantalizing cheeks!

“Stop,” she said, though she sounded vaguely pleased.

His fingertips rubbed a slow circle over her low back. “Mmm,” he murmured. “It’s true.”

Through the fabric of his starched shirt, he felt her nipples pressing into his ribs. They had gone hard, just as his cock had. She shifted on her feet. “Teddy, stop,” she said, a touch of panic in her voice.

“I’m sorry, little dove. I cannot help it—it’s in my nature to admire a beautiful woman.”

“Well, I don’t want your admiration, especially considering how many women it has been heaped upon. I think we’d both be happier if you think of me as you think of your sister.”

“As my sister, hmm?” he spoke softly in her ear as his hands continued to stroke her bare skin. “I can try,” he said doubtfully. He coaxed her face away from his chest, tilting her chin up to brush his lips across hers. “But I don’t think that’s possible.”

Her cheeks turned pink and she frowned.

He chuckled, leading her backward, toward the bed, where he pulled off the quilt and wrapped it around her.

Relief flooded her expression. “Thank you,” she breathed.

He smiled down at her, pulling the edges of the quilt across her chest and gazing down fondly. “Next time, perhaps,” he said lightly. “I’ll arrange to have another bat placed in your room.”

“You’re not amusing!” she cried, but it came out more as a laugh than anything.

“I’ll go find that goose of a maid. One might have thought there was a wild boar in here the way she ran out,” he chuckled as he went to the door. “And once you’re dressed, you may wait in my room until the servants have captured your little assailant,” he said, peering up at the top of the armoire, where the bat had disappeared.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” she said, holding the edges of the quilt closed.

He gave her a wink. “It was absolutely my pleasure,” he said.

* * *

Phoebe observed the way his eyes traced up and down her body, noticing a wetness between her legs that had nothing to do with her bath. She sank onto her bed, feeling slightly dizzy.

She put on her dressing gown and robe without her maid’s assistance, unwilling to remain exposed for a moment longer. She didn’t consider herself a ninny, but having a bat tangled up in her hair had sent her heart racing, and not wanting to remain alone in the room with the creature, she knocked and entered Teddy’s room, leaving the adjoining door open and sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed.

She heard voices in the corridor, and her maid’s knock at her own door. “Enter!” she called out, though not sure if her maid would hear her from Teddy’s room. Teddy opened the door to his room. “Ah, she’s in here,” he said to the men in the hallway. “Go into her room now to catch the bat.” To her he said, “Shut the adjoining door, darling, so it cannot fly in here.”

Darling.

He spoke the words so idly, so easily. ‘Darling; and ‘little dove.’ Did he have any idea what those endearments did to her? If only he spoke them sincerely.

He entered the room and shut the door, coming to sit beside her.

“Are you still blushing?” he teased. He touched her cheek. “You don’t have to blush with me. I’m your husband after all, and we live together. Soon we’ll know all sorts of embarrassing things about each other, like when one of us gets the vapors and whatnot.”

She giggled. “Lord Fenton! You are terrible.”

“Teddy,” he corrected her. “Well,” he said, “at least I made you laugh. And it’s true, anyway. But listen.” He put a finger under her chin and turned her face toward his. “I may try to seduce you, but I would never force myself on you. You understand the difference, don’t you?”

She felt her cheeks color again and his eyes softened. “I’m not sure.”

“It’s my nature to seduce women. Well, normally I don’t toy with innocents, but the innocent in question happens to be my wife, so I’m making an exception.” He flashed his lopsided grin, wringing a smile from her.

“But I will only press so long as my advances seem welcome. If I can see you truly don’t wish them, I will withdraw my attentions.”

She considered. He had stopped as soon as she’d turned firm. The moment she’d become nervous, he had fetched the quilt and covered her. He was different—completely different—from Lord Reddington.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured.

She fell asleep that night remembering the feel of his hands on her bare skin—the gooseflesh he had elicited, the stirring between her legs.
It’s my nature to seduce women.
It was his nature to seduce women, and then to leave them. She was
not
going to fall into that trap.

The following day was Sunday, and Fenton escorted the ladies to church and then to Hyde Park, where the
ton
walked about to see and be seen. “I have to show off my new, beautiful wife,” Fenton insisted. “It’s high time to set the tongues to wagging.”

“Then I’m glad I’ve worn my most expensive shoes, Lord Fenton,” she teased and he threw back his head and laughed. “Thank you for your obedience,” he said, causing a tingle to run up her spine at the implication he was her master. “But if you call me Lord Fenton again, I shall take you over my knee.”

“Teddy!” Wynn admonished and he grinned.

He helped her out of the carriage, his strong hands easily spanning her waist and lifting her down as if she weighed nothing. He helped Wynn alight and held out an arm for each of them. “Soon, I suppose I shall have to take you to Northamptonshire to meet my mother,” he said. “Have you written to her yet?” he asked Wynn.

“Yes, though it should not be my duty, should it?”

Fenton only grinned at the peevish reply. “Of course not and thank you.”

“I did not tell her the entire truth of the marriage,” she admitted.

“No, no, indeed.”

Both brother and sister appeared glum for a moment and she wondered what she had to fear in meeting the dowager countess. Was she overbearing and judgmental? Difficult to please?

Fenton walked her up and down the walkways, introducing her as his new wife and remaining so bright and affable she found it impossible to withdraw, though she desperately wanted to, at the countless arched eyebrows and curious looks. At last, Wynn said she wanted to feed the ducks, and Phoebe escaped with her to the edge of the pond.

“Do you think it will be a scandal?” she asked her new friend.

“No,” Wynn said too quickly. “Even if it is, it will not last. Just look at the Westerfield affair—it blew over in a matter of months.”

Phoebe pulled off her glove in order to better grasp the breadcrumbs, and tossed them into the water, accidentally throwing her new glove at the same time.

“Oh, dear! Oh, no!” she exclaimed, kicking off her shoes and wading quickly into the cold pond before the glove sank. The water had been shallow where she’d waded in, but the bank dropped abruptly, and suddenly she found herself completely immersed in water, her legs tangling in her petticoats, the weight of the skirts making it difficult to keep her head above water. She heard Wynn crying her name, then shouting for help before she went under, holding her breath as she struggled to kick her legs underneath her and find the surface. Her lungs felt as if they would burst and still she could not get to the surface. She panicked, flailing frantically as she resisted the impulse to open her mouth and breathe. Little sparks of light danced before her closed eyes and she realized she would swoon shortly and then drown.

A strong arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her head and shoulders above the water. She spluttered, blinking through the cascade of water pouring down her face.

Lord Fenton gripped her firmly, his face creased with concern. Hauling her toward shore, he searched for an area where it was easy to climb out and then helped her to stable ground with his hands around her bottom. He climbed out himself, and without a word, scooped her into his arms and began to carry her toward the carriage.

“Thank you, my lord,” she managed.

“Phoebe, thank heavens!” Wynn said, catching up to them. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. You can put me down, Lord Fenton, I can walk now.”

He did not answer, but merely continued his long strides in the direction of the carriage.

“My lord?”

“Shh, Phoebe. I’m not putting you down until we reach the carriage,” he said firmly, as if he were saying something she ought to already know.

When they reached the carriage, he lifted her in, helped his sister, and climbed in after them. He pulled the curtains in the carriage and then plucked her from her seat and tossed her over his lap, throwing her wet skirts over her head.

She could scarcely breathe from the shock of it, and seeming to know this, the ties on her corset were loosened, just before the loudest slap she could possibly imagine resounded through the carriage.

The driver and horses surely heard it as well, because the carriage took off, bouncing along as Fenton’s hand cracked down again on her sopping wet drawers. She squeezed her bottom, flinching from the sting.

“Teddy!” Wynn hissed. “Stop that!”

She could say nothing herself; all speech had been shocked out of her. Another slap struck her wet bottom and then another, a burn beginning to set in as if she’d sat upon a stinging nettle. Again and again he spanked her, his hand beating a loud rhythm to the cadence of the horses, with Wynn’s sharp protests the counterpoint.

“Ouch!” she finally managed, trying to squirm away.

“Yes,” he said mildly, continuing to spank as if he might never stop, each blow surely leaving the print of his hand upon her raw flesh. It hurt, the pain growing exponentially as he went on. Just when tears began to burn in her eyes, he stopped.

* * *

“You risked your life over a glove?” he demanded, untying the string to her wet petticoats and lifting her to her feet, holding her waist so she would not topple over as she stood. Her hands flew up behind his head to brace against the carriage wall so he had the perfect view of her décolletage. He yanked off the sopping fabric, hoping to avoid her catching cold. “I can buy you a new glove, you silly hen! You might have drowned with the weight of your skirts in there!”

He could tell she was close to tears, and he did not wish her to lose composure, so he kept her busy, turning this way and that as he pulled off her wet stockings and garters, then wrapped her from the waist down in a warm blanket he kept under the seats, holding it in place as he reached underneath and tugged off the wet drawers as well. When at least her bottom half was warm and dry, he pushed her back into her seat, removing his own wet jacket and overcoat.

“Give me your wrap, Wynn,” he ordered.

“No, no, it’s all right,” Phoebe said, but he hushed her, taking Wynn’s wrap and drawing it around her shoulders.

“He’s an absolute tyrant, isn’t he?” Wynn offered to comfort his poor bride, who looked unsure how to react.

He picked up her hand, which was bare since she’d lost her glove, and kissed it. He could feel it tremble against his lips and he pulled it into his lap and held it in both his hands.

“You frightened me,” he offered by way of apology.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, her chest still heaving, her hair plastered to her slender neck. He plucked out several hairpins dangling precariously and pressed them into her hand, which he still held captured on his lap.

“I’m glad you’re all right.”

She blinked rapidly, but did not manage to look at him again.

He ordered a warm bath for her the moment they arrived at home and sent hot chocolate up to her room.

When they met on the landing to go to dinner, he offered his arm. She took it, blushing and lifting her eyes only as high as his collar.

Preferring to address things directly, he touched her hand. “Still blushing over your spanking?”

That caught her ire. She frowned up at him. “Was it supposed to make me sorry? Because it didn’t—it only vexed me.”

He laughed. “I imagine that’s because I let you up too soon. If you like, I can take you into my room and do it properly.”

She flushed a deep shade of pink.

He softened. “No, little dove. It wasn’t to make you sorry; it was merely an expression of my frustration.”

He stopped and turned to face her, picking her hand up off his arm and lifting her fingers to his lips. He held them there until she dragged her eyes up to meet his.

“You frightened me.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back.

“Forgive me my temper,” he said coaxingly.

She shook her head, and he thought she would say she could not forgive him, but instead she shrugged, “I saw no temper. Though if that’s how you behave when you’re frustrated, I should hate to feel your hand when you’re truly angry.”

He released her hand and cupped her face, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. “You never will, love.”

Her chest began to heave, straining against the constriction of her stays and he wondered what reaction she was having to those words. Or perhaps it was his touch that incited her.

“Forgive me my ill grace,” she murmured.

“You were as graceful as can be expected of a young lady who’s been upended over a man’s knee. Are you hurt at all?”

She shook her head. “Just my pride.”

He grinned. “It’s probably reparable. I will let you spank me later to put me back in my place.”

She blew out her breath with a low laugh. “I might like that.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Well, you know where to find me,” he said, leading her down the stairs and into the dining room.