The Taming of the Rake (23 page)

“He smelled of peppermint,” Chelsea said quietly, reliving those terrifying moments in the lobby of the White Swan. “He always used to smell of peppermint, but not for a long time. I’d almost forgotten. He thought it covered the smell of strong spirits. Do you suppose I’ve driven him to drink? At any rate, I thought I was going to throw up on his shoes. Madelyn was there, too, you know. She laughed when Thomas turned and ran out of the lobby as if the hounds of hell were after him.”

“I wish I could have seen that,” Puck said. “Do you think this means they won’t spend the customary night in Gateshead before pushing on?”

“I think we have to assume that, yes, thanks to someone’s mention of plague and mumps in the area.”

“Oh. We hadn’t thought of that, Chelsea, had we? Sorry.”

“Never mind. As long as we stay well ahead of them. Still, it’s yet another reason Chelsea and I need to return to horseback. Brean and his coach will most likely stay to the main roadways, and those roadways will become more clogged with coaches the closer we get to the border. But at least they won’t be moving on with a fresh team in the shafts. Remember?”

Chelsea smiled. “I still can’t believe you hired every team in the entire city.”

“A grand gesture, Beau, but one I’ll forgo the rest of the way, considering that I already heard one angry gentleman offering double what the rental was worth so he could put a fresh team to his coach in order to catch
up with his mother, of all things. Something about the woman and her butler absconding together. Brean will probably do the same. All you’ve done with your misguided pocketbook is to make all the stable owners in Gateshead very happy men.”

“Oliver! Hadn’t you thought of that?”

“Truthfully, no. At the time, it seemed brilliant.”

“At the time,” Puck said, shuddering slightly at some memory, “I thought a lavender waistcoat flattered me. We all make mistakes, I suppose.”

Chelsea nodded. “I didn’t consider air holes when we put Beau in the coffin. Lavender, Puck? Really? Did Oliver ever tell you about his waistcoat of several years ago? It had stripes that actually seemed to
glow.
And his jacket was so tight, his shirt points so high, he probably should have had air holes cut into them, as well.”

“We all have Brummell to thank for his more moderate approach to fashion,” Puck said. “I saw him in Calais, Beau, you know. He’s fast becoming one of the local sights. Sad, sad. We visit, we discreetly leave a purse somewhere he can find it, and then we go away again. I’ve been more careful of my allowance ever since. Debt is a terrible thing.”

“Yet you’re content to owe your existence to the allowance your father gives you?” Chelsea asked before she could guard her tongue. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s none of my concern, is it?”

“Don’t apologize, Chelsea,” Puck said immediately. “I know Beau here oversees all our father’s estates, so
he earns his keep, and that Jack refuses to take a groat from him. I imagine it’s more than time for me to follow their example. In fact, I traded my allowance for one of Papa’s smaller estates, which he said he wanted to give me in any case. For my sins, I am now a landowner, one with absolutely no notion of how any of that works.”

“It works with you or without you, I’ve found, as long as you have good stewards in place, which I have made sure of these past years,” Beau told him. “Go back to Paris, Puck, finish whatever it is you feel needs doing there, and return as you said you would, in the spring. I’ll watch over your estate in your absence. It’s the least I can do to thank you.”

“But not until you stand up with us as we marry, Puck, please?” Chelsea begged prettily. “You won’t just stay here, but will still follow us the remainder of the way, and be there, won’t you, and return with us to Blackthorn?”

She thought she caught a quick exchange of looks between the brothers as Puck agreed he would be there and would have asked them to explain it, except that the coach began to slow before pulling into yet another small inn yard.

“Time to change out of your so-flattering widow’s weeds, Mrs. Claridge, as your husband has made a miraculous recovery,” Beau said, and the subject was dropped.

T
HANK
G
OD
for Chelsea’s admitted inability to tell north from south.

They had a quick lunch at the small but reasonably clean inn the coachman found, changed into their riding clothes yet again—the innkeeper’s wife was delighted with the gift of the widow’s weeds, although her husband hadn’t appeared to be similarly jubilant. They then said their farewells to Puck before watching the coach drive off, heading nearly directly west now and toward the old coaching road, promising to meet them over the border in Gretna Green.

And then Beau had helped Chelsea into the saddle and headed their horses north.

His plan was simple: Gretna Green might be the best-known destination for eloping couples and, indeed, had acquired a bit of cachet for those wishing to marry over the anvil. But it was not the only Scottish town to take advantage of the income derived from performing these runaway nuptials.

In fact, Beau had several destinations to choose from—Lamberton, Mordington, Paxton, Coldstream.
He’d chosen the latter and now had in his pocket a crudely drawn map obtained from the innkeeper.

They would be able to ride across country in many spots, stop about midway for the night and be crossing the border at Coldstream Bridge by midday tomorrow. Directly at the end of that bridge stood the toll house, also known now as the Marriage House. They’d be minus the blacksmith, and most probably any but a symbolic anvil, but the marriage would be just as binding. According to the innkeeper, half of Scotland was now licensed to perform marriages.

Only then would they proceed directly to Gretna Green, to confront Chelsea’s family. Not that Beau was going to allow her within a mile of her brother and sister. No, they’d meet with Puck outside the village, and he would keep her safe as Beau rode on to meet with the earl.

Beau turned slightly in the saddle now to speak to Chelsea, as they were all but walking their mounts for a mile to rest them. “You like Puck, don’t you?”

She looked at him quizzically. “Well, yes, of course. He’s very likeable. And not half as silly as he’d like the world to think. Although he is silly. Young.”

Beau laughed. “Young? He’s a good five years your senior, I might point out.”

“Oh, that doesn’t signify. Boys stay silly much longer than girls. Probably because they’re allowed to do so. Girls are set to growing up much earlier, being told to practice ways that will have them snapped up from the marriage mart their very first Season. By the time I was
fourteen, I had learned how to manage a household, plan dinner parties and the proper protocol for placing the guests around the table, among too much more to mention. What was required of you at fourteen, Oliver? That you know how to spit without dribbling on your chin?”

“Actually, I think I was mastering how to swear like a sailor and whistle like a coachie. At fifteen, my father took me to the local tavern and introduced me to Lottie, who’d…educated most of the young lads in the area. That was supposed to make me a man, you understand. And why the devil do I tell you these things? Come on, the horses are rested enough.”

“Yes, sir,” Chelsea said, still grinning. “But first, is Lottie still at the tavern?”

“Why would you ask me something like that?”

“I don’t know. I thought perhaps I should thank her.” Her grin turned positively wicked. “Now come on, Oliver. We mustn’t dawdle. We have a blacksmith to see in Gretna Green tomorrow.”

He watched her spur her mount on, his mouth half open, although he didn’t know what he could possibly have said to her in any case. In the end, he settled for muttering a line from Shakespeare he no longer believed he could give much credence: “‘Men at sometime are the masters of their fate,’” and adding, “but clearly not right now.”

Three hours later, believing they’d covered as much ground as they needed to in order to make it to Coldstream by midday the next day, he’d signed the inn
register as Mr. and Mrs. Claridge for what he hoped would be the last time and asked that their belongings be removed from their saddles and taken up to their rooms. He also, when Chelsea pointedly nudged him with her elbow, ordered that tubs be immediately prepared for them both.

She nudged him again, and he ordered a late supper, to be served in Mrs. Claridge’s chamber in one hour.

“Is there anything else, my dear,” he asked, employing the weary tone of an aggrieved husband without much effort as they walked toward the stairs, “or am I released to visit the taproom for a mug of ale?”

“No, unfortunately not. I was simply practicing being a wife. Do you mind?”

He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “In truth? No, I don’t think I do. I think I should, but I don’t. You’re a frightening woman, Chelsea.”

“Oh, well, that’s good. I’ve always wanted to be—ah, there’s my bag.” She turned away without another word to him, following the serving maid up the stairs, telling her which bag belonged to her and already asking if she could have something in it pressed immediately, please.

He watched her until she’d gotten to the top of the stairs, at which point she stopped, turned to look down at him and said, “You may want to have that supper sent up in
two
hours, Oliver.”

Beau thought about that statement for a moment, thought about how upset Chelsea had been about possibly leaving behind the purchases Puck had made and
he had carried back to the inn that night…and then he went to hunt down the innkeeper and change his instructions, delaying their supper by
three
hours.

He should have said
four,
something he realized when he’d bathed and dressed and gone knocking on Chelsea’s door.

Moments later he stood just inside Chelsea’s assigned bedchamber and watched as she walked toward him, stopping a few feet away to hold out her arms and turn in a full circle in front of him.

It would seem the mischievous Puck had made one of his purchases in a shop catering to high-priced courtesans. He’d have to take very good care of his brother’s estate while Puck was still in Paris.

Chelsea’s new nightwear was white. But there, any comparison to
virginal
stopped and
blatantly sexual
began.

There was silk, yards and yards of sleek, flowing silk. There were areas of lace, sheer, and in the most interesting places. Thin satin ribbons crisscrossing her bosom, which was entirely bare beneath the dressing gown, and with a long, oval-shaped, cunning cut in the center of the flowing skirt, so that when she had walked toward him and the material moved, he could catch glimpses of her knee, her thigh…and higher.

Never in the history of the world had a woman wearing so many yards of material appeared to be quite so naked.

Her hair was down, the soft curls shining in the fire
light, seven or more unbelievable shades of blond and gold, tangled in artful disarray.

Her eyes…those bewitchingly clear, gray-blue eyes. Part amused, part questioning…definitely hungry.

“It, uh, it took forever to figure out how it all went. The ties and things. At first I thought I had it on backward…but then I finally realized how it all works.”

“It all works very well,” he said, feeling a sudden need to swallow.

She lifted a hand to tug on one of the satin ribbons holding the dressing gown shut at her throat.

“No,” he said, his voice more husky and pleading than imperious. “Leave it.”

He approached her slowly, the anticipation nearly as good as what would come next, his body already hard and ready, his mind awhirl with possibilities.

He settled on one. There were more. But, then, they had all night…

A kiss. He’d begin with a kiss.

She lifted her mouth to his, a small smile curving her lips so that they were warm, welcoming. Sweetly, supremely sensual. Their tongues met, played, teased in ways that were more instinctual than calculating, practiced.

His hands went to her waist, and he picked her up, mouths still joined, her arms wrapped around his neck. He carried her to the table beside the fire and sat her down, insinuating himself between her legs.

Then moved his hands to more interesting places. His thumbs skimmed her nipples through the revealing lace
of the dressing gown, the material slightly rough, just enough to arouse, to tighten, so that when he cupped her left breast in his hand and put his mouth to her, it was to feel the hard bud of desire through the material. She held on tight as he licked at her, took her nipple and the damp lace into his mouth, flicked her with his tongue.

She moaned, low in her throat. If he had been anticipating, so had she. They both knew what they wanted, and they wanted it now.
Now.

He took her hand and guided it to her other breast, pressed her palm to the underside of it, put his thumb over hers and showed her how to move it over her nipple. How to please herself, even as he was pleasing her.

She didn’t pull away. Within moments, she was squeezing her nipple between thumb and forefinger, coaxing it to bud for him. Only then did he shift, still cupping her left breast and taking it into his mouth as he had the other.

She knew. She knew what he wanted. Because what he wanted had become what she wanted. As he suckled at her, nipped gently at her, she began pinching and rubbing her left breast as he held it as if in offering to her…as she held her other breast, offering it to him.

He slid his hand between her legs, his stroking fingers matching the rhythm of his tongue, her own clever fingers. She threw back her head, nearly weeping in her pleasure, bucking against him as he took her higher, higher.

“Oh, God…. Oh, God. So…so good…”

She wrapped her arms and legs around him as he lifted his head and kissed her yet again.

He worked his buttons free, the urgency gripping him impossible to delay much longer. She was all heat, all fire, her legs wrapped tightly around him, her center open to him.

She was silk and lace, sleek and wet. Wild and wanton.

His.

He pushed himself into her, feeling her body pulsing with her pleasure, and drove into her deeply, again and again, until she tensed, hovered, suspended over the brink.

He moved one last time, and she cried out, clung to him as he exploded inside her, took what she gave, gave in return. Gave with passion, gave with need, gave with a certainty that he would never, could never, feel this way with any other woman.

She was his.

And he was hers….

T
HEY LAY
on the bed, Beau’s head in Chelsea’s lap, and she fed him grapes, warning him not to choke because that was one story she didn’t want to tell their grandchildren.

“If I choke right now,” he told her between grapes, “there won’t be any grandchildren.”

She leaned down so that she could whisper the next words in his ear. “Now, Oliver, think about what we
have been doing, and what you just said. How can you know that for sure?” Then she pounded him on the back as he jackknifed to a sitting position, coughing and choking.

“You did that on purpose,” he said accusingly, wiping at his eyes with a corner of the sheet. “But, yes, I know it’s possible.”

“Lottie explained it all to you, I imagine,” she said sweetly, putting down the bowl of grapes.

“No, you pernicious brat. Lottie showed me how to
avoid
such consequences. I simply can’t seem to remember them when you’re strutting about half-naked, seducing me.” She giggled.

He couldn’t believe it. She was the most passionate, naturally sensual female in his fairly vast experience, and yet with that free, unaffected giggle she became at once young, innocent, playful. And, because she was also intelligent, funny, unexpected and kind, she was also the most dangerous woman in the world.

Beau looked at her for long moments and then said, “I begin at last to understand my father’s dilemma.”

“Pardon me?” Chelsea shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he said, wishing he hadn’t said anything. “No, not nothing. I said, am saying, that when a woman takes hold of a man, as you seemed to have done with me—don’t look away—there isn’t much she can ask that the man wouldn’t give. To make her happy. To hear her laugh, see her smile. To
keep
her.”

Chelsea’s bottom lip trembled slightly. “Oliver, that was the nicest possible thing you could ever say to me. And the worst. I don’t want to think that…that I have
wiles.
”

“You’d rather think you’re powerless to move me?” he asked her, laying her back against the bed, watching as her hair fanned out across the pillows.

“No,” she said with her customary honesty. “But I’d like to believe I would never purposely
try
to…to move you. I really move you?”

He leaned closer to nuzzle at her throat. “Now I’ve done it, haven’t I? Yes, Chelsea, you move me. Not to say that I wouldn’t first ask
why
if you were to suggest that I cut off my right hand for you. But I’d probably consider it. That’s also probably why women have never had to go to war. There’s no need to take up arms when you can conquer with a smile, a look.”

“Or with a bit of naughty nonsense that, now that I’ve worn it, probably means I will never be able to look your brother in the eye again.”

“Yes, but that was why you insisted Puck go back to the inn to gather up our meager belongings, wasn’t it? You’d brought the gown with you, planning to wear it for me.”

“But not to employ it as a…a feminine wile.”

He insinuated his hand inside the clever opening to draw lazy circles on her belly even as he began tracing a line of kisses down the side of her throat and into the sweet valley between her breasts.

“Well,” she said, her voice slightly breathless, “maybe just a little…”

Beau chuckled against her skin and then raised his head to look deeply into her eyes. “I never do anything I don’t want to do, Chelsea, and I haven’t for a very long time. The difference is that now I want to do everything for you. I don’t think you planned things that way, and God knows I didn’t, but here we are.”