Sinfully Ever After (Book Club Belles Society) Page 22

  “Is there anything else you wish to ask me about?” he prompted. “We have few chances to be alone together. We ought to make the most of this opportunity.” He sighed heftily. “I’ll let you ask me questions, I suppose. Just this once, mind, woman. Don’t make a habit of it.”

  For a moment, she hesitated and then blurted again, “What about your harem?”

  “My harem?” He squinted.

  “The ladies who habitually followed you about. Mrs. Kenton says there were hundreds of women.”

  “Hundreds, eh?” He whistled low, shaking his head.

  “Is that all you have to say?” she demanded, almost dropping the lantern, getting her temper up again.

  He eyed her in bemusement. “There were women in my past, yes. A man’s got to find some relief.”

  “But women are supposed to remain chaste until they marry,” she snapped. “The world is unfairly biased against women.”

  “That ain’t my fault too, is it?”

  “And what about Sarah’s mama?” she demanded.

  Now he paused, took a breath. Here he must proceed carefully. If he told her everything, she might tell Charles and that would put little Sarah in danger. Rebecca might not mean to tell, but when her temper was up, she had a tendency to explode with sparks that she couldn’t restrain. He’d seen it and felt their heat several times now.

  “Sarah’s mama was a merry lady and a very good friend. She did not know an easy life. Not the sort of life you and your friends enjoy, Miss Sherringham. She couldn’t read or write, but she was clever in her own way. And like you,” he glanced down at her as she held the swaying lantern and frowned up at him, “she was averse to the idea of marriage. Liked to look after herself.”

  “Would you have married her then, if she wanted you to?”

  “I…do not know what I would have done.”

  “But Sarah is your child.”

  What else could he say, with the Clarendons breathing down his neck? For the little girl’s sake, he lied. “Yes. She is my daughter.”

  Rebecca frowned and looked away again. They were now within sight of the manor house gates and there was a twinkling light ahead of them, proving that another couple had got there first, obviously having the same idea as Luke.

  “Make haste, Miss Sherringham,” he muttered, pointing with his cane. “I don’t like to lose!”

  Twenty-two

  Becky pushed open the gate and Luke lurched after her. “Which direction to the apple trees? We’ll find mistletoe growing there, I’m sure.”

  Now she realized what the clue “Berries that bring peace” meant. As he’d teased her earlier, Becky’s mind was working at a slow pace that evening, but he was wrong to think Charles the cause. She was consumed with thoughts of him, not Charles. Trying to make sense of this man who she thought she understood.

  Oh dear—mistletoe—he wouldn’t try to kiss her again, would he? He did say they should make the most of this opportunity.

  At least his company on the walk had been interesting and informative. When he wasn’t trying to show off for her, not trying to use his charm on her, he was quite…tolerable…company, she supposed.

  She glanced down at her basket and the little wooden horse he’d made. He was very clever with that knife of his, chiseling the figure of a horse so speedily. Becky suspected he’d done that before and she wondered where, or for whom. She always admired people who were talented with their hands, but he was very casual about it.

  They reached the apple trees and there, sure enough, they found mistletoe. He set the basket down and reached up into the branches, using his handy knife to sever a bunch.

  “When I was young,” he grunted, “there was a bower of mistletoe put up in the servants’ hall below stairs.”

  “I suppose you captured the hapless housemaids beneath it.”

  “I didn’t have to capture them. They hung about under it, just waiting for me to pass.” He looked down at her, grinning.

  Yes, she could quite imagine it. Not that she wanted to.

  He continued, “Each time a kiss was taken, a berry was plucked off the bower. Then, once the berries were all gone, no more kisses could be stolen beneath it.” With a deep sigh, he examined the clump of pearly berries he’d cut free. “I always thought it was a very sad sight, that empty bower of mistletoe. Meant all the jollities were over for another year.”

  Was it the moonlight catching his sad face that made her want to cheer it up? He looked wickedly handsome. Even youthful perhaps. “I very much doubt you waited a full year for more jollities,” she exclaimed in a whisper.

  And that was something else she couldn’t explain—the sudden need to whisper. After all, who would hear them, and what did it matter if they did?

  But there was another couple somewhere in the orchard, for they’d seen the lantern from a distance. That must be the reason why she had fallen instinctively to whispering. Let the other couple struggle to find mistletoe among the moonlit trees; she would not let her voice lead them to it.

  With the colonel’s arms reaching overhead again for more mistletoe, he seemed even taller and she, standing beside him, felt very small, awestruck by his powerful musculature. She had forgotten the faint odor of manure on his boots, for that was overcome by masculine sweat and something else. Lemons and sage? Perhaps Sarah had attempted to douse him in scent before they came out that evening. Poor Sarah. Hers was an uphill task, but she was quite a stubborn little thing.

  As he handed the mistletoe down to her, Becky plucked one of the berries from the cluster. “I daresay you want a kiss from me now,” she whispered. “The way you used to take them from those housemaids.”

  Surely that was why he told her the story.

  But he looked startled when the berry rolled into his palm from her fingers.

  “You may have just one,” she added, pert. “It is Christmas, and Jussy assures me it’s the season of good will to all men. Even you.”

  “Even me, eh?”

  Becky nodded. Despite the cold air, she was rather hot. And looking up at his mouth was making her hotter.

  A sudden gust of wind blew through the broken pane of glass and the lantern flame went out, leaving them in moonlight. Her pulse was speeding recklessly, just as it was when he tickled her palm and raced the gig with her in it. Just as it had when he kissed her before.

  “One berry to make our peace,” she said.

  “I would like that. I don’t want us to be at war, Rebecca.” Whenever he said her first name, it made her throat feel tight, as if something lurked there waiting to fly out. She was rarely called “Rebecca” these days unless she’d done something wrong and had to be reprimanded. Or unless they were being formal in Mrs. Makepiece’s house, of course.

  “But I’m not going to kiss you again,” he said softly.

  She thought she’d misheard. Had he not told her that they should make the most of this time alone?

  “Like I warned you at the party, Miss Sherringham,” he muttered, “you’ll get no more kisses like that from me, until our wedding night.”

  She knew her mouth had fallen open, but if anything came out, she didn’t hear it.

  “I’m a gentleman now,” he added, with just a hint of smugness. “Gentlemen don’t kiss young ladies on their lips.” His hand moved through the darkness and he pressed a finger to her upper lip, bringing it down to meet the lower. “Proper gentlemen. Like me.”

  She could taste his skin on her lips. Appalled, she stared through the shifting moonlight as that breeze rattled the branches above them and cast shadows across his face.

  “That is what you said you wanted,” he reminded her. “A gentleman.”

  * * *

  She could not hide her disappointment. It gleamed gold in those rich brown eyes. Even in the shadows and moonlight, he saw it.

  Luke m
oved his finger from her soft, tempting lips and ran it slowly along her cheek to feel the cool, smooth skin. Except it wasn’t cool as he’d expected; it was very warm. He let his knuckles play carefully over it and felt the weight of sheer need in his chest. The need to make her his.

  “Damn you,” she exclaimed. And just when he thought she would slap his face and run off, instead she launched herself forward, knocking him off balance until his back hit the trunk of the apple tree. She planted her mouth to his. He should have stopped it, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. It was years since he’d felt this aroused, this much sheer desire for a woman.

  She nipped his lower lip with her teeth and then whispered breathlessly, “You like a woman with bite.”

  Powerless, dazed, he let her kiss him again, savagely. Her tongue swept his, tangled with it, exploring forcefully, impatiently.

  Desperate to regain some control, Luke grabbed the curve of her waist. His conscience told him to push her back, to end the kiss. But he wanted every inch of her for himself. So he tugged her closer and let his hands slide downward to grip that delightfully rounded bottom hidden from him under too many layers.

  Shouldn’t have done that. Didn’t stop doing it though. Lucky Luke was back full force, breaking through the “gentlemanly” veneer he’d tried on for her.

  Now his erection pushed at her through their clothing and she slid her hand down to it. He shuddered, cupped her bottom harder, almost lifting her off her feet. Already his mind was thinking of where he might lay her down without getting too much dirt on her coat.

  Christ, if she didn’t protest, in a minute—

  Her lips left his and Luke was left gasping for air, his eyes closed.

  Don’t let her win, the voice of reason shouted in his head. She’s trying to prove you can’t be a gentleman. That you are still that sinner, the old Lucky.

  The cunning, slippery wench.

  When Luke opened his eyes, she was gone, taking the basket with her.

  * * *

  Running through the moon-dappled orchard, not looking where her feet landed, she tripped over a knotted tree root and fell into another pair of arms.

  “There you are! I’ve been searching for you.” Moonlight kissed his golden cherubic curls as he beamed at her. “Now we can finish the game together. Surely that grumpy old captain won’t mind swapping partners. I hear one woman is much the same to him as any other.”

  “Colonel,” she corrected breathlessly. “Colonel, not captain.” Thank goodness he couldn’t see inside her to where she was a complete and utter disordered mess. She had just touched the colonel’s manhood through his breeches, felt it move and thicken against her exploring hand. She’d kissed him like a madwoman, unable to stop herself.

  What was he turning her into?

  “Colonel, captain. Six of one, half dozen of the other.” Charles laughed merrily.

  “Well, no…not at all. It’s quite different.”

  “Ah, who cares? Come on, what have you got in your basket?”

  Becky was reluctant to show Charles the contents of the basket and he had to snatch it from her to see. He looked at the wooden horse, picking it up and turning it over in his hand.

  “Where did you find this? Is it yours?”

  She swallowed and replied as carelessly as possible. “He made it.” Taking the basket now seemed selfish. These were things he’d found and made. They did not belong to her. She was a thief, as well as a hussy.

  “Very clever, I daresay. The sort of thing a man learns to do when he has idle time on his hands.” Charles tossed the wooden horse back into the basket with a flip of his wrist.

  “I shouldn’t have taken it. Really, it’s his. So is the mistletoe. He solved the riddle.” She took the basket back from Charles and looked over her shoulder into the dark orchard, wondering where Luke was.

  “Lord, I’m cold!” Charles exclaimed. “Let’s go back to your father’s house at once for that hot chocolate I was promised.”

  “But we haven’t found all the things on the list.” In truth, she’d forgotten the weather. She looked down at her basket, forlorn. Lucky Luke had been her knave, and he had said she was his flower.

  Foolish man. What a thing to say to her. She was the most unflowerlike woman that ever lived in Hawcombe Prior. Everyone told her she was a tomboy. They put her in breeches to play all the male parts in the play, and when she joined cricket games on the common, no one liked standing up to bat if she was bowling.

  “Where is Lucy?” she asked, finally remembering that Charles was supposed to have a partner.

  “Oh, I expect the captain has sniffed her out by now. They can finish the hunt together and bore each other instead of us, eh?”

  “Colonel,” she corrected him again. “Not captain.”

  She thought of Lucy and her proud bosom possibly distracting Lucky Luke in the moonlight. It did not make her feel any better, despite the fact that she was resolved not to be sorry, not to regret kissing him like that and stealing the things he’d found. A man like Luke would not care about the rules of any game, so why should she?

  * * *

  Luke saw the other woman standing with her lantern, calling out rather feebly for young Master Clarendon. Then he knew at once where his own partner had gone after kissing him and fleeing into the moonlight.

  As he limped through the orchard to join the abandoned young lady, he raised his free hand to his mouth and felt for a bite mark. He was surprised she didn’t draw blood. She, it seemed, was hungry tonight.

  So was he.

  Desire shuddered through his body, through his veins like a potent elixir. But somehow he must conquer it, because he was trying to follow the rules for once.

  Ringlets-and-Rouge didn’t know she’d been deliberately spurned but assumed she’d simply gotten lost in the dark orchard. Luke, therefore, was her rescuer and she did everything but swoon into his arms.

  “Come on, Miss Brook. Let us find our way to the major’s house.”

  “It’s Bridges,” she exclaimed, her delight at being rescued turning quickly to irritation. “Lucy Bridges! Sometimes I think I might as well not be here. No one pays attention to me!”

  He laughed softly. “My poor Miss Bridges! Come take this old lame fellow’s arm and we will lament together at being mistreated.”

  She pouted. “I’m quite sure you were never overlooked, Colonel.” But she took his arm and they walked on together.

  “Tell me about Miss Sherringham and Charles Clarendon.”

  The young lady was pleased to do so, telling him all about Rebecca’s list of attributes required in a husband and how Clarendon fulfilled them all. “I’m quite sure she would marry him had he asked her. Some said it was only a matter of time. But then you came along, of course, Colonel. And now no one knows what to think.”

  He sighed, for he was suffering much the same bewilderment.

  What he really needed to do was get a look at that list of hers.

  Twenty-three

  The players gathered in Major Sherringham’s parlor where he had the merry job of judging the results after several glasses of his favorite port had been consumed. Justina and Diana had brought an egg, mistletoe, a childhood doll, the flower from a bonnet, and a knave from a pack of cards. They would have been declared the winners, but then Sarah returned with an unusually disheveled Elizabeth Clarendon and they had all the items on the list.

  Much to Luke’s alarm, his daughter had completed her treasure trove with something the others had not found—a sign of royal gratitude.

  She took it from her basket and set it down before the major with a proud flourish. “My father’s medal,” she said. “For services to crown and country. I think that fulfills the requirement.”

  Every face now turned to Luke, most in open amazement.

  “I found it in my uncle’s desk drawer,�
�� Sarah explained, smug. “Which I know is where you told him to keep it. And when I went through your knapsack, I also found this.” She took the last item from her basket and unfolded it. “A knave.”

  There, laid on the table beside his medal, was the playing card across which he had written, Gyngersnappe Ohs Lucky Wonne Kisse.

  Now they all looked at it, all read it. He had no idea how many of those present would put the pieces together.

  So that was where Sarah had seen the name “Lucky.”

  He dared not look at Rebecca’s face. After their kiss in her kitchen, he’d taken the card with him, kept it with his belongings. Would she mock him for that? Her scorn could be fairly withering.

  He grabbed the card and slipped it into his pocket, but the major had already picked up the medal to admire it and the others gathered around to do the same.

  “Why, ’tis the sultan’s medal,” the old man said, turning it over to show the eight-pointed star and crescent moon.

  “All a long time ago,” Luke muttered.

  “You should be proud of it,” exclaimed Sarah. “Why hide your medal?”

  Because it was not something he wanted to talk about, and he’d asked Darius, upon his return, not to speak of it. His brother had tried to hand the medal over to him, but he didn’t want to look at it. He did not want to be rewarded for surviving when many good fellows with loving families at home had died horrifically. The fact that he—a man for whom no one much cared—had lived to be given a medal on a ribbon seemed somehow ridiculous.

  “Some paid for these with their lives,” was all he could say to the waiting party in the major’s parlor.

  The fire crackled in the hob grate, and he felt Miss Sherringham’s eyes staring. Everyone looked, of course. But he felt her curious gaze the most, and her silence seemed deafening. For the first time in his life, he actually wished for a woman to speak. She did not, however. And what did he want her to say, in any case?

  Again the room fell respectfully but awkwardly silent, until Miss Clarendon cried impatiently, “It would seem we have won then, as we have the most items from the list!”