A Ravishing Redhead (8 page)

His thoughts troubled and his mood dark, Henry shoved away from his desk and stalked up the stairs. Before he quite knew what he was doing he had stopped in front of her door and was pounding against it with a raised fist, loud enough to wake the dead. He heard the mattress squeak and then the patter of bare feet. The lock clicked and turned. The door opened.

“Henry?” said Margaret, her face registering her shock. “Is everything all right? What are you doing?”

He took in the rumpled waves of fiery hair that spilled across her shoulders and the soft clinginess of her ivory nightgown. With a low growl he pushed his way past her and shut the door behind him, plunging the room into darkness.

“What in the world?” Margaret exclaimed. “Henry
what
is going on? Why are you –
oomph
!”  

He silenced her with a kiss. Even without light to guide him he knew where she was purely by touch. He pulled her hard against him, wrapping one arm around her waist while the other held the delicate curve of her jaw as if it were made of glass. Dimly he felt her tiny fists striking at his chest and her bare feet kicking at his shins. With a savage oath he drew back, his breathing heavy, his body aroused beyond measure.

“Have you gone insane?” Margaret hissed.

His reply was a bitter laugh. “I went insane ages ago. Every second, every hour, every night spent without being inside of you is one wasted.” He heard her little gasp of surprise at his lewdness but he plunged recklessly forward, no longer caring about the consequences for they could be no worse than the hell he was already enduring. “I want to be with you as a man is with a woman, Margaret. I want to feel your naked skin slick against mine. I want to touch you in all the places you secretly desire to be touched. I want you writhing beneath me, gasping my name as you come.”  

“Well,” Margaret said after a long pause, her voice shaky but determined. “You only had to say so.”

Henry felt as though he just had been kicked in the solar plexus. Blindly he reached for her and together they tumbled onto the bed. Their lips met, their tongues entwined. He drank her in as his hands explored her body, slipping easily beneath the hem of her nightgown to explore her flushed skin.

Margaret moaned, her head thrashing side to side as his thumb flicked across her nipple. When he pinched the sensitive nub she cried out and arched against him, grinding her hips against his hips, her slender thighs against his thighs.

“Lift your arms,” he panted and when she did he ripped her nightgown off with a savage growl. It floated to the floor and was soon covered by his shirt and trousers. Both naked they rolled across the bed, he on top and then she, neither willing to give up control.

His fingers tangled in her hair and pulled back, exposing the slim column of her throat. He suckled eagerly, working his way down until his mouth settled with ravenous hunger over her breast and his tongue swathed her nipple in lingering circles that had her purring with pleasure.

Agile as a cat she rolled to the side and then crawled on top of him, hitching her long legs on either side of his hips, letting her hair rain down across his chest as she took her turn. He groaned as her nails raked down his chest, and exhaled with pleasure as she soothed the scratches with her tongue.

Henry’s body was on fire and every thought was of her. Her touch burned him from the inside out, making him yearn for something he could not name, something he had never felt before. Grasping her shoulders he flipped her beneath him once again. His fingers dipped, danced, and explored the heart of her heat. She writhed in ecstasy as he coaxed her higher, then higher still, until on a quiet sigh she came into his hand.

His arms braced on either side of her head as he entered her gently, distracting her from the inevitable pain with soft murmurs and gentle, teasing kisses. She quivered beneath him, her body taut as a bow, her eyes closed tight.

“Margaret, look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough with need and the effort it was taking to hold himself back.

Her eyes opened. She gazed up at him, her blue eyes swirling with unsaid emotion and he found himself drowning in their depths, succumbing to her as a sailor would a siren. She whispered his name and he was lost.

Henry slid in to the hilt and she gasped but did not cry out. Her nails clung to his back, digging furrows that he did not feel; could not feel above the waves crashing against his body, pounding into him with the force of a tempest.

One thrust. Two, three. Together they hovered on the brink of the cliff and with each other’s names on their lips they hurtled blindly over the edge.   

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning Josephine and Grace came to call. Margaret met them at the front door and immediately ushered them into the sitting parlor where they spread out amidst the tidy furniture and all began speaking at once.

“When did you get to London –”

“Where is Henry and why do you –”

“Are you going to Lady Devonshire’s ball –”

They burst out laughing. Josephine recovered first. Unlacing her hat and setting it down beside her, she leaned forward and said, “You go first, Margaret. And do start with the reason why you are practically glowing from head to toe.”

“I am not
glowing
,” Margaret said.

Grace tilted her head and studied her friend through narrowed eyes. “There is definitely some sort of glow,” she decided after a pause. “Look Josie! She’s blushing. You’re blushing.”

“Only because it is quite warm in here,” Margaret said defensively. Jumping out of her seat she went to a mahogany chest in the corner of the room and selected a fan from one of the drawers. Expanding it, she began to wave her face vigorously, sending loose curls fluttering back to form a red halo around her head.

“This would not have anything to do with a certain husband of yours, would it?” asked Josephine, arching one eyebrow.

Margaret scowled. Had she known her friends had planned on putting her through an inquisition she never would have invited them over for morning tea. Sitting next to Grace – the lesser of two evils, as far as she was concerned – she snapped her fan shut and fixed Josephine with a hard stare. “If you must know, gossiping old biddy that you are, my imagined ‘glow’, as you put so eloquently put it,
may
have something to do with a certain husband of mine. But that is all I am going to tell you about that,” she said primly.

“Oh pooh.” Josephine waved her hand in the air. “You are no fun at all. What about you Grace? Are you glowing?”

“Me?” The youngest woman exclaimed in surprise. “I’m not even married yet!”

“That certainly didn’t stop me,” said Josephine.

“Then
or
now,” Margaret said pointedly.

Josephine lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug. “Yes, well, not all of us are in love with our husbands.”

“How do you know I am in love with Henry?” asked Margaret curiously. Was it that obvious? Color stole into her cheeks as she recalled the events of last night… And this morning… And again after breakfast. When she had learned Grace and Josephine were not only in London, but were coming to call, it had taken a whirlwind of maids to make her presentable. Even now her skin felt flushed and damp beneath her undergarments, and no amount of powder had been able to fully disguise the faint bruises around her throat courtesy of Henry’s roaming lips. A high necked gown had fixed the problem, but Josephine’s knowing gaze revealed she knew exactly why Margaret had chosen that particular gown to wear for their visit. 

“Darling, it is written all over your face. I am happy for you, truly I am, but you must know that loving one’s husband is the exception in marriages like ours, not the rule.”  

Grace sat up a little straighter and frowned. “I love Stephen,” she said. “And we are going to be married.”

“Don’t remind me,” Josephine muttered.

Sensing an impending battle, Margaret hurriedly rang the bell to signal for tea. It came out on a silver platter and was poured into matching blue and white porcelain cups. The women sipped delicately, giving their thoughts time to settle, and when they began talking again the topic of Grace’s impending marriage was wisely put by the wayside.   

“So where is your delightful husband?” Josephine asked as she stirred another lump of sugar into her tea.

“He left this morning to attend to some business. An accountant of his has been stealing money for quite some time, and –”

“Oh is
that
why he ran off with your dowry?” Grace interrupted, her dark eyebrows rising.

“Yes, exactly so.”

“A good excuse as any, I suppose,” said Josephine.

“Has anyone heard from Catherine lately?” Margaret asked, smoothly changing the subject.

“I have!” said Grace. “I received a letter from her just yesterday. She and Marcus have decided to stay in the country with the children for the Season.”

Josephine set her cup down with a sharp
clink
. “Stay in the country?” she repeated, visibly horrified. “For the
entire
Season? They’re not coming to London at all?”

“Not at all,” Grace confirmed.

“How lovely for them,” said Margaret. She and Henry had already discussed when they would be leaving the city. Their social standing obligated them to attend at least one ball, but after that they were returning to Heathridge with all due haste. London had never held the same allure for Margaret as it had for her friends and Henry had no preference one way or the other. He would go, he had told her this morning as they lay curled in each other’s arms, where ever she went. It was ironic, really. At the beginning of the summer she would have given anything to leave Heathridge and now she wanted nothing more than to go back. Raising her cup to her lips she attempted to hide her smile. Unfortunately, Josephine was not easily fooled.

Fixing her with a piercing stare, the blond haired beauty said, “
You’re
going to remain in London, aren’t you Margaret? The Season is less than two months away! Not worth going back to the country only to turn round again, if you ask me.”

“I am sorry,” she said apologetically. “But Henry and I have decided to return to Heathridge at the end of the week.”

Uttering a long, dramatic sigh Josephine flopped back on the loveseat and threw her arms wide. “You are all deserting me,” she complained.

“I will be here for the Season,” said Grace, looking only slightly put out that she had been forgotten. “Although I imagine most of my time will be spent with Stephen. He does so love taking carriage rides through the park and last week we went on a picnic – with Mother, of course – in the sweetest little town not far outside the city. And the week before that –”

“Please,” Josephine interjected dryly, “spare me the details of your perfect courtship. If I have told you once, Grace, I have told you a thousand times: Lord Melbourne is
not
a suitable match for you. He is opinionated, arrogant, hard headed, and just… just… Well, if you must know, he is simply too old for you!”

“Oh dear,” Margaret murmured.

Grace’s blue eyes widened. “
What
did you say?” she breathed.

“I said your intended is opinionated, arrogant, hard – ”

“Well at least he loves me!” Grace cried. The second the words were out of her mouth her cheeks went pale and she was instantly contrite. “Josie, I am so sorry. I did not mean to imply that – ”

“That my husband does not love me?” Josephine finished. Smiling tightly, she got to her feet as well and began to retie her hat. “Not to worry, dear. I don’t love him either. Margaret, I am afraid I am going to have to take my leave now. I suddenly find I am not feeling well.”

Looking back and forth between Grace, who looked on the verge of tears, and Josephine, who looked murderous, Margaret decided that tea was very much at an end. “Not to worry,” she said with forced brightness. “As I said, I will be in London until the end of the week. That gives us five more days to catch up.”

Josephine nodded, feigned a smile, and marched out without looking back. Distraught, Grace turned to Margaret.

“Do you think she hates me?” she asked miserably.