Tis the Season to Be Sinful (7 page)
Oh, dear, now what?
Drawing her close, he said softly in her ear, “No need to look so unhappy. I’m just getting started.”
Startled, Juliet pulled back. A surprising gleam of devilment in Richard’s eyes warned her that she had totally underestimated him. He lowered the hand clasped to her waist down to her buttocks, drawing her intimately closer. She immediately felt the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently between her thighs.
Excitement skittered through her at the realization that she aroused him. His lips began wandering down the side of her neck and her passion flamed. The intimate contact brought vividly to life the memory of what it felt like to be in a man’s arms. Desired, cherished, safe.
Too long. It has been far too long.
A small whimper escaped at the next teasing, erotic brush of his lips against hers. She parted them and his tongue pressed deep inside her mouth. The wanting, needing increased as Richard swept his tongue against hers. Boldly Juliet suckled it, drawing it deeper, pressing it playfully between her teeth.
He made a low sound in his throat and tightened his hold on her body. She liked the feel of his hand in her hair, liked his strong hands kneading her lower back and buttocks, liked his muscular arms and chest fitting so snugly against her. His hand skimmed the length of her from breast to hip, and shocking passion blazed through her, filling her with a hot, achy, restless urgency.
She forgot to breathe. All she wanted was to feel—to revel in his kisses, experience the passion, to allow the touch and taste and scent of him to envelop her completely. He kissed her like he meant it and made her feel like she’d been waiting for years to feel this smoldering emotion again.
Then, suddenly it was over.
A sigh of bereavement fell from her swollen lips as Richard stepped back. Juliet felt herself falling forward, her lips blindly seeking what had been so cruelly removed. He caught her hands in his and her eyes popped open.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
Juliet drew an unsteady breath. “So are you.”
His hands twitched in hers. He stared at her for a long moment. “I believe I have my answer, but prudence demands I hear it from you.”
“What was the question again?”
He grinned. “Marry me.”
“Yes.” Surprisingly, the answer came to her easily. Devastating passion could do that to a person, yet there was more. His offer had given her hope for the future, despite her age and the tragedies of her past. His kisses had awakened her longings, her dreams of finding happiness with a man she could one day come to love.
“I must get to London today, but I will return in three weeks’ time for the wedding.” He paused. “Is that acceptable?”
“Yes.”
“My secretary Barclay will return in a few days to assist you with the wedding plans. Do whatever you’d like, though I’d prefer something simple as befitting a second marriage.”
Juliet nodded. “We can have the ceremony in the drawing room of the manor.”
“Fine.” His brows knit together as if he had suddenly remembered something very important. “The drawing room with the Egyptian decor?”
“Oh, no. The front drawing room, done in shades of blue and gold.”
“A much better choice.” Looking vastly relieved, Richard regarded her a moment. “Is there anything else before I take my leave of you?”
Juliet quirked her brow, momentarily worried that she would once again have to ask for a kiss. But thankfully Richard needed no encouragement. With a devastating smile he leaned toward her. She could feel that smile as his lips touched hers, and it gave her an unexpected jolt of happiness—and hope.
He was still smiling when he walked out of the dowager house ten minutes later.
So was she.
With a frustrated sigh, Richard tossed the report on the table. He had read the same paragraph three times and it still made no sense. What was wrong with him tonight?
Part of his usual routine involved working late into the night. He had always found this an excellent time to do his most important thinking. Without the distractions of others around, the interruptions of normal business hours, his imagination could open and expand. Some of his most inspired ideas, and subsequent success, had come on a night such as this one.
But tonight he was restless, distracted. By his future wife, of all things. How perfectly extraordinary and completely unexpected.
Richard shook his head. It must have been the letter he received today. Chatty and warm and full of nonsense, yet it left him feeling like he was an integral part of something far bigger than himself. Like he belonged.
Ridiculous.
This marriage was a business merger—nothing more. He needed a country estate, he wanted Highgrove Manor, and the fastest way to obtain it was through marriage. True, a part of him had also wanted to best the arrogant Earl of Hastings. Nothing fired Richard’s blood more than losing something he had decided he wanted. Especially to someone as pompous and egocentric as the earl.
Of course, marriage to the fair Juliet was not completely a sacrifice. She was a lovely woman—elegant, witty, and passionate. He believed they would do well together in this arrangement, provided they each understood the parameters.
He was determined that his marriage change very little in his life. He would spend the majority of his time in London, on his own, going out to the country when needing to entertain. Richard had no doubt that Juliet would be an excellent hostess. Her presence at Highgrove Manor would elevate his status among his current and potential business associates. Having such an elegant wife would prove a great advantage, one Richard intended to press at every opportunity.
Her age and maturity were also great benefits. Though she claimed no great connections, she had been raised a gentlewoman and had married into the nobility. And she was already a mother, so there was no need to explain or defend his insistence on not having any children.
A familiar stab of pain welled inside at the idea of a baby, stirring memories long buried, but not forgotten. Losing a child was a wound that took years to heal, a wound that left a scar no amount of time could ever fully erase. A wound Richard carried stoically in silence.
“Lord George has arrived, Mr. Harper,” the butler said as he entered the study.
Richard glanced at the clock, noting it was already well past 1 a.m. He thought the servants had long gone to bed, but he should have realized his butler, Pearson, would be waiting until the master of the house retired. Richard shook his head, trying to decide who were more stuffy, rigid, and formal in this country—the servants or the individuals they served.
“Does Lord George require assistance to his room?” Richard asked, feeling magnanimous. The first time his friend had stumbled unexpectedly into his house in the early morning hours, he had made the mistake of asking his butler if George was too piss drunk to stand on his own. Appalled by his language and attitude, Pearson had kept his nose pointed upward in the air for nearly a week.
“No, sir, Lord George is none the worse for wear. He wishes a word with you, if you can spare the time,” the butler replied.
“Show him in,” Richard said.
“No need to announce me, Pearson, because I’m already here.”
Lord George Moffat, second son of the Duke of Hetheridge, stumbled only slightly as he entered the room. A bachelor in his early forties, with a fit physique, dark coloring, and a prominent nose, which gave him a hawkish appearance, he was nevertheless an attractive man who boasted a good many lady friends.
His exploits among society were said to be exaggerated by the gossips, but after knowing George these three years, Richard credited most of them as being damn near the full truth. On the outside, George was the epitome of a charming wastrel, an irresponsible spendthrift thinking only of his own pleasure, with no thought to the consequences.
Yet underneath this facade, there was a shrewd intellect, and a biting wit that could cheer even the dourest of individuals. Given their vastly different upbringings, social position, and personalities, the two men should have gotten on together as well as oil and water. Yet amazingly they had become close friends.
“Your usual room has been made ready for you, Lord George,” the butler said stiffly, drawing himself up to his full height.
“Good man, Pearson.” George patted the servant amicably on the back. The butler straightened noticeably, releasing a long-suffering sigh. Then with a low, formal bow, he quit the room.
“I see the old boy’s as stiff as ever,” George said as he flopped into the leather chair across from Richard’s desk. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why you keep him on staff.”
“Isn’t having a prick as a butler a mark of my wealth, status, and cultural superiority?”
“No. It’s a sign of burgeoning insecurity.”
“Shut up.” Richard pushed to his feet, feeling the need to stretch his restless legs. “If you find my servants so distasteful, you can always take yourself off to the family mansion in Grosvenor Square.”
George shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not! My brother Lawrence and his wife are in town. They arrived this morning. Apparently, their recent trip to Italy has done wonders to revive their foundering marriage. They were cooing and smiling at each other constantly, holding hands, calling each other by these ridiculous pet names.”
“Nauseating.” Richard poured two glasses of whiskey, handing one to George.
“That’s not even the half of it. I accidentally interrupted their amorous adventure in the conservatory this afternoon. God, it was awful.” George shuddered, then took a long sip of his drink. “They were cavorting like a pair of young lovers, nary a stitch of clothing on either of them. Among the flowering orchids, of all places! No, Richard, I cannot return to the mansion until they leave. And I strongly doubt I shall ever be able to set foot in the conservatory again nor look at an orchid without getting a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.”
George released another shudder before gulping more of his drink. Richard laughed. He swirled the whiskey in his own glass, idly watching the amber liquid spin. “You may stay as long as you wish,” he said cordially.
“I’m grateful.” George slumped into his chair and gave an appreciative sigh. “Despite the sneering Pearson, it’s very comfortable staying with you.”
“It warms my heart knowing one of us will be sleeping well tonight,” Richard said with a trace of irony in his tone.
“Some monumental business problem keeping you up at night?” George inquired sympathetically.
“Actually no. I think it’s my upcoming nuptials that have upset my normal routine.”
George looked up from his empty whiskey glass. “My hearing must be affected by all this fine liquor and my trauma from earlier in the day. I thought I just heard you say you were getting married.”
“I did. I am. This weekend, as a matter of fact.” Richard cocked his head as the thought suddenly entered his head. “I suppose I need a best man to stand up with me. Would you like to come to the wedding?”
George scrambled upright, moving so swiftly he dropped his glass. It bounced harmlessly on the thick carpet. “Where? Who?”
Richard smiled. George was the personification of casual, indolent ease. It was amusing to see him so uncharacteristically rattled. “I’m getting married in the country. The bride is Juliet Wentworth.” Richard’s smile vanished as his brow furrowed. “Do you know her?”
“Can’t say that I do.” George retrieved his glass from the carpet. He walked gingerly to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. “Are you really getting married?”
“Stop sounding so damn surprised. Am I so hideous no woman would want me?”
“Quite the contrary, as you well know. It’s just that I’ve never seen you out with a lady of quality.” George’s brow shot up suggestively. The unasked question made Richard angry.
“Juliet is very much a lady,” he said coolly.
“Naturally. No insult intended.” George bowed his head apologetically. “I guess I’ve had one too many shocks today. First Lawrence in the conservatory and now a bride for you. So, what can you tell me about this lucky lady?”
Richard smiled ironically, considering the question. What could he say about Juliet, a woman he had known less than twenty-four hours before proposing? “She’s a widow actually. Her brother-in-law is the Earl of Hastings, whom I met very briefly. He’s a real ass.”
“Her brother-in-law is old needle-nose?”
“Who?”
George grinned. “That’s what we called him at school. Because his nose is so absurdly pointed it looks like the end of a needle. I remember he had a younger brother. Harold? No, that’s not right. Henry. Pleasant fellow. Excellent horseman and far more likable than old needle-nose. I seem to remember reading he died a few years ago.”
“Four years, actually,” Richard supplied.
“Where did you meet her?”
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