Along Came a Lady Read online

  “N-No. This is sufficient,” she whispered.

  “Then, as I see it,” and he dusted a coal-stained, calloused finger along the curve of her cheek, “we’re done here. For now.”

  They were done.

  And yet . . . neither did he leave.

  Her breath caught in her chest.

  What was worse, she didn’t want him to.

  She couldn’t make herself move after he caressed her that way. She didn’t want to break that unexpectedly tender, almost afterthought of a touch. And what did it say, that a throwaway caress should affect her so?

  “I’m going to kiss you again,” he whispered, even as he lowered his head.

  She nodded, and her eyes fluttered shut, as she lifted her mouth to receive that kiss. “I think I should like that. Once . . .” More.

  His lips consumed hers. Taking and tasting. And she gave, in return. Twining her arms about his neck, she pressed herself against him.

  Rafe slanted his lips over hers. And then licked the full contours she vowed to never again hate after this moment. Not when his worship of them brought this heat. This hungering. She dashed her tongue against his, and a raw, primal half growl, half groan rumbled from his chest; that sound she took in her own mouth.

  Rafe caught her firmly under the buttocks, and she gasped at the exquisiteness of that unexpected touch. He kneaded and sculpted her with those enormous, callused, and very real hands that had fascinated her from their first meeting. Dragging the fabric of her gown up, he exposed her skin to the night air; that slap of cool should have been sobering. Her body in this moment didn’t care about respectability or her post or her reputation. She cared about nothing beyond the throbbing ache between her legs, a cross between pleasure and pain, and then he slid his knee between her legs, and she sank onto him. She moaned, and shamefully rubbed against his oak-hard thigh, the fabric of his trousers rough against the softness of her naked skin, and somehow all the more arousing for it.

  Edwina gasped softly as he brought her right leg up around his waist, and then, with his mouth never breaking contact with hers, Rafe backed her the handful of feet until she had the wall behind her.

  The thin plaster shook, knocking under the weight of their bodies pressed together.

  “You are maddening,” he whispered between kisses.

  And this was madness.

  She knew that.

  She knew it with every fiber of the person she was who’d studied the ways of proper ladies.

  But no one had ever said that madness could also be magic.

  Rafe moved his attentions to her neck, and she let her head fall back on a long, keening moan. “Mmmm.” She arched her hips, searching for him, and he answered that wordless plea, sliding his leg back between her legs so that she could rub herself against him. The sensation so delicious, so overwhelming.

  He trailed a path of kisses along the swell of her breasts, and then he freed them from the constraints of her gown. Lowering his head, Rafe took a nipple in his mouth and sucked deep and hard.

  Biting her lower lip, she buried her face into his shoulder, her shame was strong . . . but not strong enough, for the yearning for him and this, and the wetness pooling at her center, proved even stronger. Perspiration beaded on her brow and streaked a damp path over her cheek. This . . . she had never felt anything like this. The pressure grew, unbearable, the ache sharpening, and Edwina grunted, little animalistic sounds born of lust. She arched her hips harder, faster.

  She’d thought herself above such feelings.

  Stronger than her mother.

  More moral than all the governesses.

  All the while, never knowing desire could feel like this. That it could set every nerve ending afire, and burn her up in a conflagration of desire that she was so very happy to be consumed by.

  Switching his attention to her previously neglected breast, he drew that swollen, puckered peak between his lips.

  “O-oh, my,” she rasped, tangling her fingers in his hair, anchoring him close. “Th-that . . . is . . . mmm . . .” Magical.

  Alas, words failed her as Rafe cupped the globes of her buttocks, kneading and squeezing, guiding her along, urging her on. Edwina’s movements grew more frenzied. Panting wildly against his shoulder, she undulated her hips.

  He placed his mouth alongside her ear; his scruff-covered cheek scraped hers. “You’re going to come for me.” His voice came harsh and graveled, a command.

  Edwina bit hard at the fabric covering his shoulder and nodded unevenly against him. She would have offered him anything in this moment had he asked it, including her promise of departure if he just assuaged the unforgiveable ache between her legs.

  Cupping her buttocks as he guided her hips, rocking her, at the same time he ground his thigh lightly against her damp thatch of curls.

  Panting, Edwina let her head fell back, and she rolled it from side to side as everything in her tunneled to the rising tide of her desire. That pressure grew and grew, as Rafe’s ministrations pushed her up, higher and higher.

  And then her body stiffened; a scream tore from her, echoing wildly around the tiny chamber, the sounds of her desire bouncing off the walls and reverberating back in her own ears. She ground herself against his oak-hard thigh, over and over again, moaning his name. Keening incoherently. Until the shudders subsided, and her breath came in noisy spurts.

  Out of breath, she collapsed against him; her pulse knocked wildly in her ears and blended with her noisy inhalations and exhalations.

  Until she could at last draw proper air into her lungs.

  And as the haze of her desire ebbed, it ushered reality slowly and uncomfortably back in.

  Oh . . . dear. What had she done? Edwina clenched her eyes tight, never wanting to open them again. And certainly not to look at the man still cradling her. A man who was a stranger she’d only just met two days ago, but whom she also had become familiar enough with to understand what awaited her when she at last met his gaze.

  Mortified heat burned up her cheeks, and Edwina put her hands upon his chest and pushed him lightly.

  He immediately stepped away.

  Her hands shaking, Edwina drew the bodice of her dress back into place, and shoved her skirts down. Until she was righted enough, and there were no other distractions afforded her, and she was left with the task of finally facing the taciturn Rafe Audley.

  She lifted her head, forcing her eyes to meet his.

  And yet . . . those thick lashes hooded his eyes, but there was no hint of mockery there.

  What did one say after . . . after . . . what she had just done? Was it a return to casual conversation with no direct mention of what had transpired? Or was some form of acknowledgment necessary? Edwina cleared her throat. “For all the lessons I have received, I must confess no one has instructed me on what to say after . . . after . . .” She waved a hand, gesturing from herself to Rafe. “You know. This.”

  A slight smile danced at the edges of his hard lips. “Are words really necessary, afterward?” he drawled.

  She scrunched her brow. “I . . . yes, I suppose you are correct on that score.”

  He leaned down, so their breaths caressed once more, and Edwina’s body immediately went all warm in anticipation of the kiss—that this time did not come. “And today is the day the teacher became the charge.” He winked, that enthralling, flirtatious flutter of those dark lashes that wreaked its usual havoc upon her.

  Breezy.

  That was the lesson she’d advised her students when dealing with the “masterful wink.” Edwina swatted lightly at his arm. “Good night, Mr. Audley. I shall see you tomorrow.”

  Rafe moved his gaze over her face, and she followed that study. “Six o’clock,” he murmured. “You can lend my sister help with the morning meal, and have your first real village experience, then.”

  And wi
th that, he took his leave.

  Edwina remained motionless for several moments, staring at that oak panel. And then springing into movement, she rushed to lock the door. Edwina sagged against it and pressed her eyes closed. All these years, she’d believed herself too strong to ever be tempted by carnal pleasures. Incapable of being distracted from her work by anything, and certainly not the touch of a man.

  Only to be proven wrong by her latest charge.

  She opened her eyes, and stared absently at the immaculate bed she and Rafe had made moments ago.

  In the days to come, she was going to be working closely with the captivating Rafe Audley, and she could not quell the fear swirling in her belly at whatever this weakness was that she held for him.

  Chapter 12

  When Rafe had named the meeting hour, he’d expected Edwina would be late. In fact, it had never entered his mind that she’d ever be remotely close to being on time.

  And in that, he’d not been incorrect. She’d not been remotely close to being on time.

  She’d arrived early.

  Attired in yet another ruffled lace gown, this one an alternating pattern of pink and then white rows of those ruffles.

  But she’d arrived on his doorstep with that parasol raised at her shoulder at that ungodly hour, when the moon hadn’t even thought about relinquishing its place in the sky. She’d looked bright-eyed, well rested.

  And despite the other expectation that she’d shirk and fuss in a kitchen, there’d only been the sounds of her laughter, mingled with his sister’s, as they worked . . . and talked.

  It was a welcome distraction from the fact that he himself was, in fact, not working. And it was also . . . enlightening.

  “. . . Oh, if you enjoy fossils, you would greatly love the British Museum,” Edwina was saying.

  “I found several once, near the coalfields. I don’t know anything about them,” Cailin remarked, sadness tinging her voice. “Not really. Not as much as I would like.”

  And not as much as she could if Rafe just conceded and let her have the experience she could by going to London with Edwina. When had his sister been anything other than melancholy? After the loss of her sweetheart, when had she smiled or spoken about her interests? Nay, she’d been despondent and had simply gone through the motions of living. Until Edwina’s arrival.

  Why did the thought of going not inspire the same horror and fury as it had when Edwina had first arrived?

  “You’ve been staring at that door for the better part of fifteen minutes. Any plans on actually passing through?”

  Rafe jumped, and faced his brother. The candlelight shadows played over Hunter’s face, and in that slight flicker of light, there came a wry, knowing look. That was gone as quick as it had come, so that Hunter was left his usual serious, unsmiling self. He took a sip of his black tea. “I take that as a ‘no,’ then? So you didn’t send this one away, but made her a guest instead.”

  A guest . . .

  His neck went hot. It wasn’t . . . the way his brother was trying to make it seem. “She’s helping Cailin,” he said tersely. All of this boiled down to a battle of wills between him and the one emissary who’d not backed down. But she would.

  There came another of Edwina’s tinkling laughs.

  He winced. Eventually. Soon.

  His brother rested a hip on the back of the ancient walnut sofa that had been one of their mother’s most cherished pieces, and rightfully showed its age for it. “This is . . . an unexpected turn of events.”

  He scraped a gaze over his brother. “Yes, but then that could be said about . . . a good many things, couldn’t it?” Particularly his brother’s betrayal.

  Hunter had the good grace to go red in the face. Good, he heard the intended insinuation. Rafe would be forced to remain behind here, sitting around on his arse all day . . . doing what? The duke had stolen his purpose out from under him. “Shouldn’t you be at the coalfields?” he snapped, unable to bury the sting of resentment in that question.

  There was a flash of regret there in Hunter’s eyes, but Rafe would be damned if he felt guilty for it. The only one of them who deserved to feel that sentiment was the one before him. The brother whom he’d taken care of since they’d both been babes, and who didn’t have the decency to return last night for the conversation he owed him.

  “I’m sorry,” Hunter said quietly, setting that clay cup, cracked along the rim, down.

  “For what? Stealing my work? Or failing to talk to me about it? Or letting me learn of it from Sparrow?” Rafe clipped out.

  Another round of bell-like laughter carried from the kitchen and filtered into the parlor, those light, joyous sounds at odds with the tension enveloping Rafe and this room.

  Hunter dragged a hand through his hair. “That is fair. I didn’t know what to say, Rafe.”

  “To the work or to me?”

  “To you,” his younger brother said quietly. He’d not deny that he’d always wanted Rafe’s role at the Cheadle coalfields, and perhaps another time that forthrightness would have earned Rafe’s admiration. “What will you do?”

  What would he do? A cynical laugh spilled from his lips. That was the question. What the hell would he do now that his work was gone and his brother was overseeing that role he loved? “Does it even matter?” To you.

  Hunter winced, perceptive enough that he would hear the accusation there.

  I will not feel bad. I will not feel bad.

  “Of course it matters,” Hunter whispered, those four words ripe with hurt. “What would you have had me do? He was determined that you would be replaced and—”

  “You were all too happy to do it,” Rafe cut in.

  “The duke is determined you’ll go to Town,” his brother hissed. “You know that as well as I. And if you had, then that bizarre bird he sent wouldn’t even now be in the kitchen, for some reason baking you breakfast.”

  That woman was Edwina Dalrymple. “She’s not a bizarre bird. And she’s not . . . making me . . . oh, go to hell,” he snapped. “You could have answered the duke.”

  “He didn’t summon me,” his brother pointed out. “He wants you. Because he knows we’ll support whatever decision you’ll reach.”

  “Except when it comes to my work, no?”

  Ruddy splotches of color filled Hunter’s cheeks. “Rafe,” He took a step toward him.

  Rafe looked away, rejecting that attempt at outreach.

  And his brother stopped.

  “You should go, Hunter.” Before he said something he couldn’t take back. “You’ll be late, and Sparrow doesn’t tolerate that.”

  Hunter hovered, looking as though he wished to say more, but instead, avoiding Rafe’s eyes, he left.

  The moment the door closed, he let loose a stream of curses.

  Damn Hunter.

  And damn their sire.

  And Sparrow, and everyone in between who was so determined that Rafe shouldn’t have the ultimate control over his life.

  Feeling eyes upon him, he glanced back.

  Edwina hovered at the door, her cheeks red. “Forgive me,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean . . . I . . . had to fetch something from my valise.” She remained there, waiting, and it occurred to him that she sought his permission.

  “Of course,” he said tiredly.

  The young lady sprang into movement, hurrying over to those hooks at the back of the door where her fine cloak and valise rested alongside his and his siblings’ lesser things. Fishing through that ivory satin bag, Edwina withdrew a pink ribbon.

  She lingered there, that pretty scrap between her fingers.

  “You were early,” he remarked.

  “You were awake,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but—”

  “You live in the country and I’m a Town dweller?” she answered for him. Her eyes twinkled. Lik
e the stars that still dotted the Staffordshire sky. He blanched. Where in hell had that romantic drivel come— “It bears noting, you were late in the time you indicated morning meal preparations began, Rafe.”

  He paused. And how in hell did she know that?

  “I told you, there is nothing I do not know,” she said on a teasing whisper. And then, the proper, lesson-doling-out governess tasked with his tutelage winked.

  Likely all the time she’d lived in one of those elegant households. He watched as she scurried off to rejoin Cailin, and then he was . . . alone.

  With his thoughts about his changed circumstances and the relentlessness of the duke.

  All he’d been since he was a boy of eight was one who worked in these mines and who cared for his family. And . . . when that was taken away, what was he? Who did he become?

  You can go on to London with the lady. You can get on with this . . . get it done . . . fulfill those responsibilities, and then happily leave, free to return to your foreman role, once more . . .

  To do so, however, would hand the ultimate victory to the father who’d suddenly taken an interest in his children.

  More of Edwina’s laughter spilled from the kitchen, distracting Rafe briefly from those bitter musings. And it was only boredom, and the sole fact that he who only knew work had absolutely nothing to do, that accounted for his heading for the kitchen, even now.

  It had absolutely nothing to do with her.

  The moment he entered the kitchen, both women paused in the middle of their conversation and stared expectantly at him. Edwina stood behind Cailin, and was in the midst of tying that ribbon she’d fetched out of her bag.

  She was . . . giving it to his sister.

  “What are you doing?” he asked gruffly.

  “I’m weaving a ribbon through her plait,” Edwina answered, her fingers returning to their task.

  Rafe frowned. “Your ribbon.”

  “Yes,” she said patiently, as if advising a child. “It is a gift.”

  Cailin rested a hand on Edwina’s, halting her efforts. “As much as it brings me physical discomfort admitting my eldest brother is right,” she paused, sliding a droll smile his way, “he is. I’ve no need for such finery.”