The Earl's Practical Marriage Page 20

‘Listen to me, Laurel, please. I flirted with Beatriz and I had affaires with ladies at the Court who were looking for the same uncomplicated relationship that I was. I came back to England having ended the current liaison amiably, believing that Beatriz would be marrying her princeling and knowing, too, that I must do the expected thing and marry. And you came back into my life. And I found I must wed you and no one else.’

  She looked deep into those blue eyes. The blue took her back so far into the past, almost as early as she could recall, back to Giles looking at her as he was now. Giles making promises, Giles reassuring her, Giles making her laugh. He was telling her the truth now, she sensed.

  Or he is telling it as he understands it, a cynical little voice murmured in her head. He does not consciously believe he married you as a substitute for that lovely girl, but very likely he did. But then, what did you expect of this marriage? A fairy tale?

  ‘I believe you.’

  And I love you, which probably makes me as foolish as Beatriz.

  He got to his feet, her hands still in his, and tugged gently until she stood. ‘Laurel. You are my wife and I will always be faithful to you, I swear.’

  He believes it, so I must also, she told herself, because once trust cracks and wavers it crumbles and falls away entirely.

  * * *

  Laurel’s wide brown gaze was steady on his face as though she was reading a document.

  Perhaps she is, the evidence in my trial. She seems prepared to find me innocent.

  He had not lied to her, but he had not told her the truth about why he married her either. But was that something he felt increasingly compelled to confess to for the sake of his own scruples or because she would want his honesty? That remark about unfaithful husbands easing their own consciences by sacrificing their wives’ peace of mind was telling.

  ‘Laurel, I want you. Only you, for ever and here and now. Twenty minutes ago I would have said that I was fit only to sleep, once we had spoken. Now I find that the bed is calling me, but not for sleep.’ And it was true. He was quite painfully aroused and her swift downward glance confirmed that she realised it, too.

  ‘We will keep each other awake,’ she said, the old wicked smile suddenly there on her lips.

  Forgiveness, then.

  He was not certain for what. He could not, he thought, blame himself for anything except carelessness in not recognising that Beatriz was developing a tendre for him. But he had hurt and distressed Laurel, given her a sleepless night and that was on his head. She was his wife and it was his responsibility to protect her. Although now, as he stood up and drew her into his arms, protection was not exactly what he had in mind.

  She was wearing only a thin silk robe over an even more flimsy nightgown and his body hardened and ached as she leaned in to his embrace.

  ‘What are all these things that are so wrong with your looks?’ he asked as he steered her towards the bed, taking a detour on the way to lock the door. ‘Eyelashes that were too long?’

  ‘Too short.’

  ‘Just right for the perfect curl.’ He kissed her eyelids, feeling the lashes tickle his lower lip. ‘And your nose?’

  ‘Crooked.’

  He bit it lightly. ‘Adds interest. Perfection is so dull.’

  ‘And my teeth are uneven,’ she said with a gasp as the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed and she fell on to the mattress.

  ‘Now that requires careful investigation.’ Giles climbed on to the bed beside her. ‘And the most thorough kissing.’

  Laurel seemed to have no objection. Her arms went around him and her mouth opened under his and she sighed as his tongue traced the curve of her teeth. She was quite right, although he had never noticed before.

  ‘All the better to whistle with,’ Giles said when he came up for air, dizzy with the scent and taste and feel of her. He rolled over on to his back and Laurel settled against him, her chin on his chest. ‘Ouch. Your chin is definitely pointed. Still, I can tolerate one fault, I suppose. Let me inspect these unsatisfactory eyebrows.’

  Laurel obligingly wriggled higher against his chest, causing his body to arch instinctively. She came up on her elbows and looked down at him, eyes wide with sensuality and, beneath that, trouble still lurking in the pansy-brown depths.

  ‘I have no opinion on eyebrows except that yours seem eminently kissable to me.’

  She laughed at him, just a little, her eyes narrowing, the skin at the corners crinkling.

  It wasn’t Beatriz’s eyes I saw when I looked at her, as she thinks. It was Laurel’s eyes I saw when I looked at Beatriz, that was what drew me to her in the first place, that is what made me smile at her. But that...that is not logical. I never saw Laurel as an adult woman until I came home.

  She blinked, the laughter still there, and the trouble, deep and dark, and the affection for him, the affection he did not seem to have killed.

  Her eyes have not changed, not since she was a child, not since she was the young woman I left, so angry and confused. I smiled at Beatriz because somehow I recognised deep down that she looked like who Laurel would become. Only I was wrong. Laurel is so much more lovely, every little imperfection that she sees adds up to character and charm.

  Then the shock of it took his breath. In his exile Beatriz had been a substitute for this woman, the one he had always been intended to marry. But that meant—

  ‘Giles, have you gone to sleep with your eyes open?’ Laurel sounded understandably put out. ‘Because you have been lying there staring at me for a good minute and, delightful as my eyebrows are, I cannot believe they deserve that much scrutiny.’

  ‘But your eyes do,’ he said and sat up, shrugging off his robe and reaching for the ties on hers. ‘I could drown in your eyes and I intend to.’

  She moved under him, supple and warm and demanding, wanting him, it seemed, as much as he wanted her, gasping her encouragement as he explored her body. She used her tongue and lips and hands on him, inciting him, arching up to meet him as he thrust. Laurel closed around him, hot and wet and as smooth as silk velvet, her muscles gripping him, drawing him to the heart of her.

  Mine, mine, mine...

  Her nails were digging into his shoulders, her legs were tight around his hips, their bodies slithering and slipping with the heat of their lovemaking as Laurel came to pieces in his arms, calling out, sobbing out, his name.

  ‘Giles!’

  My name. She forgives me, she wants me. Perhaps as much as I want her.

  ‘Laurel. Laurel.’ He said it again and then again like an incantation, a prayer as he lost himself in her.

  * * *

  ‘Giles?’

  Something pointed and warm and wet was tickling his ear. Giles cracked open one eye on to a landscape of cream and pink flesh, of soft skin rising in gentle hills and valleys, of the rose-brown textured surface of one nipple. He blew gently and it tightened and the tickle was replaced by a warm huff of breath. Laurel had been licking the rim of his ear.

  ‘You are squashing me, rather, Giles.’

  ‘I am sorry, love.’ He slid off the delicious warmth of her on to the cool, rumpled sheet.

  She turned her head away abruptly. ‘It doesn’t matter, although breathing was a challenge.’

  He came up on one elbow facing her as she turned back to him. He must have imagined that momentary reaction. ‘My lady, you should have woken me sooner.’

  ‘No. I like being that close to you, it makes me feel...’ She shivered. ‘I can’t explain. Giles—we are all right, aren’t we?’

  ‘I hope so.’ It was a long time since he had felt real fear, the sort that gripped the guts and sent the pulse wild and clouded the brain. The last time had been when he had flattened himself inside the hollow trunk of an olive tree with a French patrol leaning against it, sprawled in its shade, settling down for a siesta in the heat of the day. He had
been in civilian clothes, quite enough to have him shot out of hand as a spy if they had found him, or tortured to wring every last drop of intelligence from him.

  Somehow he had kept still, silent, unmoving except for the constant turning of the worry piece in his pocket, over and over, rubbing against the callouses it had formed, calming him, slowing his breathing, helping him endure. The fear had resolved after two hours when the patrol had ridden off. When he had seen Laurel come into his room that morning he had felt the same sick apprehension, not of torture and death, but of discovering that he had lost her, hurt her.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, reaching out to touch her face. ‘We are all right, you and I. There might be some repair work to be done.’

  ‘With Beatriz, I am certain of it. We cannot leave things as they are. With us, I do not think so. I never stopped trusting you, Giles. You have never lied to me, I know that now. I will never leap to conclusions about you again, I have learned my lesson. It was a horrible night, last night, I will admit it. I was angry, which was why I locked the door because I could not risk saying something hasty, in temper. I had to calm myself, think it through, but I knew that somehow you would be able to explain.’

  I never stopped trusting you.

  Hell, if she ever discovered just how little he was to be trusted with her feelings, how he had proposed to her simply for gain, then he would have broken something unique and irreplaceable. It felt like walking on a knife edge over a precipice.

  * * *

  ‘Where are you off to in that very fetching hat?’ Giles asked as Laurel looked round the edge of the study door after luncheon.

  ‘Just along the Square. I am going to pay a call on the ladies of Dom Frederico do Cardosa’s household.’

  Giles got to his feet, scattering pages of a letter around him. ‘After last night?’

  ‘Especially after last night. You cannot possibly go round there until he is reassured that he had not been wrong to believe you innocent of anything beyond some light flirtation. And she needs to realise that no amount of pouting and dramatising herself is going to restore you to her. After that, then I am hopeful that we can all meet without fireworks going off.’

  He looked so dubious that she went right into the room and kissed his cheek. ‘It will be all right, you’ll see, my—my dear.’

  You called me my love this morning, so casually. I wish I could say the word as easily to you.

  Laurel gave herself a brisk talking-to. There were fences to mend and bridges to build and possibly, to carry her muddled metaphors to the limit, dams to construct. She had asked Downing to send Peter to establish when the Portuguese ladies would be receiving and he had reported that, so far, they had only the smallest social circle and tended to spend the afternoons at home without visitors. That gave her hope that they would receive her, if only to break the monotony of their day.

  Her card was received and she was ushered through to a reception room while the English butler established whether the ladies were At Home, but she had hardly seated herself when he reappeared to take her through.

  Senhora do Cardosa was seated between two girls who must have been her daughters from their resemblance to Beatriz. She was short and stout within severe corsetry, but her hair was still glossy and black and her eyes had retained their beauty. She rose to shake hands. ‘Lady Revesby, you are kind to call. My younger daughters, Cecilia and Daniela.’ The girls rose and bobbed curtsies and sat down again without saying anything. From their expressions Laurel guessed that was shyness, and perhaps limited English, rather than any hostility.

  ‘We are neighbours, senhora,’ Laurel said. ‘I felt I should welcome you to London, especially as my husband knew yours in Lisbon.’ Now what would happen? She was braced for almost any reaction.

  Chapter Twenty

  There was no actual hostility flowing from the woman opposite her, just a great deal of reserve, but that might be normal for her. ‘He spoke of Dom Frederico’s diplomacy and...understanding.’

  Ah, yes, there was a reaction, a slight tension, a flickering glance towards an embroidery hoop lying on a chair to Laurel’s right, out of reach of the two daughters.

  ‘I had hoped to meet your daughter Beatriz again. We spoke briefly yesterday evening, but she was not well, I think. I do hope she is not indisposed?’

  Senhora do Cardosa said something in rapid Portuguese to her daughters who immediately got up, curtsied and left the room. She turned back to Laurel, lips pressed together, and looked at her for a long moment. ‘You look very like my daughter, Lady Revesby.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that. She has far more perfect features than I do though, senhora.’

  ‘She is a foolish girl.’ Her look now was questioning.

  ‘Very young, perhaps. Time cures that, for all of us. I am entirely in my husband’s confidence.’

  ‘Ah.’ The older woman looked relieved.

  Perhaps, Laurel thought, she feels reassured that if Giles was prepared to tell his wife about the matter then it must all have been as innocent as he had protested in Lisbon. ‘It would be regrettable if there was any awkwardness...’ She let her voice trail away suggestively.

  ‘Most regrettable. I am certain that you and I, Lady Revesby, we can manage matters between us.’

  ‘I am sure of it,’ Laurel agreed.

  * * *

  ‘And so we have a conspiracy, Senhora do Cardosa and I. There will be strict segregation of the sexes whenever our households encounter each other at social gatherings. I will talk to her and her daughters, you may converse with Dom Frederico. We will all be seen to be on the best of terms and Beatriz’s blushes will be spared. Once Beatriz has come to terms with your married state then we will exchange dinner invitations.’

  ‘To say nothing of sparing my blushes, my clever wife. You should be a diplomat.’ Giles stood up and gathered Laurel in for a kiss, ducking to negotiate the wide brim of her Villager hat.

  ‘Her mama was anxious about her betraying herself with unseemly behaviour, so it took very little diplomacy, just tact.’ She delighted him by immediately untying the bow, casting the new hat on to the sofa without as much as a glance to see where it had landed and linking her hands behind his neck, the better to be thoroughly kissed.

  ‘Would it be very unseemly behaviour to make love to my wife on this desk?’ He turned, bringing Laurel round so with one gentle push she was lying over the polished mahogany, a jumble of estate papers squashed beneath her as he went to his knees, threw up her skirts and parted her legs.

  Through the muffling of a froth of petticoats he heard, ‘Giles—the door is unlocked!’

  Giles expressed his opinion of the door, his mouth moving against the moist woman-tasting folds which produced another faint shriek. ‘Don’t stop!’

  As he had no intention of doing so, Giles kept on licking and sucking, his hands clamped either side of the slim hips writhing above him. He spared a fleeting thought for the state of the three maps, two leases and one field survey on the desk, then smiled and began to nibble.

  ‘Someone is coming.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ he mumbled, using his tongue with pinpoint accuracy. As Laurel came to pieces he slid out from under her skirts, stood up, pulled her up to sit on the edge of the desk and leaned over the scattered papers, screening her from the door with his body.

  ‘The afternoon post, my lord.’ Downing proffered the salver.

  ‘Thank you.’ Giles swivelled, took the post and waited until the butler closed the door behind him before turning to look at Laurel.

  She was pink in the face, her hair was coming down, her skirts were crumpled and shards of broken red and blue sealing wax speckled her spencer. She met his gaze and collapsed into giggles. ‘Oh, you wretch. I heard that board in the hallway creak and I was in terror of someone entering.’

  ‘Admit it, it was exciting,’ Giles
managed to say through his own gasps of laughter.

  ‘It was outrageous and now it is your turn.’ Laurel leaned back, resting her hands on the desk. When he moved to lock the door she shook her head. ‘Sauce for the goose,’ she said. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘You are a very wicked woman.’ Giles threw up her skirts again and moved in between her thighs as he unfastened his falls.

  ‘I know.’ She held on tightly as he sank into her and held still, shivering slightly with the sheer pleasure of the silky heat. ‘I was brought up badly—there was this dreadful boy who led me astray at such a young age.’

  ‘Shocking.’ Giles began to move slowly, savouring the slide and suck of their bodies in unison, loving the little sighs and moans Laurel gave. ‘What did this frightful lad do?’

  ‘Took me dancing on the green in the moonlight, taught me how to climb a tree, let me go fishing with him, took the blame when I did something dreadful or came home covered in mud.’

  ‘Not so very bad, then,’ he murmured against the curve of her neck. Laurel smelled of honeysuckle and the musk of their lovemaking.

  ‘No. Nothing bad at all.’ Her voice was ragged now, as ragged as his breathing. ‘I loved that boy,’ she said as her body convulsed around him.

  ‘Loved—’ And then he lost control, went rigid as the pleasure burned through him, a wave of fire, left him shuddering in her embrace.

  * * *

  ‘Laurel.’

  ‘Hmm?’ He watched her coming back to herself as he always did, marvelling at her total abandonment to pleasure, at the trust she showed in him to care for her.

  ‘Do you remember what you said, just before—?’

  ‘I am not certain I recall which day of the week it is.’

  ‘You were saying that you loved me when I was a boy.’ What was he doing, asking that? What did he expect now—that she would say I still do?

  ‘Well, yes.’ She slid from the desk and began to put herself to rights with precise little feminine dabs and tweaks that made him want to sweep her upstairs and rumple her all over again.