All's Fair in Love and Seduction

Chapter Three

Alex returned home and executed a swift change of clothes. His waistcoat suffered the loss of three of its four shanked, brass buttons. His rage ripped his linen shirt near the seam of the arm. He savaged the button closure of his trousers with his impatience. His drawers were the lone garment to survive the ordeal unscathed. He tamped down his anger long enough to ensure donning his riding clothes was a much less destructive affair.

He made good time getting to the stables, his long strides clashing with hard earth. Minutes later he sat bent over Shalais, his favorite Arabian mare, his gloved hands closed tight about the reins, flying across Reading’s flat grassy terrain with the wind at his back.

With his every labored breath and every stretch of dirt kicked up by Shalais’s hooves, he tried not to think about her. Since the moment he’d left, he had successfully pushed her image and memories of her as far back into the dark recess of his mind as they would go. But her image and the memories would not go willingly, refusing to be bowed by the strength of his will.

Little by little, they seeped back into the forefront of his thoughts as his gray-stoned manor house shrank against the backdrop of a deceptively cloudless, sunlit sky. She had returned bringing with her ugly and unforgiveable lies, effectively darkening the skies like a swarm of locusts.

Dusty rose lips, just as soft and full as he remembered from countless dreams, looked too tempting to be the vehicle of such egregious lies. But those same lips had lied to him before. I love you. Yes Alex, I’ll marry you. I can’t imagine my life without you.

With a squeeze of his thighs, Alex urged Shalais into a full out gallop, trying to expend himself physically to quell the lure of oblivion a glass of alcohol could bring. He needed exhaustion enough to prevent him from the insanity of barreling a path through heavily wooded trees and underbrush to return to Rutherford Manor and force the truth from those same lying lips.

For years his feelings for her had drifted on the plane of indifference. He ceased to care where she was, what she did, and he never allowed himself to even venture near thoughts of with whom. Her return upended his long dormant emotions. His hatred now pulsed with new life, a new reason for its existence. Alex had never thought he could—would—ever despise anyone more than he did his father. Today he discovered he was wrong.

He returned to the house two hours later sweaty and hot. He was greeted by his rather anxious looking butler, Alfred, who approached him the moment Alex stepped a dusty booted foot in the corridor leading to the main part of the house.

Alfred’s powdered wig and severe black garb should have demanded a mien of stoicism, instead of the wringing-of-the-hands look on his face.

“My lord, Lord Cranford is awaiting you in the withdrawing room.” Alfred had a tendency to speak as if he’d lived a century ago.

Alex quirked a brow. “Pardon?” he asked sharply, taking a moment to digest his shock. What the hell is he doing here? He almost blurted out the question, but good manners—at least the vestiges of those he still ascribed to—prevented him from doing so.

“My lord, he was quite insistent on awaiting your return.”

The Earl of Cranford, Lady Mary’s father, was definitely one of the last persons Alex wished to see today of all days.

“Please tell him I’ll be with him shortly. As you can see, I’m not fit for company,” Alex replied with a dismissive nod.

“Yes, sir,” Alfred said with a bow before he strode off.

Twenty minutes later, Alex presented himself in the drawing room, freshly bathed and dressed from head to toe in cotton and wool in a brown as sober as his mood.

“Ah, Cartwright,” Lord Cranford said upon his entrance, slowly rising to his feet with the help of a mahogany cane, his bare hand proffered in greeting. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you by calling without an invitation.” His jowls quivered from the force of his smile, which stretched across a small narrow face unbalanced by the leftward hook of his nose.

Alex forced a smile, taking the earl’s hand in a brief handshake. “I hope you weren’t terribly inconvenienced by the wait,” he said, smoothly evading the question.

“Think nothing of it. I passed the time comfortably. I hope you won’t mind if I sit. My knees have been paining me all day. A sure sign of rain tomorrow.” The earl renewed his place on the brushed velvet sofa and although Alex would have preferred to stand, he followed suit and took up a seat in a wing-backed chair. There wouldn’t be anything particularly pleasant about the coming conversation.

“Can I offer you something to drink or perhaps something to eat?” Alex asked.

Lord Cranford dismissed his offer with a negligent toss of his hand, the diamond on his signet ring glinting as it caught the sunlight pouring through the window behind him. “Your man saw to my needs. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

Which meant his wait had been considerable, possibly over an hour. Better to get the damn thing over with. “So to what do I owe to this call, my lord?”

The earl cleared his throat, straightened his legs with a slight wince and shot a look about the spacious drawing room before returning his gaze to Alex. “Cartwright, how long has it been since you began calling on my daughter? Three, perhaps four months?”

“No more than three months if I remember correctly,” Alex replied blithely. He hadn’t been wrong in his thoughts. The earl had come to press his own suit.

“Yes, yes indeed. Just as I thought. One might consider three months ample time to decide on the suitability of a person might one not?” he said, inclining his head toward Alex as if to compel him to agree.

“Indeed, I believe three months might be more than ample time to make a judgment on such matter.” It certainly had been for him. Alex thought of the emerald betrothal ring in his master suite upstairs. He’d purchased it with every intention of asking Lady Mary for her hand three weeks ago. But a day’s delay had slipped quickly and all too easily, until soon he could count the delay by weeks instead of days. Now, given the change in circumstances, he was more than a little relieved he hadn’t gone through with it. A betrothal would have been a nightmare of a predicament to extricate himself from.

Lord Cranford made a pleased sound, like the purr of a tiger, deep in his throat. He smiled again, showing off a row of white, slightly crooked teeth. “Ah, very good. I’m happy to hear. Then I assume I can expect a call from you before too long. I’m sure you know my Mary comes with quite a substantial dowry. Not to say, my good man,” he hastened to add in a jovial tone, “that you are in need of it. Why, to your fortune, you no doubt see it as but a paltry sum.”

Alex’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile or a frown. When had thirty thousand pounds ever been considered paltry? The earl was being coy. “My lord, am I being pressed to fish or cut bait?” he asked blandly.

A wash of red suffused a complexion that probably hadn’t been touched by sunlight in years. The earl appeared taken aback and didn’t speak for several moments, eyeing Alex as if attempting to gauge the true inference of the question.

“What I’m attempting to convey, my lord, is that my daughter is much sought after.” He said it with all the pomposity of a father who knew his daughter’s worth.

Indeed, thirty thousand pounds.

“Many men have already approached me for her hand. She is of course, partial to your attentions, but she won’t wait around forever. I’m merely urging you to press your advantage.”

In other words, you have the advantage because you are excessively wealthy and heir to one of the oldest and most powerful dukedoms in all of England. Alex had long since become familiar with aristocratic speak: the polite way to express one’s single-minded ambition for money and position.

Alex tempered a wry smile at the earl’s equating three months to forever as he was certain it would not be well received. “Then I would urge your daughter not to refuse any further marriage offers on my account.”

Lord Cranford’s eyes widened and his jowls shook this time from the force of his inhalation. Bending his knees, he clambered unsteadily to his feet without the assistance of his cane or a wince even when his lower leg banged against the curved leg of the rosewood table. What followed was a silence that strained every bit of civility in his narrow-eyed countenance.

“Are you telling me you have no intention of asking my daughter for her hand?”

Alex pushed to his feet and with his half foot height advantage had an eagle’s view of the bits of pink scalp peeking through the earl’s gray thinning hair.

“I don’t believe we would make a good match.” Another face appeared in his mind’s eye One with dark gold ringlets and eyes the blue of the Mediterranean Sea. How apropos she’d returned and resumed where she’d left off—wreaking havoc on almost everything in his life. But good God, this time he’d make sure she paid.

Alex could tell by the venomous look in Lord Cranford’s brown eyes that the man would like nothing better than to be his physical superior. His hands, much like the rest of his slight frame, shook with rage. “Not make a good match? You insolent little cur, you won’t find another better than my Mary.”

“Then I shall consider that my loss.” Lady Mary was lovely and would have made an adequate wife, carrying out the duties of a duchess with aristocratic aplomb. But she certainly wasn’t irreplaceable. No woman was. Many others would fill the role just as nicely. What annoyed him was the inconvenience of having to begin the ordeal of a courtship again after he’d concluded the whole affair with her.

“You are a—”

“And while I understand your anger, beg I remind you, my lord, I made no promises to either you or your daughter.”

“You are nothing but a—”

“I will bid you adieu before you say something you will no doubt come to regret.” Alex turned to one of the footman who never ventured far when he entertained guests—although that itself was a rarity—and now stood framed in the opening of the drawing room. “Please see the earl out.”

While Lord Cranford sputtered in growing affront, Alex quietly departed.

Five years ago, he would have felt more than a pinch of remorse, for despite his avowal to the contrary, his manner would have led any parent to believe marriage would be the result of his attentions to their daughter. Today he couldn’t summon up any emotion beyond irritation. And Lady Mary would hardly suffer. As her father had been eager to point out, she had a litter of men vying for her hand.

Alex made his way to his study, a place where he could bar the outside world from entry. But he didn’t bar the door, he merely closed it, instinctively crossing the room to the sideboard. He pulled himself up with a vigorous shake of his head just as his hand reached for the crystal decanter, the fingers of his other hand already curved in anticipation of the glass.

The decanter was empty. The glass was naught but a decorative piece of etched crystal. Both had gone unused for two years. Alex abruptly dropped his arms, curled his hands into fists and strode over to the black leather armchair.

Memories of why he sought comfort in this particular room assailed him. It was in this very room he’d so often found solace—oblivion—at the bottom of a glass of rum. When all the rum was gone, he’d start on the whiskey. He had spent hours in a day—days on end sinking deeper and deeper under its spell. But not anymore. But damn, he needed a drink.

Damn her!

Tugging off his necktie, Alex pushed himself back into the sloping pocket of the high backed chair. His mouth curved into a cynical smile. The duke would think he’s been handed heaven on earth when he learned about Nicholas. A living replica of his late beloved son would be like a dream come true. His mother, in her own dramatic fashion, would clutch her hands to her chest and cry copious tears. The ton, of course, would not only relish the scandal, they’d all but wallow in it. Something else to befall the future Duke of Hastings whose misfortunes had begun even before he’d been jilted at the altar. They’d practically rub their hands in glee.

Damn her!

This time, Alex refused to allow it to get that far.

“Alfred!”

Seconds later, his butler appeared in the doorway. “Yes sir?”

“Where is Conrad?” Alex inquired of his steward.

“He’s—”

“Never mind that. Instruct him to arrange a meeting for me with Mr. Reynolds on the morrow. Tell him the matter is urgent.” Bloody hell, at the moment not only did he require the counsel of a solicitor, he needed a vicar. Not to mention a constable to prevent him from wringing her deceitful, lying neck the next time they met, which would be soon enough. Sooner than she could ever imagine.

“I shall inform him directly, sir,” Alfred replied, but made no move to leave.

Alex shot him an arched look. The last time his butler had worn that particular look of consternation was two and a half years ago, during one of Alex’s more memorable drinking binges.

For failing to monitor the inventory of the rapidly diminishing alcohol closely enough, Alfred had suffered the indignity of having his capabilities, and worse yet, his hearing called into question. Didn’t you hear me when I told you I needed more rum? If you weren’t so quick to run off, you’d take heed to half of the things I ask of you. Sober, Alex had apologized for his tirade. That had been three days later.

Now, Alfred never missed a word or a syllable, always fastidiously awaiting a nod of dismissal before departing. Alex curtly obliged him.

~*~*~

Charlotte’s chemise was not removed but caressed from her trembling body. Cotton linens woven so tightly, she thought it was satin or silk against her skin as she lay spread like a wanton on her back, her hands kneading and caressing sinewy muscles and damp flesh.

His fingers traced her nipple in slow, delicious concentration. Her back arched as her fingers bit deeper into his shoulders. Heat ripped a fiery path from her breasts, down the dip in her belly, and then set fire to the notch between her thighs. The wanting was excruciating madness, yet she knew she would die if he stopped.

“Does it feel good? Do you like it?” he asked, his voice rough with desire, his gray eyes dark with passion.

His breath fluttered on her nape and his finger continued its erotic dance with her nipple, reducing her to inarticulate gasps and moans.

She yearned. She writhed. So desperate was she to find surcease from the ache building and spiraling inside her, she was ready to beg for completion.

“Open for me,” he said, before lowering his head, and drawing a pink, beaded nipple into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he began to suckle. The chamber echoed her cry of delight and her moan of satisfaction. With knees bent and her feet flat on the mattress, her legs fell open in eager anticipation and welcome.

Easing his finger into her opening, he found her slick, hot and tight. Soon another finger joined. Charlotte thrust her fisted hand into her mouth to muffle a scream. His withdrawal caused pleasure to scorch every inch of her sensitive inner flesh. Then he plunged back in. Helplessly, her hips began to move in counter point to his sumptuous thrusts. Soon his fingers weren’t enough for either of them.

While he suckled her breast, pausing often to nip at her tip with teeth and tongue, he replaced his fingers with his erection. There was no easing or inexorable push, just a hard thrust, seating himself as far as he could go. Overwhelmed by the force of his possession, Charlotte whimpered, and then let out a gusty sigh of relief, of unadulterated pleasure. Her inner muscles clamped down on him hard.

He groaned low and long. “God, don’t move.” He wore an expression that ran the line between exquisite pleasure and torture. But Charlotte couldn’t halt the undulation of her hips as she urged him deeper, hotter. Her soft pants filled the sex-humid air. His ragged groans joined hers as he set a rhythmic pace, thrusting heavily into her with long, smooth strokes. His tongue occupied her mouth like a lusty invader, kissing her until he learned all the hidden crevices of her hungry mouth and she did his.

For endless minutes, they mated with the intensity and avariciousness of new lovers, or old lovers who’d been too long apart. The chamber walls echoed their whimpers, moans and the hard slapping of damp flesh, intent on the climb to satisfaction.

As the precipice grew closer, he tore his mouth from hers, panting and making guttural sounds deep in his throat. His hands made forays around her breast and belly, roamed down further and found the hidden nub between her moist folds, and flicked it as he continued to pound into her, obliterating her every thought but the need for more. More of him. More of his touch. More of everything.

He shifted his hips, and the new angle and his finger on the source of her desire catapulted her up until she was soaring and exploding in a shuddering mass. She convulsed and heaved while he found his own release, before her glide back down to earth.

“Oh God, Alex. Alex,” she chanted into his neck when he slumped atop her, his chest heaving for his next breath. Her hands clutched his muscled shoulders, and slid down to the sweaty expanse of his back to pull him close.

And then he was gone.

Her arms lay empty on the tangled white bedsheets. Charlotte reached out again with an urgency that bordered on desperation, endeavoring to stop the panic from consuming her. Again she found nothing. That’s when the pain came and she embraced it with harsh, desolate sobs.

“Alex. Alex. Alex,” she cried out in the dark.

Charlotte came awake with a start, her heart a stampede of horses thundering over America’s wide-open plains. It took her a moment to get her bearings and catch her breath. She was in England in her old bedchamber. Tears wound their way down across her temples and settled into the cavity of her ears.

She had dreamed him again. Alex and their last time together. The tears rolled their course faster. The dream now came with a frequency that frightened her. For two weeks now, it had made its nightly sojourn into her sleep.

She’d woken up hot, her senses acute and overwrought, but now the coldness seeped into every pore despite the warmth of her bedchamber. The dreams always left her this way, chilled and dissatisfied. But tonight there was something else, a prickly uneasiness. It was then she realized the source of her disquiet wasn’t the residual effects of her dream but something based firmly in reality.

Charlotte heard a slight movement to her right. She bolted upright, her hands clutching the counterpane close to her chest. In the darkened chamber, she could only make out the shape of someone—a man—reposed in the chair close to the fireplace.

Fear so effectively gripped her by the throat, all she could manage was a gurgled exhalation, not the bloodcurdling scream that would bring in the cavalry.

“Don’t scream,” a male voice instructed her softly.

For a moment Charlotte was convinced her ears were playing some sort of cruel trick on her. Had she conjured his voice up from her dream? Was she that bad off?

He rose from the chair with an unmistakable ease and grace. Alex.

Seconds later, he was standing by the side of her bed, half his face illumed by the faint light from the fire burning on the grate. Not like the Alex of her dreams, this Alex was solid and real, and darkly forbidding.

“Alex—Alex what are you doing here?” Charlotte barely managed to croak out the question, hot all over once again.

She could feel his silver gaze scoring her, unreadable, unwavering. After a nerve-wracking pause, he asked in a voice both chilling and calm, “When did you intend to inform me that you bore me a son?”