He Said Yes Read online

  She looked at her lover as he joined her on the blanket, at the moonlight that caught in his dark hair, at the silent mes­sage his smile sent her way. Even now she could feel the in­visible draw of him, the taste of his kiss on her tongue. She loved him so much it was a little like dying to know that he didn't love her in return.

  No! Stop thinking about what you can't have and start en­joying what you do have—the man and the night. Cherish him for the summer, then love him for a lifetime.

  "Hungry?" Marshall asked reaching for the basket. He began withdrawing delicacies: a wedge of cheese, a loaf of crusty bread sliced apples, a cluster of grapes, then a bottle of wine. Once they were spread out on the blanket between them, he smiled. "I raided the pantry."

  They ate by moonlight, feeding each other, laughing joyfully when the bottle of wine overturned and spilled onto the sand. Marshall scooped it up, wiping the sand off before offering it to Evelyn. She felt wicked drinking di­rectly from the bottle, but she did it anyway, because it pleased him.

  When she put the bottle down, he reached out and traced her lips, moist from the wine. "You look like a moon nymph," he said. "The sailors tell stories of women like you. Mermaids who tempt a man beyond reason."

  "You're the one doing the tempting. I can't even swim," Evelyn said as she gently bit down on the fingertip that was moving across her parted lips.

  Marshall felt the small love bite like a gut punch. He wanted to lay her down on the blanket and love her until there was nothing left but the sound of the sea and the wind nothing to feel but the caress of her body holding his deep inside it. Instead he returned the favor, drawing out the an­ticipation that was half the pleasure. Pressing her open palm to his mouth, he nibbled at the very center of it, then gently ran his tongue over the tiny lines.

  The sensual touch of Marshall's tongue sent a shiver through Evelyn. She laced her fingers through his and held on as tightly as she could as if simply holding his hand could make time stand still. "What do they call male mer­maids?"

  "There's no such thing," Marshall told her. He drew her down onto the blanket, stretching out beside her, then touched her with hands that trembled. He claimed her mouth with a gentle ferocity that matched the unyielding currents of the sea.

  Evelyn closed her eyes and tried not to cry out her love for him. The taste of him swept through her like the wind sweeping over the water, pure and clean. She made a small sound at the back of her throat as she felt herself being eased back until she was lying on the blanket. She bit at his lips just before his tongue thrust slowly into her mouth.

  The pleasure of it mingled with the pain of knowing that she was desired but not loved. Yet Marshall's touch was so loving, so gentle, that it was easy to imagine that he did care for her in a very special way. She was almost certain that he'd never shared a moonlight picnic with any other woman.

  The marquis might not love her; but when their bodies were joined the passion was almost more than Evelyn could bear, and she couldn't help but hope that love might find its way into his heart before the summer turned cold.

  They made love in the moonlight.

  Marshall stared up at the woman straddling his hips, her movements as gentle, as caressing, as the wind moving over the sea. His eyes drifted closed as he savored their joining. He pulled her down to him, his tongue licking over the crowns of her naked breasts. He groaned a deep sound of de­feat as she moved her hips, provocatively chastising him for disrupting her ride.

  "Move faster, sweetheart," he groaned roughly.

  Evelyn pressed her knees against his hips as his fingers stroked the tiny gem between her legs, making her whole body tingle with pleasure. She started to protest, but all that came out was a soft, wild moan as his talented teasing fin­gers stroked her more intimately.

  Marshall watched her pleasure, letting it feed his own. "You have a beautiful body," he said almost reverently. "I like it dressed in moonlight."

  The words became a benediction as Marshall took over, his hips moving reflexively, his hard length stroking deep in­side her body while his fingers did the same on the outside. He smiled at her expression, at the ecstasy that shone in her eyes, at the way her body greedily accepted his, milking him, testing the limits of his control. He felt the delicate shivers, the tiny convulsions that told him she was close to the edge.

  He pulled back and thrust deep one last time. The plea­sure inside Evelyn shimmered for a breath-stealing moment, then exploded. His muscles went taut with release as hers became liquid her senses drifting, her breathing coming in short gasps as she collapsed against his chest.

  It was a long time before either one of them stirred.

  Marshall ran his hand appreciatively over her bottom, then down the outside of her thighs before gently lifting her, turning them onto their sides without separating their bod­ies. Evelyn rested her cheek against his chest and curled her fingers into the crisp hair. He tightened his arms around her, silently telling her of his contentment.

  Just as silently, Evelyn whispered the words, I love you.

  Fourteen

  "Miss Dennsworth, you have a jot of insanity if you be­lieve I will receive you with any cordiality," Lady Waltham announced from her bed. "Please leave and close the door behind you."

  Evelyn closed the door, but contrary to her ladyship's wishes, she was firmly inside the room. "It's a lovely morn­ing," she announced. "Your daughters are taking breakfast on the east terrace. Would you care to join them?"

  "Miss Dennsworth—"

  "My name is Evelyn, your ladyship, and I would very much like to be your friend."

  "You have a strange way of showing it," Lady Waltham said drawing her bed jacket more snugly about her shoul­ders. "The marquis insists that whatever you do, it is for my own good. I disagree, of course, but he is very much like his father. Unwilling to abandon a decision once he has made it." She drew her shoulders back, her eyes bright with sub­dued anger. "Since I cannot discharge you, I am forced to tolerate you. But only to a point. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, your ladyship," Evelyn said knowing she had ig­nited more than Lady Waltham's anger the previous day. The curtains were open this morning, the room flooded with nat­ural light for the first time since her husband's death. It was a small sign, but one Evelyn quietly registered as progress.

  The maid entered the room, delivering Lady's Waltham breakfast tray. The woman was broad about the hips with a ruddy complexion and a stiff smile that brightened upon see­ing Evelyn. They had become acquainted since Evelyn's ar­rival. It was Jemima March who had supplied the most information about the household tidbits of knowledge that had provided an insight into the family and the mistress who had once reigned happily at her husband's side.

  "You may await me downstairs," Lady Waltham said. "The invitation list for the regatta party is far from finished."

  "As you wish," Evelyn replied respectfully. She hoped she could reach the woman who had once filled Bedford Hall with love and laughter. Owing the marquis so much, it would be small recompense for all that he had done for her.

  The following days took on a similar pattern. Evelyn would meet Lady Waltham in the morning room shortly after breakfast. Letters would be dictated and invitations is­sued. By the end of the first week, the guest list for the re­gatta festivities had been completed and the invitations posted.

  All the acceptable families of the district would be at­tending the regatta celebration, plus another hundred guests traveling to Ipswich from as far away as Bristol and Coventry. The annual event demanded a flurry of parties: buffet luncheons served after morning rounds of croquet, af­ternoon teas filled with idle chatter, formal dinners followed by dancing in the grand ballroom which Evelyn had peeked into with envy, then tried to forget because she wasn't on the guest list. There would be no dancing in Marshall's arms, no magical waltz to add to her memories. Being a member of the staff, she would be expected to remember her place, be­coming inconspicuously invisible for the duration of t
he fes­tivities.

  It wasn't that she craved parties or idle chatter or croquet lessons. Evelyn had never had those things in her life, and she didn't consider them important enough to brood over now. What she did covet was the heart of a marquis. Would it be so wrong to show him that she could fit into his life? His real life, not the one that began at midnight and ended before sunrise. Was it so wrong to dream that he might see her as more than a lover?

  Futilely she wished that they had met under different cir­cumstances. That they might have been presented to one an­other at a country gathering, but the reality of the situation shattered the daydream. Reality was a titled gentleman and a shop girl from Bond Street. Reality was two different worlds that rarely blended. Titled gentlemen didn't marry unless the arrangements were suitable, the proposed partner acceptable to society and their families. Although Marshall's closest friend might find her acceptable, his family, if her encounter with the courts were to be revealed would most certainly not. If she had any doubts, all she need do was look at Winnifred. Marshall's sister would never accept her, never forget the scene she witnessed on Bond Street or Lady Monfrey's accusation. The past lay between, and there was no undoing it.

  By the end of the week, Evelyn knew the name of every­one who would be attending the grand week-long celebra­tion that would herald in the Harwick Regatta, but she'd come no closer to making a dent in Lady Waltham's grief than finding the curtains open more frequently than before. As she took her morning tea in the small garden just beyond the withdrawing room, Evelyn was beginning to wonder if she'd made a mistake by coming to Bedford Hall.

  Catherine had received her well enough, but Winnifred was still treating her like a complete stranger, speaking only when necessity and good manners demanded it. Lady Waltham was doing just as she had said, tolerating Evelyn's presence with no outward signs of mellowing toward her forced companion.

  Marshall had advised her to be patient, that undoing things would take time, and that even if Evelyn feared she wasn't making progress, he could see a change in his step­mother. She had taken supper with the family the last three nights, a sizable improvement over her routine in London.

  But Evelyn knew the roots of Lady Waltham's grief went much deeper than anyone suspected. Each time she looked into the older woman's eyes she could see the intolerable loneliness that had taken over her life. Feel it herself, because the time she spent with Marshall was like a world apart, time that would be forever locked in her memory. Evelyn knew that was how Lady Waltham was feeling. Perhaps if she could reach her, help her unlock the pain, she would be bet­ter prepared to handle her own grief if the marquis didn't open his heart to the love she was offering him. And nothing short of love could keep her for more than the summer.

  "I thought I'd find you here."

  Evelyn turned to see Marshall walking toward her. As soon as she saw him standing against a backdrop of golden sunlight, she knew the grief she would face at leaving him would be more than her heart could bear. He had such a strikingly handsome face. It was not so much that he was at­tractive, that he possessed a grace and vitality that com­manded her attention, it was knowing that she'd always remember the way he smiled when they faced each other in the light of day, that secret look that said he was remember­ing what had transpired between them the previous night.

  She couldn't help but notice that he was dressed for trav­eling. A sense of loss came over her, but she contained it, knowing she couldn't demand all his attention.

  Keeping a respectable distance, Marshall smiled at her. "I'll be away for a few days," he said. "I have business in Norwich."

  "I understand" Evelyn replied. "Mr. Druggs told me that you have several estates."

  Marshall had hoped she'd take the news a little less casu­ally; but then, they were just outside the main house, and servants were flittering about like butterflies. He'd been ex­tremely careful in his comings and goings, making sure no one suspected that he'd been visiting the cottage on a regular basis. The last thing he wanted was to shine an unfavorable light on Evelyn's current position.

  "The business is important enough to require my per­sonal attention," he told her. "If not, I'd dispatch Druggs."

  "Please, you don't have to explain," Evelyn replied. "You are a man with obligations. It would be selfish of me to ask you to put them aside."

  He took a step, bringing them as close as propriety al­lowed. "I want to kiss you goodbye."

  Evelyn tried not to blush, a feat she should have been able to manage quite well considering the things that had passed between them up to this point, but she failed. There was no embarrassment on Marshall's face. He stood looking at her, his expression as innocent as that of a choir boy, unless one looked into his eyes. They were gleaming with mischief.

  The garden was small, a patch of roses and waist-high shrubbery that provided little privacy unless one was sitting down. His gaze turned to the house. "Meet me in the second-floor library."

  Evelyn finished her tea, knowing she shouldn't follow him inside, but wanting the kiss as much as he did. After a few minutes, long enough for him to reach the designated room, she rose and entered the house, making her way to the second floor with a forced casualness that belied the excite­ment flowing through her veins.

  The door to the library was unlocked the handle and hinges well oiled so it opened soundlessly. She had seen the room before, having borrowed several books for her own pleasure as well as Lady Waltham's. The library faced south and was full of light this late in the morning. The parquet floor gleamed from a recent polishing, the draperies a rich golden brown that framed tall windows overlooking the main yard. Evelyn hesitated just inside the closed door.

  Marshall, however, didn't share her patience. He wanted her in his arms as quickly as possible. He pulled her close, inhaling the light fragrance she wore, the scent that always reminded him of an herbal garden drenched in sunshine.

  Evelyn saw the sensual curve of Marshall's smile as he lowered his head to claim her mouth. She felt a tiny shudder of pleasure as her lips parted for him. His taste swept through her, filling her senses as it always did chasing away the world the fear of a servant discovering them. She buried her fingers in the wavy thickness of his hair and returned the kiss, knowing it would have to last her for several days.

  The kiss turned into several kisses. Evelyn felt her body begin to tingle with the unique heat and sensitivity that was always associated with the marquis. His hands gripped her hips, holding her tightly against him, increasing the forbid­den passion a house full of people prevented them from ful­filling.

  "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said harshly, then smiled. He released her with a visible reluctance, then stepped back. "You'd better run downstairs before I forget what's left of my good intentions. I'm hungry enough to take you right now, standing up if necessary."

  Her expression said she'd never thought of making love in that position. Her eyes sparkled with just enough curiosity for Marshall to continue teasing her.

  "Would you like it like that, Miss Dennsworth? Your

  skirts billowing out around my legs while I'm deep inside you. I could lean you up against the wall. I've never taken a woman that way, but I'm willing to give it a try."

  She blushed with embarrassment, but it didn't prevent her from saying, "Off with you, my lord, before you destroy what's left of my composure. I have duties to attend to that don't include wolfish marquises and dangerous desires," Evelyn said shakily. Could people actually make love stand­ing up?

  "Dangerous desires, is it?" Marshall laughed lightly. "I'll give you another, more thorough, demonstration when I re­turn from Norwich. Until then, think about all the danger­ously delicious things I'm going to do to your person one week from today."

  With that, he gave her a gentlemanly bow and quit the li­brary, leaving Evelyn's imagination running wild.

  After several long, deep breaths, she made her way back downstairs. Entering the morning room, Evelyn sat down a
t the rosewood desk with its supply of fine-grained paper and envelopes. They would begin working on the menus today. Most of the guests would be staying at Bedford Hall. Maids and footmen were already busy in the guest wings, airing rooms that had been closed up since the death of the late marquis, freshening linens, polishing floors and everything that sat upon them. The whole household was busy, prepar­ing for the festivities that would last a full week before the regatta set sail.

  "If yer expecting her ladyship, she won't be coming downstairs today," Jemima March said appearing in the doorway.

  "Is she ill?" Evelyn asked.

  "No," the lady's maid replied. "It's the day that has her feelin' poorly."

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "Wouldn't expect you to," Jemima remarked sadly. "Today's an anniversary. Twenty years of marriage, if his lordship had lived long enough."

  Twenty years. If only the summer could last that long.

  "I shall go upstairs and see if Lady Waltham needs any­thing."

  The maid shook her head as if to say it would be a waste of time, but Evelyn ignored the gesture and made her way upstairs a second time, thinking this could very well be the day when she finally accomplished something. As expected she found Lady Waltham sitting alone in her bedroom. The curtains were drawn against the brightness of the morning sunlight.

  Marshall's stepmother was dressed in her formal widow's weeds, an unadorned dress of black barathea. Her face was pale and hollow eyed her posture unfashionably stiff. She didn't look as if she'd been crying, but rather that she wanted to cry and had forgotten how to go about it. She had lost the man she loved and with him all aspirations for the future.

  "I do not wish any company at the moment," Lady Waltham informed her. "And don't think to gainsay me this time, Miss Dennsworth. I will not be bullied or coerced by a member of the staff."