He Said Yes Page 24

  "I've benefited from Lady Waltham's friendship as much as she has benefited from mine," Evelyn said. "No debt is necessary."

  "I disagree," Kniveton said placing her hand on his arm. "In fact, I insist that you cease your reclusiveness and join me for a stroll in the garden. It is a lovely morning, and I can think of no better way to spend it than in the company of a lovely lady."

  Evelyn soon found herself in the south rose garden, strolling arm in arm with the Earl of Kniveton. He spoke of the former marquis, of a friendship that had begun in an Eton classroom and continued for over forty years. The earl enthralled her with the story of the first regatta he and the former marquis had sailed, of the fever of the race. She lis­tened attentively.

  "The wind was with us that day," the earl said. "Our clothes were soaked from the spray, our hands chapped from wet ropes, but our hearts were alive as only the hearts of young men can be. It's a day I shan't forget." The earl stop­ped walking for a moment. "I've bored you with an old man's tales," he said apologetically.

  "No. I've enjoyed your stories," she replied. "Thank you for sharing them with me."

  "Then may I invite you to share lunch with me?"

  Evelyn looked toward the open lawn where footmen and maids alike were spreading white linen cloths over the tables they had carried outside. A small group of people was be­ginning to gather; others currently involved in archery com­petitions and croquet matches would soon join the crowd. Evelyn saw the marquis right away. He was dressed in riding clothes as were the other four gentlemen with whom he was conversing. They were standing away from the tables near a towering oak with long, sprawling branches that shaded the ground all around them. All of the men were young and handsome, but Evelyn saw only the marquis, his dark brown hat gleaming in the sunlight, his gaze shifting from the Earl of Ackerman to rest upon her as Kniveton escorted her across the lawn.

  "Miss Dennsworth," he said, his expression friendly but reserved, belying the gleam in his dark eyes as she ap­proached on the arm of a respected family friend.

  "My lords," she said, holding on to Lord Kniveton's arm as she dipped into a graceful curtsey.

  "So, this is the mysterious Miss Dennsworth," the youngest man in the group said. "No wonder you've kept her so well hidden, Waltham. She's enchanting."

  "This young scoundrel is Viscount Rathbone," Lord Kniveton told her. "Beware of him, Miss Dennsworth. He's not to be trusted."

  "You injure me," Rathbone said laughingly, before turn­ing his charms on her. He looked at her conspicuously, openly admiring what he saw.

  If Evelyn had thought Lord Granby's smile dangerous, it was only because she had yet to meet the handsome Viscount Rathbone. His hair was an angelic silver-blond his eyes a blue-gray that gleamed with pure deviltry, and his smile—ir­resistible was the only word that came to mind.

  "Enchanting," Rathbone repeated his previous compli­ment.

  "Enough," Marshall said. "Miss Dennsworth is here to see to my stepmother's comforts, not yours."

  His words hit hard. Evelyn removed her hand from Lord Kniveton's arm. She didn't need to be reminded that she had no place among the elite crowd gathering to luncheon on a selection of wild duck, curried rabbit, and baked turbot. As for the viscount, didn't Marshall know that no man could draw her attention away from him. His remark had been in­tended as a light reprimand for Rathbone, but she couldn't help but be hurt by it.

  She was about to thank Lord Kniveton for his kind invita­tion, then take her leave, when Lady Waltham came strolling across the yard on the arm of the duke. Her gown swished delicately about her as she walked. The shade, a deep royal blue, flattered her hair and eyes. It was the first time since the death of her husband that she wasn't draped in black.

  Lord Kniveton bowed at the waist as Lady Waltham stopped in front of them. He smiled at her, and Evelyn knew in that moment that Lord Kniveton was in love with Marshall's stepmother. It was in his eyes and the way his voice softened when he said her name. Evelyn's heart went out to the man. How long had he loved Constance? How long had he had to endure the woman he loved being mar­ried to his best friend, a man whom she had loved in return, a man who had made her happy? And now he had to wait for her heart to heal enough to accept being loved again.

  Evelyn knew she wasn't that strong. She would love Mar­shall for the rest of her life, but God willing she wouldn't be forced to stand by and watch as he married someone else. Loved someone else. The very thought made her heart go numb.

  "Your Grace," the earl said, bringing her forward to meet the Duke of Morland. "May I present Miss Dennsworth."

  Evelyn curtseyed, thankful that she'd taken time to prac­tice. "Your Grace."

  "I was just about to give Waltham my assurances that he need not worry about Miss Dennsworth being carried off by Rathbone." He turned from the duke to address Marshall di­rectly. "Have no fear, she will be safe with me."

  The duke looked at Evelyn, his eyes as astute as any she'd ever seen. "We are all in your debt, Miss Dennsworth. I have never seen Constance looking more beautiful."

  Embarrassed by all the attention and unsure what to do about it, Evelyn looked away, toward the cast-top canopy that covered the main fountain of the garden.

  "Don't be shy," Lady Waltham said. "I've been talking about you for days."

  "Had you not been tucked away in your cottage, you would have encountered my thanks before now," the duke told her. "Are you enjoying Ipswich? It's a lovely estate."

  The soft chime of the lunch bell saved Evelyn from hav­ing to reply to the duke's question. When Lord Kniveton of­fered his arm again, she accepted it, deciding lunch with an earl was better than conversation with a duke. Something about His Grace, the Duke of Morland, warned Evelyn that he wasn't a man easily fooled. In fact, she had the uncom­fortable feeling that he knew she was more than a compan­ion to Lady Waltham. It was an undecipherable feeling, but one she couldn't dispel as the group made its way toward the luncheon tables.

  Lord Kniveton carried two plates to a small table shaded by a cluster of birch trees. Nearby, a sculptured dolphin spat water into the air. "I think we'll be comfortable here," the earl said putting down the plates, then holding the back of a white wrought-iron chair until Evelyn was seated.

  "Thank you," she said wishing she could tell the earl that she was anything but comfortable. Everyone else might have missed Winnifred's censoring glance when she'd approached the table, but Evelyn had seen it, along with the lovely brunette who had sauntered up to the marquis and claimed him as a luncheon partner.

  The young woman, dressed in yellow and white silk, was Sybil Radley, Lady Radley. Her father was one of the count­less lords attending the regatta parties. Their estate was near Harwich, or so Jemima had told her. Sybil was one of the en­ticing young ladies whom Constance had invited in hopes of persuading her stepson to marry. The lady's maid had also informed Evelyn that Lady Radley had had her scheming, hazel eyes on the marquis ever since they were children.

  "She's a sly one, she is," Jemima had said in the authori­tative voice of an experienced lady's maid. "If his lordship isn't careful, he'll be married faster than an owl can blink."

  Evelyn took a small bite of apricot tart and tried not to think of Marshall waltzing the beautiful Sybil around the ballroom the previous night. It was apparent that they were well acquainted in the proper way a young lady should be acquainted with a gentleman. It was also apparent that Lady Radley was the kind of woman everyone expected Lord Waltham to eventually marry.

  Looking down at her unadorned blouse and serviceable black skirt, Evelyn hoped she could escape as soon as the meal was finished. Like the statuesque dolphin, she was a fish out of water.

  Seventeen

  Evelyn did not see the marquis for two days. The fault was hers. After being forced to watch him smile and cater to Lady Radley and half a dozen other females at the lawn party, she had intentionally kept to herself. Since Lady Waltham had not summoned her, there had been no need to leave the
cot­tage at all. She hadn't, except to walk along the beach in the early morning before any of the guests left their beds.

  She was doing just that, strolling leisurely down the shore­line, stepping over dark, tangled clumps of seaweed left be­hind by the outgoing tide, when she heard horses galloping up behind her. She turned, moving to the base of the grassy sand dunes as three men came charging toward her, their mounts racing like thoroughbreds at Newmarket. The morn­ing fog hadn't lifted completely. Realizing they didn't see her, Evelyn stepped back again, not wanting to be ridden over. Her feet slipped on a piece of wet seaweed, and she went tumbling down, landing in an unladylike lump on the damp sand.

  Marshall reined in his horse, jumped out of the saddle, and hit the beach running.

  "Are you all right?" he said, coming to kneel beside her.

  "I'm fine," Evelyn muttered, wishing she could say the same thing about her posterior.

  "Bloody hell!" Rathbone exclaimed dismounting and tossing his reins to the Earl of Granby. "Didn't see you. My apologies, Miss Dennsworth."

  Marshall helped Evelyn to her feet. Keeping his back to his friends, and his low voice, he asked "What are you doing out on the beach this early?"

  His voice had a sharpness to it that pricked Evelyn's tem­per. "Attempting to find a small piece of land that hasn't been invaded by the bloody aristocracy," she muttered.

  Marshall wasn't in the mood for witty retorts. He was still shaking from the image of Evelyn being trampled under the hooves of three racing horses. "I'll take you back to the cot­tage."

  "I can walk. It isn't that far."

  "Is the lady all right?" Granby asked. He was sitting atop a strawberry roan gelding that was impatiently pawing the wet sand. The horse had been enjoying his morning run. The earl reached forward quieting the large horse with a gentle stroke of his hand along the animal's strong neck.

  "I'll take her back to the cottage," Marshall said. "Ride on ahead. I'll meet up with you later."

  Evelyn didn't see the knowing smile on the earl's face; she was too busy brushing wet sand off her skirt. When she looked up, both the earl and the viscount tipped their hats before nudging their mounts forward. A challenge from Rathbone pitted the horses against each other within min­utes.

  "Are you sure you're all right?" Marshall asked turning her around and giving her a thorough inspection just to make sure.

  "Embarrassed slightly bruised but otherwise fully in­tact," Evelyn told him. "As for being out early, I could say the same thing of you, my lord."

  "Do you want to ride Poseidon back to the cottage?"

  Evelyn looked at the large stallion, a fierce-looking beast with a coat as sleek and black as a raven's wing. "I'd rather walk," she said, rubbing her bottom.

  "Very well," Marshall said, smiling for the first time since he'd come galloping out of the fog.

  They walked, saying nothing until they reached the cot­tage. He tied the stallion, then turned to find that she had al­ready stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. He followed her, glad of any opportunity he could find to have her to himself, even if only for a few minutes. He'd tried several times to disengage himself from a house full of guests and make his way to the cottage, but it had proven to be an impossible task.

  The morning stillness had yet to be disturbed by the sun, and the interior of the cottage was dim. She turned to face him, her hair billowing down her back, her face flushed, her lips parted. God, she was lovely. Not in the conventional sense, but lovely nonetheless. And he wanted her with a fe­rocity that made his blood run hot. He stepped toward her.

  "Your friends will be expecting you," Evelyn said, unsure as to why she wasn't running into his arms. She'd thought of it often enough this last week, but seeing him in his true ele­ment, among the crème de la crème of society, was affecting the way she saw him now.

  She kept telling herself that he wasn't like other high­born gentlemen, that his true nature had nothing to do with parties and ballrooms and the stuffy manners upon which society turned like a stylish wheel. The very reason they were together was his craving for a mistress.

  "I can stay a few minutes," he replied, sensing her vulner­ability, although he wasn't certain what had triggered it. He wanted to bolt the door against the world and spend the en­tire day making love to her. "I've missed you."

  "How could you possibly have time to miss me, my lord? You've been racing up and down the beach, waltzing the night away, playing billiards and cards and croquet."

  "Does it help to know that whomever I'm waltzing with, I'm thinking of you."

  "Don't patronize me," she said heatedly. "I'm not one of your witless lady friends."

  "You're jealous!" He swung her up into his arms, then gently set her on the table, holding her in place when she would have wiggled away from him.

  "I am not," she insisted wishing she had managed her temper better. She could smell him, feel the heat of him, and it was wonderful. He would make love to her if she let him, but she didn't want him coupling with her, then hastily re­suming the role of host to his hundred plus guests. She wanted the long, lingering hours when he held her in his arms, the time just before dawn when they lay in bed listen­ing to the sound of the sea. She wanted his undivided atten­tion, not a few snatched minutes between the day's scheduled activities.

  "You sound jealous," he said nudging her neck, then kissing it. "I'm flattered Miss Dennsworth."

  "Don't be." She tried to push him away, but he stood firm.

  "If I wasn't worried about Granby or Rathbone charging to your rescue, I'd take the time to prove that you care far more than you're willing to admit," Marshall said teasingly. "Unfortunately, you are right. I am expected back for break­fast. That leaves me with just enough time for a kiss."

  He caught her arms and drew her forward looping them around his neck. Evelyn turned her head thinking it would serve him right if she didn't kiss him for a week, but he caught her chin and forced her to look at him. His arm slid around her waist, his hand splaying wide at the base of her spine to gently urge her forward until her legs straddled his hips. Her lips parted as their bodies made contact, and his tongue swept inside, tasting her.

  His tongue searched her mouth, probing gently, then re­treating, building the pleasure until she was holding on to the lapels of his riding jacket to pull him closer. She could feel his heart beating as her hand found its way inside his shirt. His skin was hot and damp. She knotted her fingers in the crisp hair and pulled. His own hands were just as busy, freeing her blouse from the waistband of her skirt, finding his way inside it until there was nothing but her chemise sep­arating his searching fingers from her breast. His thumb brushed across an erect nipple, and she flinched with plea­sure.

  "I want to taste you," he said, pulling away from her. "Your breasts are sweeter than any fruit. Bare them for me."

  The heat of his body was warming away the chill of the fog-soaked beach. His gaze was focused on her with a sharp­ness that made her catch her breath. What she saw in their dark depths was intense, a fire that matched the one burning in her own blood. The feel of his body pressed intimately be­tween her thighs brought back memories of all the times he'd touched her, kissed her, joined his body to hers until they had become one person.

  It was frightening to realize that she couldn't refuse him.

  She did as he asked, slowly unbuttoning her blouse, then lowering the straps of her chemise, until the soft material barely covered her aroused nipples. Looking into his eyes, holding his gaze, she untied the laces and spread it wide, baring herself.

  Marshall looked down at her, at the creamy perfection of her breasts. He touched her, his fingers tracing the soft mounds with a reverence he'd never felt for any other woman. He could feel the heat building in her skin, that flushed warmth of arousal that told him the rest of her body was preparing itself to receive him.

  Evelyn watched him as he bent his head and blew out a breath that brushed over her skin like a hot wind before he closed
his mouth over one nipple, sucking it inside and cre­ating a sensation that made her entire body quiver. He con­tinued teasing and tasting, using his tongue and his teeth to build the need inside her, feasting on first one breast, then the other, until it was almost impossible to breathe. The more she fought the sensations he created the higher they soared.

  Then he was kissing her again, stealing her senses.

  "I want more than a kiss," he whispered against her lips. "I need more."

  Closing her eyes, Evelyn answered "Yes."

  "It will be fast and hard" he told her. "Do you want it that way? Fast and hard and deep?"

  Before she could answer, he crushed his mouth to hers. She kissed him back, just as hungry, just as needy. He raised her skirt to find the drawstring at the top of her drawers. It came undone. He pulled her unwanted clothing out of the way. She clung to his shoulders, still kissing him, as his hands went to the front of his trousers.

  Then he was inside her, pushing deep into her body. Again and again he drove into her: hard fast, deep, then even deeper, so deep she thought she'd die from the pleasure. She moaned but he didn't stop moving. It was as primitive as any coupling could be, fast and furious, fire burning out of control. She arched against him, the pleasure building, then suddenly exploding as the storm reached its zenith.

  Marshall tensed as her climax brought him to comple­tion. He squeezed his eyes shut as the pleasure took him, leaving him depleted and gasping for breath, but totally sat­isfied.

  "That will have to last us until I can find a way to get away from the bloody peerage," he said his voice soft and teasing. He groaned as she pressed herself tightly against him. "I'll have to walk Poseidon back to the stables. I'm too weak to ride."

  "It serves you right," she mumbled lazily. "You were only supposed to kiss me."