Once Upon a Tartan

“Must.” Another caress with her tongue, and God help him, she cupped his balls at the same time. “You did, with me.”

Brilliant, faultless logic. He tried to draw in a breath, but was unwilling to move even that much lest he disturb her. This intimacy was one a man usually paid for, something no decent woman ought to conceive of, and she was glorying in it. He drew her hair back over her shoulder. “There’s a name for this.”

She ran her nose up the length of his shaft, rubbed her cheek against the hair at the base. “Later, Tiberius. I’m a trifle busy at the moment.”

And then her mouth was on him again, until she was drawing on him in a slow, maddening rhythm, sleeving him with her wet fingers and driving him past all self-restraint.

“No more, Hester.” His voice was hoarse with banked desire, and he had to ease his grip on her hair lest he hurt her.

“I like this.”

“For God’s—” He pushed her away as gently as he could and used his free hand to stroke himself exactly twice before he was coming, a cyclone of pleasure and lust barreling through his body, making his jaw clench, his spine bow, and colors dance behind his closed eyes.

He suspected he’d lost consciousness. When his mind settled itself enough to process thoughts, Hester had used a handkerchief to wipe him clean. She set the cloth aside, pillowed her head on his belly, and took his cock in her hand. Her grip was just snug enough to be perfect.

He could not have borne it had she moved her hand on him or—merciful God—run her tongue over him even once more; and yet, he could not have borne it if she’d turned loose of him, either.

“You are an astonishing woman, Hester Daniels. An astonishing lady.”

And she was going to make an astonishingly wonderful marchioness, too.

Eight

“Neville said you were in a taking about something.” Earnest Abingdon, Lord Rutherford, let his observation hang in the air while Deirdre considered bashing him over the head with her teapot.

The Spode was so pretty, though.

“You’re fishing, Earnest. Neville probably passed my every confidence to you under circumstances I do not want to contemplate.”

“You are missing your children and in want of grandchildren, my dear.”

She set the teapot down with an unceremonious thunk. “That is unkind, Rutherford. Has Neville said something to make you jealous?”

“We regularly do things to make each other jealous.” He shot his cuffs, looking like a perfectly unruffled, lanky specimen of blond, blue-eyed English aristocracy. “It is part of the dubious charm of our circumstances. When was the last time you saw your daughters?”

“None of your business. Have a tea cake, and I hope you strangle on it. I am not old enough to have grandchildren.”

She was more than old enough, which was why they took tea, not by the windows where the fresh morning light would reveal her age written plain on her face, but to the side of the room. By rights she should have a half dozen of the little dears, and be spending all her days flitting from one child’s happy household to another.

“Deirdre, I like women. I like them rather a lot, and happen to be married to one I can love, after my fashion. You are nursing a broken heart, my dear. I suggest you mend it before you do something rash.”

“I am doing no such thing, Rutherford, though more of this talk, and you will be nursing broken parts of your own.”

“Violent passions in a woman can be so arousing.” He let his lids droop, the scoundrel, as if he meant what he said. He was trying to cheer her up though, trying very hard in fact.

“What on earth makes you think I’m missing grown children who haven’t needed their mama for years?”

He eyed the teacup she held a few inches above the saucer—the teacup that trembled slightly in her grasp. “When you hold your salons, my lady, you are the soul of graciousness, turning your signature smile on each guest who walks through your door. I watch while that smile fades into something very pretty but a shade less warm. You are waiting for your family to come ransom you from your pride, and you are disappointed that they do not. I’ll have a word with Spathfoy, if you like.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” She set the tea down untasted and dropped the pretense that Rutherford was wrong. “Tye is all Hale has left. I try to leave the boy in peace. The girls ride roughshod over their father, and I’m very much concerned Hale is the one plotting something rash.”

“Such as?”

“Among our set, marriages are still primarily a matter of business. His lordship has the authority and the”— she searched for a word that wasn’t unduly disrespectful—“the consequence to contract marriages for his daughters.”

“The ballocks, you mean. He’d risk the scandal of his daughters crying off though—which might send them running to their mama.”

Intriguing notion—but what of her poor daughters? The Daniels girl had cried off for reasons Deirdre suspected were all too understandable. The last Deirdre had heard, the young lady had been packed off to distant relations on some Scottish grouse moor, probably never to be seen again.

But Rutherford raised an interesting scenario. “If the girls came running to Mama, then Hale would be sending Tye around to retrieve them, and I cannot place my son in such a position.”

Her only surviving son.

A silence began to spread, sad on her part. From the look in Rutherford’s eyes, impatient on his. “Deirdre, I’d take you to bed if I thought it would help.”

“Your idea of flattery can leave a woman feeling less than intrigued. Wouldn’t Neville take exception?”

“Neville is the one who suggested we make the offer—you will note the plural. He doesn’t share his toys often, and neither do I.” He sipped his tea, as if they were discussing whose coach to take on an outing. But God in heaven, what did it say about her that she was considering taking them up on their questionable generosity out of sheer boredom?

She picked up her teacup and wondered what bad behavior her husband was permitting himself because he was bored. He was, and always would be, a handsome man to whom many a buxom diversion would come easily to hand—or to bed.

“You see?” Rutherford set his cup down. “I lay all manner of scandalous offers at your slippered feet, and you merely stare at your tea. I would be insulted if I didn’t know this isn’t mere coyness.”

Coyness. How long had it been since Deirdre had felt coy—had felt anything but tired and lonely?

“I’m speechless at your generosity, Rutherford, though I fear I must decline. When did you say you had to meet Neville?”

“Apparently not soon enough for you.” He rose and drew her to her feet. “Do you know why I love my wife?”

“She’s the soul of tolerance, for one thing. She’s also very discreet, and she looks marvelous on your arm.”

He slipped Deirdre’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her toward the front of the house.

“My wife is my friend. She is the mother of my children—and they are my children, despite what you and all the other gossips might think—but first and foremost, she is my friend. I have her loyalty, her understanding, her moral support, and every other indicator of firm friendship, and she has mine. I think dear Hale would offer you friendship, Deirdre, if you’d give the man one more chance.”

Despite the footman hovering in the hall, Deirdre turned and leaned against her guest—let the help gawk and report what they would to titillate Hale’s ears. “I’m not like you, Rutherford. I can’t run my life like a traveling circus, with all manner of sophisticated relationships in unexpected locations. The problem is”—she looked around