Folly Page 11

  He had a hard time imagining such a thing. Not when his mind was flooded with the sudden fantasy of her sweet mouth stretched around his cock, sucking, nibbling, teasing him to insanity.

  No. He couldn’t imagine too much of that.

  She edged out from beneath him and stood, facing him, arms akimbo, like a goddess in the soft shafts of sunlight, nude and proud and desirable. A smile teased her lips. “In future, when I say fuck me, you will do so, and without delay.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Do not mock me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  She cast about, hunting for her dress. It was there, at her feet. He sat up and nudged it with his foot and then fastened his pants. Damn, if this didn’t happen nearly every time. He got close to her and forgot everything. Forgot to unbutton his trousers until he was in a fair frenzy. Forgot to be gentle. Forgot to withdraw when he came. When he was near her, all sanity receded.

  “Did you mean what you said?”

  She laughed as she bent to pick up her dress. “What did I say?”

  “That I was a gentle man.”

  “Of course. Don’t you know?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t feel gentle when I’m around you. I feel…”

  “You feel what?” She demurely turned her back to slip her chemise over her head.

  Two things occurred to Ethan at that moment. The first was, how incongruous her modesty was after what had just transpired, how the action spoke to her nature.

  It was the second thing he noticed, however, that caused his heart to still.

  For as she turned, he saw her back.

  And his belly lurched.

  Dear God. Had he done that? He leaped up from the long flat stone and glared at it.

  Gentle. Bah. He was a beast, nothing more.

  He had fucked her, long and hard, against a rock, for fuck’s sake. Her back was a mass of scratches, of angry red marks. And bruises. And scars.

  “Holy Hell.”

  She spun around, clutching her hands to her breast. Fear flashed through her eyes. She drew a deep breath in through her nostrils.

  He watched as she collected herself. Calmed her heart with a palm to her chest. “Ethan? What is it?”

  He approached her, his steps weighted by agonizing trepidation. “Your back.” He spun her around. She dropped her head, held herself preternaturally still. “Did I do that?”

  She allowed him to lift the chemise, to see the damage he had done. His hand trembled as he stroked one thick scar and then another. She flinched at his touch.

  Had he…?

  But no. These were scars. Scars. And the bruises were yellow and faded. Two or three weeks old.

  No. He hadn’t done this.

  A great wash of relief flooded him but was replaced almost immediately with a scalding snarl of blinding fury.

  Yes. It actually blinded him. His vision blurred and he saw red, the insidious throb of his heart beating through the tiny veins in his eyes.

  He’d never been so enraged.

  Never been struck dumb with the urge to kill a man. To wrap his hands around a scrawny neck and squeeze and squeeze until, hacking and drooling, the life oozed from him.

  “Ulster.”

  She nodded, though it was barely noticeable at all. Other than that tiny infinitesimal bob, no movement was noticeable. She stood before him, as he traced her wounds—old though they were—holding herself still, not even daring to shiver as he explored the true horror of her marriage.

  “He beat you.”

  Another nod. She shot a look over her shoulder. It was a quick glance, limned with fear and, perhaps, guilt.

  Ethan’s fingers trailed away from her warm flesh. They shook with rage. He curled them into a tight ball and let the chemise fall.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m ugly.”

  Dear God. What?

  “No. This is not about you. This is not your fault.” That Ulster had made her hate herself made Ethan want to kill him all over again. Or better yet, show him the taste of the lash.

  But Ulster was gone. Beyond reach. As James had said, all that remained of him was his effect on this woman. And, of a sudden, Ethan was possessed of the determination to erase Ulster altogether, and forever, from both their minds.

  Harshly, he took her arms and turned her away from him. He yanked up her chemise and dropped to his knees. He pulled her close and kissed her. Kissed first one angry scar and then another. And a third and a fourth. He kissed all of them, again and again and again, ignoring the hot tears dampening his cheeks, dampening her back.

  He kissed her until she stopped him. Until she fell to her knees by his side. She took his face in her hands and dried his cheeks with her thumbs. And she kissed him. It was the gentlest kiss, but in it, he tasted so much. Her gratitude. Her absolution. Her release.

  Dear God. He loved her.

  He loved her, and he feared he always would.

  He held her like that—on his knees in the cool loam, with his arms around her—for an eternity, but Eleanor wouldn’t have pulled away if her life depended on it. It was, in short, the most magical moment of her life. She would hold this memory to her breast in cold, lonely future nights. She would hold this memory to her breast and think of him.

  Her Ethan.

  He’d given her so much—not the least of which was hope for the future. Even if she didn’t get with child in the next few weeks, he’d helped her remember who she was. Who she’d been.

  She liked who she was again.

  She liked her life.

  “How often?” Ethan’s voice was muffled, his mouth buried in her hair, but Eleanor heard him.

  “How often did he beat me?”

  “Yes.”

  Heavens. She didn’t want to think about it. “Just after.”

  “After?” He raised his head, met her gaze. She saw when comprehension dawned. “After.”

  She nodded. “It was wicked. I was wicked to make him want it.”

  “So he punished you?”

  “Yes.”

  “God, he was more twisted than I ever imagined. Is that why you thought I was gentle? Because I didn’t beat you to a pulp after fu…after making love to you?”

  “I thought you might. That first time.” He’d said, I’m not finished with you yet. Just like Ulster always had. And she’d been frozen with fear.

  “Bloody hell.” He pulled away, stood and paced about the glen. “Never. Never. Never!” He stormed back to her and yanked her to her feet. “I will never strike you. Do you understand?” He gave her a gentle shake. “Do you, Eleanor?”

  “Yes.” The word caught in her throat, strangled by a cloying elation.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her into his arms and held her, rocked her, all the while stroking her back, running his fingers over the scars and murmuring to himself. Or to her. Or to heaven, perhaps.

  “I wish I could make them go away. I wish I could heal them. I wish I could go back in time and kill Ulster before you married him.”

  “Ethan. Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not being silly. I’m being serious, Eleanor. If I could, I would.”

  She put a palm to his cheek, stroked him, reveling in the budding stubble. “I know. Ethan.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “I know.”

  And she smiled, all the way to her soul.

  Because for the first time in her life, she had a champion. Someone who would protect her and fight for her and…want her.

  It was magnificent.

  She only wished it could last forever.

  As he walked her back to the house, he noticed rival trails of pink and orange twining on the horizon. He slipped his arm around her waist and chuckled. “The day is almost gone.”

  She peeped up at him mischievously. “I’m not the one who slept until noon.”

  “I was referring to the fact that we spent the entirety of the afternoon naked beside a p
ond.”

  “Can you think of a better way to spend an afternoon?”

  “Now that you mention it…”

  But his response trailed off as something captured his attention. Something horrific. His steps slowed. His muscles tightened. His breath hitched. His gut lurched in revulsion at a hideous prospect.

  “Ethan? What is it?”

  Carriages.

  In the drive.

  “The others have arrived.”

  He knew things would change when the other party attendees appeared on the scene. He just hadn’t realized how much. And he hadn’t anticipated how utterly annoying they would be. The changes, and the party attendees.

  As he and Eleanor arrived on the terrace, they were introduced to Dent and his wife, both of whom were tolerable. But then there was Dent’s sister, a youngish miss named Louisa, who looked straight out of leading strings and utterly besotted with—of all people—Ethan.

  However, even with her dreamy glances and sly touches and the dribbling nonsense issuing forth from her mouth, Louisa was not nearly as annoying as Haversham.

  Haversham. Ethan shot him a darkling glare.

  Well put together, he was tall and slick, oozing charm, with clearly padded trousers and a nauseatingly handsome visage—complete with a dented chin. His eyes were large and brown and had thick dark lashes that gave him a feminine aspect. His lips were strong and firm but he kept dampening them with his tongue, which Ethan found galling. Most specifically, because he did it whenever his hungry gaze fell on Eleanor.

  Ethan didn’t care for the way Eleanor’s nostrils flared when Haversham took her hand. The way she flushed when he pressed his lips to her fingers. Or the way her hand went to her cheek when the pup piled compliment after compliment upon her.

  How revolting could a man be?

  Unbidden, Ethan’s attention was drawn to Louisa. Probably as a result of her unexpected hand on his arm. She smiled at him and then turned to Eleanor. “I do love what you’ve done with your hair.” She patted her own elaborately arranged locks. “It’s so…simple.”

  It was a bun of Ethan’s own creation. Eleanor’s coiffure had been utterly destroyed sometime between Ethan’s arrival at the secluded glen and their departure. He recognized Louisa’s attempt at a catty gouge and he didn’t appreciate it. He’d never before had his hairstyling skills called into question. And no. He definitely didn’t care for it.

  Helena leaped to his defense. Of course, she probably didn’t realize she was defending him—in her mind she was defending Eleanor against a tonnish harpy. At least, he hoped Helena didn’t realize she was defending him, that he’d mussed Eleanor’s hair and, perforce, had fixed it. In a glen. By a pond. While she was naked.

  “Now that we’re in the country, we like to be informal, don’t we, Ellie?”

  Ethan caught Helena’s knowing glance.

  Hell. She was defending him. The glint in her eye betrayed her. Still, she linked arms with Eleanor, claiming her as a protected friend. “Shall we go inside? No doubt you’re parched.”

  Ethan couldn’t help noticing the way Helena patted Eleanor’s hand as she led the way into the house. He wasn’t sure if that meant her comment was directed at Eleanor alone or not. But he suspected it wasn’t.

  Come to think of it, he was a little parched himself. And hungry.

  While it bothered him to release his claim upon her, to release Eleanor into another’s keeping, as long as it was Helena, he would tolerate it.

  Haversham, on the other hand, was another story altogether.

  Holy hell. Haversham was a complete ass.

  Ethan glared at him across the table as he sat next to Eleanor, feeding her one idiotic anecdote after another, whispering to her, laughing with her. Touching her arm.

  Touching her, for God sakes.

  Ethan wanted to rip Haversham’s hand off at the wrist.

  To make matters worse, even as he was glaring at the man, trying desperately to hear every word passing between them, the debutante—what was her name again?—Louisa, kept trying to engage Ethan in conversation.

  She pattered at him, pattered incessantly. “Do you like this, Colonel Pennington? Have you tried that, Colonel Pennington? Tell me more about your travels in the Far East, Colonel Pennington.”

  He tried to be civil. Really he did.

  But when Haversham’s head tipped toward Eleanor’s, when her attention was on that young pup and not himself, he wanted to snarl at people. He wanted to break something. Helena’s china, perhaps.

  He shot a look at their hostess and found her attention fixed on him. A tiny smile danced on her lips. He glared at her and her smile broadened.

  Damn the minx. She’d done this on purpose. She’d sat Eleanor next to Haversham with the deliberate intention of making Ethan froth like a mad dog.

  It was working.

  By the time the ladies retired to the drawing room, leaving the men to their cigars, Ethan wanted to throttle Haversham.

  But what was to come next was worse.

  The men—Darlington, Uncle Andrew, Dent and Haversham—remained at the table. Baxter rounded the room, lighting each man’s cigar while the footmen brought brandy. And they embarked on the usual conversations of men of the ton. The coming races at Derby, hunting, politely griping about the Regent. The usual.

  Then Haversham turned the conversation, and he turned it in a dangerous direction.

  “So tell me, Darlington. What do you know about Lady Ulster?”

  A seething pool of acid began to snarl in Ethan’s belly. He glared at Haversham. Then, for good measure, glared at Darlington.

  James grinned. “Ah yes. Lady Ulster. Quite a lovely thing.”

  “Yes, quite.” Bloody hell. Even Dent was joining in. Now Ethan had to glare at him as well. “Exquisite, even in black.”

  Haversham sighed. “It sets off her complexion.”

  Uncle Andrew grunted and puffed heartily on his cigar and downed half his brandy in one gulp. He was in a rush to repair to the library, no doubt. He cleared his throat in a grizzled rumble. “Good breeding stock, she is.”

  All the men gaped at him.

  “I beg your pardon?” There was a thread of cool steel in Ethan’s tone. He did not deny it.

  Uncle Andrew held his palms far apart. “Wide hips. Always a good sign.”

  Ethan choked on his brandy. “W-what?”

  But Darlington, ever the attentive host, stepped in. Before Ethan could pummel his uncle. “Yes, she’s quite lovely. Elegant. Demure.”

  The hell, Ethan thought. You didn’t see her this afternoon, sitting on a rock with her legs held high demanding the pleasure of my cock.

  “She was married to Ulster, but that wasn’t her choice.”

  “Yes.” Dent leaned back in his chair. “A real Smithfield bargain.”

  Haversham choked on his brandy. “I beg your pardon?”

  Dent nodded. “Traded for her father’s gambling debts, I heard.”

  Ethan blinked. He’d not heard that. He hadn’t known. A cold chill dribbled down his spine. They had more in common than he’d suspected.

  Haversham fingered the rim of his glass. “Many men owed Ulster money. My brother among them.”

  Dent barked a harsh laugh. “Everyone owed Ulster. He always won.” Then he muttered, “He always cheated.”

  Darlington raised his glass. “To Ulster’s death.”

  “To Ulster’s death.”

  “May he rot in hell.”

  The exuberant toasts rang around the room and when the words died, when all men had quaffed long and deep to honor the passing of a man they detested, Haversham cleared his throat. “So…how long do you suppose I shall have to wait?”

  “Wait?” Darlington’s brow creased. “Wait for what?”

  “To court her.”

  Ethan’s heart clenched. His belly rolled. His fingers curled into a fist.

  Though he was talking to Haversham, James fixed his attention on Ethan, gauging, perhaps
, the menace. “Court her?”

  “Yes. Lady Eleanor.”

  Eleanor? Bloody hell. Had she given him permission to address her so intimately?

  Panic whipped through Ethan like a sirocco. The prospect of losing her to Haversham, to anyone, was intolerable.

  James, incongruously, chuckled. “Lady Ulster has just taken on mourning. Less than a month, Lord Haversham.”

  “Yet she is at this party.” Dent’s insinuation was nearly an insult. Ethan bristled.

  “On Helena’s express invitation. She would never have come if this had been a formal affair. Or one not attended by our closest friends.” Darlington’s warning gaze rounded the room. All the other men, with the exception of Uncle Andrew, sat back in their chairs, an unspoken accord. Uncle Andrew was staring off into space and had probably missed the thrust of the conversation entirely.

  “Still…” Damn Haversham. He persisted. “To whom should I address my intentions?”

  Ethan’s breath stalled. His heart took up a fierce pounding in his chest. A bead of sweat formed on his brow.

  James blinked, flicked a quick glance at Ethan. “Your intentions?”

  “To woo her. I know she’s in mourning and all, but I am hardly a man to let grass grow under my feet. I see no reason to delay a courtship. After all,” he laughed, the fool, “we’re both here at this cozy house party. She’s just the woman I have been searching for. And she is available.” He took another sip of his brandy and puffed out his chest. “She seems to look upon me favorably.”

  He blathered on, providing a litany of reasons Eleanor would be the perfect mate for a Haversham, but Ethan wasn’t listening. He was incapable. The blood had begun rushing in his ears, in a deafening howl, at Haversham’s declared intention to woo his woman.

  To woo his woman.

  The hell he would.

  “I think,” he said abruptly and most inappropriately, as it was Darlington’s place to make such an announcement, “we should join the ladies.”

  The scene in the drawing room was deadly dull and Eleanor knew it was because of the absence of a certain man. But she did what she could to tolerate the emptiness that accompanied time without Ethan. She chatted, as ladies do, and helped Helena serve the tea, and listened to Louisa gush about this or that.