The Incurable Matchmaker Page 4

  A pity, Lord Kenwood thought, following the maid up the stairs. It would have brightened the evening somewhat if the lady had come downstairs for her dinner. It would have been delightful to have witnessed her blushes as she set eyes upon him and remembered just how much of her he had seen that afternoon. And he would have liked to have a good look at her face. He had been rather too intent on her legs that afternoon to notice anything more than that she was lovely.

  "I trust your mistress will wake up in the morning no worse for her ordeal," he said conversationally.

  The maid, who had reached the landing at the top of the stairs, whirled around and blushed scarlet. The color marred the wholesome prettiness of her face just as it had that afternoon. "I do hope so, for sure, sir," she said, as breathless as if she had just climbed forty flights of stairs. "She should be sleeping sound, she should, with all that laudanum inside her. She did not eat a bite of dinner."

  "Did she not?" he said, joining her on the landing and clasping his hands behind his back. Damnation, but he was quite foxed. The world was revolving slowly around him. "But I am sure your tender care will have put all to rights by the morning." He smiled.

  He expected the girl to step aside to let him pass on to his room, or else to hurry along ahead of him to whichever room belonged to her mistress. But she stood as if mesmerized. Well, well, he thought, amused, it seemed that he might have had a choice of bedfellows tonight, especially with the mistress in a drugged stupor. But somehow, pretty as she undoubtedly was when not blushing, the maid seemed just too wholesome to be considered in terms of seduction.

  "I will bid you good night, then," he said, sketching the girl a mocking little bow and then wishing that he had kept his head up and still.

  She looked embarrassed and agitated. She backed along the corridor ahead of him, grasped hold of the handle of his door behind her back, opened it, backed inside, bobbed a curtsy, whispered, "Good night, sir. I do not wish to wake my lady, the lamb," and closed the door.

  Lord Kenwood stood staring at it for a moment. Pox upon it, he must be even more foxed than he had realized. He had thought that was his room. If he had not happened to come upstairs at the same moment as the maid, he would have walked right in. And come face to face with Sleeping Beauty, obviously. It might have been mildly embarrassing, especially if she had woken up. She probably would have screeched the roof down. And who would ever believe that he had walked in upon her accidentally?

  His image might have been severely tarnished. His approaches to women were never that unsubtle.

  He turned to the door at his right hand and shook his head. When he opened the door, he could see that the room was in darkness. What an inn! No candles in the rooms, no locks on the doors. But he was not about to go downstairs again merely to fetch a candle. He did not need light in order to undress and climb into bed.

  He groped his way past Carter's truckle bed, swore softly at his own drunken state when he discovered that his bed was against the wall opposite the one he thought he remembered its being against, removed all his clothes and dropped them in a heap on the floor—a habit that Carter for all his pointed looks and discreet coughs had never been able to break him of—and slipped thankfully between the sheets. He would rest for a while before the barmaid joined him. He was asleep almost before his head touched

  the pillow.

  * * *

  Diana woke up at some time during the night—if she could be said to be awake. She gingerly examined the state of her head and found that it was no longer throbbing. But she did feel as if she had been wrapped about by thick layers of cotton. She felt very heavily drugged. She had merely touched the surface of consciousness and had only to let go in order to sink back into fuzzy nothingness again.

  But she felt an unexpected stab of loneliness. Teddy was not there. If she were to reach out to where he had always lain beside her, he would not be there. He would never be there again. Not ever or ever or ever.

  She let the fuzziness wash over her for a while. Shortly after her marriage she had started to comfort herself for her loneliness with her imagination. Her fantasies had sometimes taken on a shocking reality.

  It was not that she had been dissatisfied with Teddy. He had been the best of husbands. And he had never neglected her, even physically. He had kissed her frequently—every time he left the house and every time he returned to it and every night in bed before he settled for sleep. Loud, smacking, and affectionate kisses on the lips.

  And never a week had passed without his exercising his conjugal rights. More often than not it had been twice a week. She had always known when it was about to happen. She would feel his tension beside her on the bed, as if his baser nature—his sexuality—were at war with his better nature. When he had turned to her, it had always been almost apologetically.

  It had always followed the same pattern. He would raise her nightgown with one hand, lift himself on

  top of her and between her thighs, and work vigorously in her for perhaps two minutes. He would roll away from her almost immediately afterward, relax for a minute or two, and then pat her affectionately on one bare buttock, lower her nightgown, kiss her smackingly on the lips, and tell her that she was a good wife to him and that he was sorry to be such a trouble to her. She had given up after the first few months telling him that he was no trouble at all.

  There had been nothing at all distasteful or unpleasant about their sexual life. But there had often been an ache in her, an emptiness, an unfulfilled something when she lay beside him wakeful after he had dropped into a sleep of contentment.

  And so the fantasies had developed. Teddy became idealized in her imagination. Sometimes he became unrecognizable. He became taller and slimmer, his muscles firmer and more well developed. His face became more angular and handsome, his eyes bluer and more intense. His hair became thicker and wavier. His voice became deeper.

  His kisses became soundless and more lingering, his hands more sensitive and tender. And his lovemaking—oh, she never knew quite what to do about his lovemaking. That would have to stay as it was. There was nothing more a man could do about that. It was with his hands and his lips and his voice that her dream lover took away some of the emptiness in her. And with his splendid male body.

  And oh, yes, she had suffered pangs of conscience, many a time, when her imaginings did not put her to sleep. Then she would come back to herself, feeling more lonely and dissatisfied than ever, and Teddy—dear, kind, affectionate Teddy—would be snoring softly at her side, unaware that he had a wanton for a wife.

  Teddy. Diana floated on a cushion of fuzziness and wanted him. She wanted the terrible loneliness to go away. But Teddy was dead. He would never be there again.

  Teddy. Teddy.

  If she lay very still, if she did not fight the drugs, it would all go away. He would be there again. He would be weighting down the mattress beside her, warming the other half of the bed. If she kept very quiet, she would hear him breathing quietly and regularly in his sleep. He was not snoring tonight. He must be lying on his side.

  If she reached out a hand, slowly, so as not to break the spell of the laudanum, she would be able to touch him.

  She reached out a hand.

  And touched him.

  His arm was warm with sleep. Sleek with hairs. Firm and well muscled. He was not wearing his nightshirt tonight. Her fingertips moved lightly to his shoulder, lightly and slowly so as not to disturb the dream. A broad shoulder. She slid her fingertips lower. A broad, strong chest, roughened with hairs. Mm.

  "Mm."

  She had come, the Marquess of Kenwood thought, coming slowly awake to feel the barmaid's fingertips trace a light path up his arm, across his shoulder, and down to his chest. He had not even heard her come into his room or climb into his bed. The light touch felt very good. He would not have thought her capable of such subtlety.

  "Mm," he said, the sound coming from deep in his throat.

  He found her face with his hand and traced the l
ine of her temple and cheek with his fingertips, his thumb brushing over one closed eyelid and across her lips. Soft, smooth skin—surprisingly so.

  He felt drowsy still, languorous. But there were the stirrings of desire. He moved closer to her and set his lips to hers. Warm, soft, closed. He traced them lightly with the tip of his tongue, prodding gently at the seam until they parted, and then reaching behind her lips to tease the moist flesh there. Mm, she tasted good.

  "Mm."

  Oh yes, why had she not thought of this before? Oh, yes, this was how a kiss should be. Not just a smack of lips, but a lingering of lips, an exploration, a communication. And not just a communion of lips, but a meeting of mouths. Oh, yes, this was how it should be.

  She unclenched her teeth and felt his tongue slide all the way into her mouth, circling her own tongue, stroking over the roof of her mouth.

  Oh, yes, this was the way it would be. If she lay very still and very quiet.

  The muscles of his back rippled beneath the light touch of her hand. His mouth moved from hers, and she would have changed the dream to have it back there again if it had not moved to her ear and if his tongue and his teeth and his warm breath there had not made her toes curl up with pleasure and something more than pleasure.

  She could almost feel the warmth of his breath. If she did not open her eyes, she could feel it.

  Her hair was unexpectedly silky and fragrant. She was wearing a nightgown. That too was a surprise.

  The little wench must be a great deal more skilled than he had given her credit for. Not many females seemed to know how much more enticing it was to a man to have to strip away clothing than to be presented with instant nakedness.

  He touched a small, firm-boned shoulder through the fabric of her gown and a breast that was smaller than it had looked earlier, but firm and very feminine. He rubbed a thumb lightly over its tip and felt it begin to stiffen. He touched her small waist, the enticing curve of her hips, her slim legs.

  The stirrings of desire were converting into the beginnings of arousal.

  Touch me, Teddy, she begged silently, her eyes tightly closed. Don't stop touching me. Don't stop now. It feels so good. Keep on touching me.

  When his hand reached to just above her knee, he grasped the fabric of her nightgown and raised it. It was almost finished now, then. Soon he would be finished. She was not ready for him to finish yet. More, Teddy, she begged silently. Touch me a little more, kiss me for a little longer before you do that. She searched for, and found, his mouth in the darkness.

  But his hand did not pause when the nightgown was raised to her hips. It continued to her waist, to her breasts. Of course. But of course. She had never thought of this before either. Whyever not? It was so obvious. She raised her arms in wonder as he stripped the garment away from her altogether and dropped it over the side of the bed.

  She waited for his hands to come back to her, and experimented with moving her tongue over his.

  Satin smooth skin. Beautiful, beautiful. And she was not all energetic gyrations, as he had fully expected from her behavior downstairs. She lay still but receptive. She knew more than any woman he had had for a long, long time just how to arouse a man. He willed himself to slow down. This one must not be hurried.

  He set his mouth to the taut peak of one of her breasts and let his hands roam over her, pausing in places where he knew he would give pleasure and increase arousal. Her fingers were in his hair. She was making low sounds of pleasure in her throat.

  She must stop the fantasy soon. It was fantasy. Teddy was dead. And mis was unfair to Teddy. Teddy would never have touched her with such wanton intimacy. But it was good. So very good. She must take landanum more often. But oh no, she must not. This was improper. Very improper.

  Then he set his hand in the most intimate place of all, at the same moment as his lips found their way to hers again. She gasped against his mouth. He was touching her. His fingers were parting her and stroking her. And she began to ache and ache from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. She could hear herself moaning.

  If it was feigned, she was a very good actress. She was hot and pliant in his arms, eager, and.very, very aroused. As was he. This was far more than sport. More than pleasure.

  This was need.

  This was beauty. She was beautiful. She was wet to his touch. He wanted to be inside her. He needed to be inside her. Now.

  She wanted him. She had never wanted him before. She had never denied him, never shrunk from him even, but she had never wanted him. Never ached for him. Never throbbed with something that was almost but not quite pain for his presence in her.

  She kept her eyes tightly closed and reached for him eagerly with arms and mouth when he moved over her and brought his weight down on her. She moved to accommodate him and gripped his slim hips and strongly muscled legs with her inner thighs. And she could feel him, hard and male, at the entry to her.

  He paused there. His own need was pounding in his ears, but he paused there «a the brink of her. He would thrust inward sharply, but not quite yet. He wanted to savor the moment He wanted to tease them both for a few moments longer, so that they would both gasp when he finally went in.

  She spoke for the first time. "My love," she whispered softly. "Oh, my love. So beautiful. Come to me. Come to me now."

  He lifted his head from where it had been buried in the soft fragrance of her hair.

  I'm a good girl. Oh no, never. Not all the passion in the world could so transform a voice.

  "My love," she said, pressing her thighs to his hips, seeking his mouth with her own.

  "Who the devil are you?" he asked, straining to see her face in the darkness.

  It was not the voice of a dream lover. It was not Teddy's voice. And it was not Teddy's body bearing hers down into the mattress, large and strong and athletically muscled. Neither was it a fantasy body.

  It was the voice of a real man. The body of a real man. A strange man.

  There was a man in her bed!

  Despite all his suddenly aroused curiosity, the Marquess of Kenwood could have bitten his tongue out the moment after he had spoken. The woman beneath him—whoever she was—became all twisting, clawing, desperate panic. Feet, hands, and head became flailing weapons. It was as much as he could do to roll off her uninjured.

  "Who are you?" she demanded in a voice that shook almost out of control. "What are you doing here? Get out! Get away from me! I shall scream. I shall have you taken up and thrown into jail and hanged. Get out of here this instant, you treacherous, lecherous ..."

  She leaped from the bed, realized the instant her body hit the cool night air that there was nothing covering that body, grabbed for the bedclothes to drag around herself, retreated to the window, and pulled back the heavy curtains in an effort to see her assailant.

  She succeeded. Deprived of all coverings, he had risen up after her, and the dim light filtering through the window from outside showed her a magnificently formed, but very naked and very aroused man. She could not see his face.

  "I shall scream," she said again.

  Lord Kenwood felt at a distinct disadvantage. He bent to disentangle his breeches from his other garments on the floor and pulled them on, despite the fact that it was painful to do so.

  "I might ask what you are doing in my room, madam," he said with admirable coolness. "I am more than delighted to entertain you here, of course, but I could have wished that your visit had not been cut so very abruptly short,"

  She knew the voice. She had heard it recently. That afternoon. At her carriage door. He was the wet and muddy—and handsome—gentleman. His words registered on her brain.

  "Your room?" she said incredulously. "Your room? This is my room, sir. Mine, as I am quite sure you are aware. How did you get in here? And where is my maid?" She could hear her voice rising into hysteria.

  The marquess buttoned his breeches with some difficulty and looked about him at the dim outlines of the room and its furnishings. And yes, of c
ourse, his bed was against the other wall. This was not his bed or his room. He rubbed a hand hard along the bristles of his chin.

  She was the lady of the lovely legs—and lovely everything else too.

  He closed his eyes briefly and went to retrieve the untidy heap of his clothing at his feet.

  "My apologies, madam," he said with a formality that struck an odd note against his own ears. "It seems I mistook the room. And if my guess is right, your maid did likewise. I will send her to you without delay."

  But Diana, huddled and shaking inside the blankets, scarcely heard his words. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. Her knees were about to buckle.

  "G-get out!" she said, and her teeth chattered in good earnest.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, doing just that and shutting her door behind him, blowing out his breath from puffed cheeks.

  He tried to keep his mind off a certain painful throbbing in a lower part of his body.