Chapter 21
Chiara ducked behind the bed hangings as Rafe strode to the door. With any luck, she thought, he’d send the visitor off with a flea in the ear. She wanted, no needed, him back her arms. Peeking through a gap in the heavy material, she saw that Felicity Lowell stood there bold as brass in a wrapper and without a nightcap. Well, maybe not exactly bold as brass. The young woman seemed intent on studying her toes. Something strange was going on here, and it told Chiara that Felicity didn’t play a totally willing part in this drama.
Then Felicity looked up. Chiara could almost see the drool forming in Felicity’s mouth at the sight of Rafe with his shirt unbuttoned and pulled out. And his trousers, Chiara didn’t want to think about what they looked like. Any pity for Felicity that might have been welling up dried on the instant. That was her exclusive territory for drooling!
Chiara gathered herself to go and slap that little would-be light-skirt all the way to Scotland when Rafe said, “Miss Lowell, you do not belong here, now or at any other time.” With his feet braced and his hands on his hips, she knew he looked formidable.
She dared another look through the curtain. Felicity walked in the room with a smirk on her face. She reached back to close the door and leaned against it. “Oh, but I think I do.”
“Felicity, open the door now.”
“But it’s so much cozier with it closed.”
A violent pounding sounded on the door. Rafe crossed his arms over his chest and gave his head a small shake. “Now you can open the door.”
As Felicity reached for the handle, the door popped open. No surprise! Mr. and Mrs. Lowell stood there, fully dressed with outrage on their faces.
“What is the meaning of this outrage, FitzHenry? I didn’t take you for one to debauch innocent young girls, but there you are. You will arrange for the nuptials immediately, or I will blacken your name throughout Society!”
This play had rapidly degenerated into comedy. Chiara pushed on the bed to get up. Under her hands, some maid had thoughtfully placed a dressing gown for Rafe. She put it on. Felicity began to cry, long, blubbering sobs. Mrs. Lowell declaimed over her ruined daughter, and Mr. Lowell demanded satisfaction. The highest possible volume served for all comments. Some small sprite told Chiara not to show her hand, that is herself, just yet. She looked out again.
From the hall, someone bellowed, “What, ho? Who’s doing all this caterwauling?”
Lord Meriwether pushed his way through the growing crowd and into the room. “What’s going on here?”
Rafe looked at him with a disgusted look on his face. “Close the door, please.” With the crowd outside, he continued, “I believe that Mr. and Mrs. Lowell are trying to force me into offering for their daughter.”
“Not at all!”
“You lying blackguard!”
Rafe took a step and silenced them both with a stare. “Miss Lowell knocked on my door and pushed her way in. Not a minute later, her parents did likewise.”
“Lying bastard! We found him trying to seduce our daughter!”
“While I’m not going to argue with ‘bastard,’ I do take exception to the rest of that statement.”
“You see him here,” Mrs. Lowell screeched. “Look how he’s dressed. He has my poor innocent babe in his clutches.”
Meriwether looked at the group. “Miss Lowell, can you tell me what happened?”
Felicity gulped and glanced at her parents. “Lord FitzHenry came to my room and…”
Enough, Chiara thought. She stepped out from the shadow of the bed. “Felicity,” she said softly.
All heads except Rafael’s turned towards her. Felicity burst into real tears and rushed to the succor of the nearest chest, Rafe’s. His arms still across his chest, he pushed her off. She turned and blindly found her mother.
“You beast!” Mrs. Lowell hissed.
Chiara pulled the dressing gown a little closer and reached down to gather up the hem. “I think, Mrs. Lowell, that Rafael is the one real innocent in this little skit you’ve concocted. Felicity will be the one to suffer, however. A goodly number of ears have been flapping outside that door since you so unceremoniously raised the curtain of your little play.”
She turned to Lord Meriwether, “My lord, will you clear the hall and fetch Mr. Day here.”
Before he could move, Mrs. Lowell screeched, “How dare you? She’s been forbidden to see him, I don’t care who he’s connected to!”
“Given that you have effectively ruined her reputation yourselves, if Mr. Day is amenable, I think this would be a perfect solution for everyone. I think you can depend on Lord Meriwether to lend his countenance to Mr. Day’s advancement in the Church. Who knows? Your daughter might be wife of an archbishop some day.”
Felicity sniffed. “Mama? Please?”
Meriwether looked thunderous. Rafe looked as malleable as a block of marble. Mr. Lowell worked his jaw, obviously weighing the advantages of compliance with the disadvantages of irritating several powerful members of Society. “Very well.”
Meriwether left to fulfill his charge. Silence filled the room until he returned with Quentin Day in tow.
The young man took a long look at the cast of characters he stumbled into. “Ladies, gentlemen.” He sketched a small bow as elegantly as possible without cravat, hair in disarray, and a jacket slightly askew. Chiara gave him credit for composure. “How can I be of service?” He watched Felicity, as if sensing that, somehow, she stood at the center of this unlikely farce.
“Mr. Day,” Rafe began, “A short while ago, Miss Felicity came to my room with the obvious purpose of dalliance.”
Mrs. Lowell screeched, “How dare you?”
“He does have a witness,” Meriwether commented, inspecting his fingernails.
“That whore?”
Meriwether put out his hand to stop Rafael’s charge. “Mrs. Lowell, Lady FitzHenry,” he emphasized the words as he glanced pointedly at Rafael, “is unimpeachable.”
“Lady FitzHenry?” Mrs. Lowell looked like she was going to faint.
“Yes,” Rafe growled, “and for reasons of state, you will keep silent on that piece of information. Failure to do so may see you facing charges.” His glower encompassed the group.
“As I was saying,” Rafael continued, “this final desperate attempt to throw Felicity in my path failed. You wanted it a public performance, and you got it. Option one is obviously closed. Even if I was not married, I would not offer for Miss Felicity. Option two is that you give your acceptance to Mr. Day’s suit and make plans for a spring wedding. I would recommend that you publish it as a love match that has your every blessing. The third option is for me to show the lot of you out the door and let the gossips maul Miss Felicity’s reputation to the point that a stable hand might think twice about marrying her. Choose.”
Mr. Lowell heaved a sigh, “Very well.”
Rafael looked at the two young people. “Is this acceptable to you?”
Quentin faced Felicity, hope and uncertainty written on his countenance. “Felicity, nothing could make me happier.”
“Oh, yes!” She threw herself into his arms.
“I swear I’ll make you happy,” he promised into her hair.
Rafe cleared his throat.
Day took a step back from his beloved, a silly grin on his face. He turned to the Lowell’s. “I would like to request the honor of Miss Felicity’s hand in marriage.” His tone was formal. “I promise you I’ll spend the rest of my life making her happy. I will do my best for her and love her forever.”
Mrs. Lowell began to sniffle, and her husband cleared his throat. “Well, yes.” Day extended his hand. With a quick glance at Rafael and Meriwether, Mr. Lowell took it.
Quentin’s uncle looked at the future father-in-law. “You could do a lot worse than that for Felicity, and you know it.”
“Very good,” Rafe crossed to the door but didn’t open it. “Since there are probably still people in the hall, I recommend that you all go out with smile
s on your faces and whisper the news of the betrothal to the other guests. And remember, not a word about Chiara and me.” He opened the door and patted the backs of the men as everyone left.
“Reasons of state?” Chiara snickered.
The furor of voices outside muffled his snort of laughter. “It worked.” She shrugged. “Might as well play this farce to the hilt.”
“Ah, no. Comedy, I think.” He cocked his head and looked at her. “In a comedy, the boy gets the girl he loves.”
“Absolutely. Is the boy going to get the girl is our little comedy?”
“Absolutely, but we may have to hurry before the next interruption,” she giggled as she opened her arms and went to him. He met her half-way and picked her up, cradling her in his arms.
“Heaven help anyone with the temerity to knock on that door.” He set her down next to the bed and slipped the robe off her shoulders. She watched his glance sweep over her.
“I wanted this perfect for you,” his expression was rueful.
“Just shows you that you don’t always get what you want.”
“Oh, I don’t know that perfection is unattainable, just delayed a bit.”
“Yes, after all, every good play needs a bit of humor in it.”
“Well, this is the part that is generally off-stage. But since this is our own private play, it’s center stage.” He framed her face with his hands and brushed her lips with a soft, warm breeze of a kiss.
It teased and tantalized her, reawakening desire. Wanting more, her arms reached around him, contending with his shirt to reach the warm skin of his back.
Her hands began to explore the hard places of his back when he jerked away. Bereft, her glance shot up to his face. What was wrong?
Twisting violently, he ripped the shirt off and tossed it away. She smiled and closed the gap between them. Instead of his back, her fingers explored his chest. The coarse, black hair sprinkling his chest fascinated her. She ran her fingers through it until she reached the flat, male nipples. Her fingers circled them, then explored the hard nub in the center: how like hers and yet how different. The texture fascinated her. The freedom to explore his body entranced her.
Suddenly, he grabbed her hands. “Enough, my love, else you’ll have me begging for mercy.” He lifted her hands to his mouth.
“Sounds like a delightful dilemma.” She slipped from his grasp to make a close study of the ridged expanse of his stomach.
He sucked air and gasped, “Two can play at this game.” He bent and found the thinly veiled tips of her breasts. His tongue circled the tips of her breast as her fingers had him. Round and round it tasted and teased. He turned his attention to its twin. Chiara felt her breasts swell and her body arched towards him, willing him to taste more. When his mouth closed around the tight nub, she though she’d explode with delight and pleasure.
He drew back to examine the damp marks of his tasting. She glanced down to see her pregnancy-engorged breasts and nipples straining against the gossamer fabric. His thumb flicked over the sensitized flesh. It was like a jolt from an electricity machine. She caught her breath and sank her fingers into his belly.
“Ah! The little cat has claws!” He drew her hands up to kiss them then spread them to her sides. He reached for the lacing of her chemise and tugged it loose. The slightest wiggle of her shoulders sent it slithering to the floor.
Around her waist, a thin ribbon held a flat pocket close to her body. “What’s this?” He fingered the small pouch. He untied the pocket from her waist and opened it. First he took out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he scanned it, nodded, and refolded it. Then he removed a green ribbon. “The fair at Cesena.” She nodded. Up-ending the pouch, a simple gold ring dropped in his hand. He held it up with two fingers. “I don’t think just putting this back where it belongs is going to be very effective just now.” He replaced the items and pushed the bag under a pillow.
“I used to put it on only at night, but I always have it with me.”
“How long were you going to put me through hell?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to say anything at all until after I knew if you were dead.”
He took a deep breath. “I can’t say I blame you, but I will forever be grateful you changed your mind.”
Reverently, he lifted her breasts in his hands. He bent his head and fell to suckling like a starving man at a banquet. Wanting to give more, she pulled his head closer. Without letting go of his prize, he lifted her as carefully as he might his new-born babe and again settled her in the bed. He knelt on the bed near her knees.
Unfastening an embroidered garter ribbon, he wrapped his hands around her thigh and rolled the silk stocking down as he caressed her leg. When he reached her foot, he tossed the stocking aside. He gently nibbled on each of her toes as he massaged her foot.
“Mother Mary! I’ll keep you around if only for that,” she breathed.
“I endeavor to make myself useful.” He repeated the process on the other leg. Chiara wondered how feet could be so erotic.
“Come here,” she demanded. “You’re too far away, and you have too many clothes on.” She leaned over to draw him to her, but he captured her hands. Scooting over, he nudged her legs apart and nestled between her knees.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Let go.”
“Oh no, my dear. This time is just for you.” He pushed her hands under her hips, locking them together in his left hand. Fingertips traced a meandering path down her left hip to her knee and back. Flutters of delight skittered up and down her leg.
She drew in a breath. “I think you missed your calling, FitzHenry. If you’d gone into interrogation instead of espionage, you’d have every female spy in Europe begging to tell you her secrets.”
“There’s only one lady spy I’m interested in and only one thing I want her to tell me.” He nuzzled the curls at the apex of her legs.
“Rafael!”
“That’s a start.” His nimble fingers spread the petals guarding the core of her femininity.
“What are you doing?” Heat pooled low in her belly.
“Not quite the response I want from you.” He eased one finger into her, then two then his thumb began a rhythmic caress. Chiara could feel the exquisitely sensitive nub emerge from its nest. Every fiber of her body converged at that point. “Ah!”
“Better, but still some to go.” He bent his head and replaced his fingers with his tongue.
The sun and all the stars converged on the bit of flesh he caressed and tasted. The most lambent of grazes, they had her twisting and arching into his mouth. The explosion of those luminaries forced a strangled shriek from her.
When he surged up her body, she saw his taut features and intense eyes, midnight black in the firelight. “Oh, God, Rafe!”
He rolled off her and stripped off his pants. Surging back over her, he braced himself on the bed with his hands. She could feel his erection pressing without weight into her belly. His eyes held hers as he hesitated, as though he waited for some sign. She reached up to loop her hands around his neck and thread her fingers in his hair. “Yes” came out on a breath.
With a groan, he thrust into her then stopped. She felt the faint tremor in his arms and knew he again sought reassurance. Her fingers slipped down his back, and the small claws dimpled his skin. His mouth found hers, violent and gentle, claiming and bestowing. Even withdrawing from her warm, damp passage triggered the delicious friction. He set up a passionate cadence. Her body tightened, straining towards the promised ecstasy.
Just as her body tumbled into that glittering climax, she tried to speak, but his mouth and the tumult of her own body swallowed the words. Her body contracted around him, small delicate shivers. With his own inarticulate words, he shuttered to completeness.
He rolled off her to his side. After a few moments with the only sounds their lungs straining to pull in air, he ran a finger down her cheek. “What did you just say?”
For a
moment, she just laid there, eyes closed. “I love you.”
With one finger, he tilted her face towards him. “I’m glad, because I would really hate to be in love alone.”
A knock at the door sent him bolt upright. Sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains. Getting his bearings, he gazed down at his slowly awakening wife. His wife. The knock sounded again. “One moment.” Grabbing the dressing gown Chiara made use of last night, he went to the door.
A maid curtseyed and handed him a rather large, wrapped package. “Lady Meriwether sent this with instructions that it be delivered first thing, my lord.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know, my lord. She just said to bring it by.” She curtseyed and went off down the hall.
Chiara wrapped the blankets around her as he closed the door. “Birrr!”
He dropped the package on the bed and went over to build up the fire. “Open it up.”
Chiara stripped the string and linen towel off to find a set of women’s clothes. “God bless Barbara. It seems that I am to be clothed by every lady in the neighborhood.” Below that, and still slightly damp, lay her shawl, the one she’d started in Italy.
“I found that in the house. It wasn’t damaged, but it smelled of smoke, so I had Lady Meriwether wash it.”
“Oh my!”
They arrived at breakfast to the news of Quentin and Felicity’s engagement and the Lowell’s morning departure to the City to begin preparations for the grand spring wedding. Lindsey, usually the latest of risers, amended her habits in order to hear the latest on dit generated by the hubbub last night. As soon as Lindsey had broken her fast, Chiara dragged her friend up from the table.
She smiled as she watched Lindsey delicately pat her mouth to hide her yawn. Chiara knew her friend found country hours an abomination. Not only were they up, with the sun only just over the tree tops, but they were walking—walking—in the Meriwethers’ garden, a small gem designed by “Capability” Brown, himself. Although heavy clouds sat over the western horizon, the prior storm had left during the night, leaving a searingly clear, crisp day. Raindrops still glistened on the leaves, and Chiara and Lindsey had to skirt a few puddles.
“So when did he ask you? I mean when we left, you two were sworn enemies,” Chiara demanded.