Chapter 1-3
1479 Words
“There’s one way to find out.” Godric’s hands swept over her body, returning several times to her waist where he’d discovered she was ticklish.
She remained limp and unresponsive to his exploration. “She is definitely out.” He climbed off her.
Charles and Lucien sauntered over on their horses.
Charles chuckled. “How many lords did you say it would take to subdue this little hellion?”
Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester, bit back a grin.
“More than we guessed,” Ashton replied in amusement, gazing down at Emily.
Godric took in the dirty, but stunning little captive at his feet. “She’s not at all like her uncle.”
Heat pooled deep inside him. His brief memory of her had not done justice to the puzzle of Miss Emily Parr. He could not forget the way she’d fought him, even in fear. But knowing he’d scared her left a hollowness in his chest. He had expected to ignore her protestations and carry her off. What he hadn’t expected was for Emily to fight valiantly against him and leave him feeling every inch the villain.
Cedric stuffed the bottle of laudanum back into his waistcoat pocket. “Having second thoughts?”
Godric barked out a laugh and shrugged off his guilt. “Lord, no. You know me better than that, Cedric. She’s mine now.” He glanced at Emily again.
He felt oddly possessive of Emily, not that he had any right to. Still, the sudden urge to deposit the girl in a walled garden appealed greatly. Trap her in a tower like a princess from a fairy tale.
“The girl’s intrigued him,” Lucien said to his friends.
Godric gathered Emily into his arms.
He knew he must look a strange sight to his friends, taking such care with Emily. But something about her called to him. He ached for sensual touches, the slide of satin sheets against his skin, her silky body beneath his own. He hadn’t planned to seduce her, but the little hellion’s bravery had aroused him. She’d make for a wild bed partner. His lips curved into a smile at the thought.
“She can ride with me,” Charles offered hopefully.
“I’d sooner trust her with a drunken sailor.” With reluctance, his hands lingering, Godric handed Emily to Ashton instead.
Godric mounted his horse, then leaned down to retrieve her.
He cradled Emily sideways across his lap, one arm tightly about her waist, tucking her head under his chin to keep her steady.
The mere memory that Emily had almost outwitted him twice left Godric smiling. He’d not had such fun in ages. If he hadn’t given in to his urge to touch her, he’d never have found that ticklish spot at her waist, and she might have crept off while he and the others talked. Ashton was right; she was cunning—a trait she must have inherited from that uncle of hers. But her beauty? It amazed him. She bore not a single resemblance to the reedy Albert Parr.
The ride back to Godric’s country estate took an hour. They stopped once to dose Emily again with laudanum when she stirred like a sleepy kitten. The rub of her curled fists against his chest and her face burrowed against his throat, sent a thrill of pleasure through him.
He tried not to think about Emily or whether her lips tasted as sweet as they looked. He focused on the road ahead of them and his home, which lay just beyond.
The St. Laurent estate consisted of an extensive Georgian manor that rivaled the beauty of Chiswick House. His father and the Duke of Devonshire once had a friendly rivalry on the matter.
He studied the estate with new eyes, trying to imagine how Emily would perceive it.
The architect had styled the house, with six ivory columns in the front, like many of the greater Palladian homes in England. Godric’s ancestors built the upper parts of the manor with lovely ashlar stone, while the lower was rusticated, lending a lacing of texture to the manor, like a woman’s dress embroidered at the hem. Godric was surprised to find he was eager for Emily’s approval. If she was going to stay here for a while, he wanted her to find pleasure in her surroundings.
As soon as Godric rode up to his manor’s steps, a weary footman appeared and called for a groom. The elderly butler, Simkins, came to the door a moment later, escorting all the men into the hall once he assured care of their horses.
“Your Grace, we were not expecting visitors.” Simkins eyed Godric’s sleeping captive with open curiosity.
“Simkins, this is Miss Emily Parr. She will be my guest here for a while. Have Mrs. Downing assign her an upstairs maid to help her dress. See to her every need, but do not allow her to leave.”
“Of course, Your Grace. She shall be treated like a princess.”
“Don’t spoil her, Simkins,” Godric said, reconsidering. She was to be kept in a cage, so to speak, and it would be wise not to gild that cage, at least until she understood he was in control.
A sudden thought occurred to him. His valet, Jonathan Helprin, would need to be kept away from Emily. She was a temptation to any man, and young Helprin was not a typical valet. Having been born and raised under Godric’s roof, the younger man had a keen eye for the ladies, rather than clothes, where a good valet’s interests should be. “Oh, and Simkins,” Godric caught the butler’s attention. “Reassign Mr. Helprin to duties that keep him far away from my chambers. The house, if possible. Have one of the footman see to my needs in the interim.”
The older man hesitated, clearly confused. “Uh…yes, Your Grace. I will see Mr. Helprin is occupied elsewhere while your guest is in residence.”
“Thank you.”
Simkins then greeted the other four men who had followed Godric into the main hall. “My lords.”
“Simkins, you devil, how are you?” Charles laughed. “Miss me?”
Simkins almost smiled, but kept his controlled demeanor. “I am fine, Lord Lonsdale. The house has been much quieter since your last visit and I have slept well knowing that I did not need a fleet of footmen to scrub port stains out of the carpet in the drawing room.”
“Hmm, port sounds delightful. Bring me a glass when you have a chance?” Charles grinned at Simkins, who shook his head, muttering as he took his leave of the gentlemen.
Cedric pointed the way down the hall with the silver lion’s head of his cane. “Come on, Lucien. Let’s go warm ourselves by the fire.” They left, Charles tramping along after them.
Ashton followed Godric up the staircase, Emily still in his arms. Godric chose the room next to his, the one most often inhabited by a mistress. Unlike other gentlemen, he brazenly kept his mistresses at his estate, heedless of the gossip that might result.
Godric nodded his head to the door, indicating for Ashton to open it.
“Er…you mean to keep her so close to you?” Ashton politely inquired.
“Yes. She’ll likely keep trying to run off. I’ll be able to hear her better if she’s this close.”
Ashton swung the door open to reveal a four-poster bed adorned with a blue coverlet and lilac curtains. He set Emily down, lifted her head and placed a pillow under the gleaming coils of her hair. The pins from her coiffure had come loose during the struggle and he found he liked the wild disarray.
Ashton eyed the small door disguised as part of the wall, and Godric grinned.
“I know what you’re thinking, Ash…” The door led directly to his bedchamber.
“What you do with her is none of my business.” Despite his constant attempts to keep his close-knit group of friends under control, Ashton was no saint.
With a nod, Ashton excused himself and Godric remained behind. His eyes drifted over the helpless young woman on the bed. Mud and grit had stained the muslin of her gown. Smudges of dust colored her nose and cheeks. At first glance, she looked like a wild little orphan but the curves of her body left Godric painfully aware she was a woman. Unable to resist, he cupped her face in his hands, running the pads of his thumbs across her cheeks to rub the dirt away. Her skin was soft, and Emily stirred slightly at his touch, her body shifting against his right hip where he’d sat down next to her.
Emotions he’d long buried welled up, tightening his throat and burning in his chest. He was a lad again, mesmerized by the allure of a young woman. A time he could never reclaim, an innocence ripped from his bleeding soul years ago.
Standing up, he retreated to the doorway. He lingered there, his eyes tracing the shape of her body. An acute sense of longing struck him. He wanted to bind her to him, but she would slip through his fingers like grains of sand.
How would she react to him come morning? With resentment and disgust, no doubt. He’d dragged her from the coach, manhandled her and drugged her. He was no hero, and a woman like her deserved a knight astride a white charger.
He ruined everything he touched.
Godric’s head dropped as he closed the door and went to join his friends below.
- Writer
