The Accidental Duchess Page 20

  “I can’t breathe,” I whispered.

  “You’re breathing,” he whispered back, as his fingers stilled. “Open your eyes,” he said. “I want you to see me.”

  Our gazes met. “Easy, love,” he said, and, never taking his eyes from mine, slid a finger into me.

  After a moment, when the shock of what he was doing subsided, I strained against the finger. I could not believe it. I was writhing half-naked on the floor with Cambourne. My breasts were rubbing against his shirtfront. I could not even allow my mind to contemplate what his hand was doing. I was sobbing. And yet, I was urging him to continue. I knew my behavior was utterly unacceptable, but my mind had no say over my body. I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I reached down and stroked the place I had wanted to touch all along.

  “Oh God, yes!” he urged. He was lying half over me, and lowered his head and kissed me.

  Needless to say, a little thing like the door opening did not register with either of us.

  “Hallo, Cambourne,” said a lazy voice from the doorway.

  18

  In which Milburn makes his return known

  Iwas grateful for the fact that Cambourne was sprawled half on top of me, hiding me from view. I could feel him unhurriedly pull my bodice up and smooth my gown down over my legs. Slowly, he lifted his head.

  “Bertie!” he said, drily. “How absolutely delightful to see you again!”

  The horror of the moment had done something instantaneous to cool my body down, but my heart still thundered and raced and my breath was still coming fast.

  “Yes, you do appear overjoyed, brother,” Milburn drawled, from the door, where he was leaning against the frame, as his gaze swept slowly over us.

  An entirely different heat washed over my face as shame swept through me.

  “Indeed,” Cambourne replied, still lying over me. “As anyone must be to see a brother after a prolonged and worrying absence.”

  “You are me, at the moment, I trust?” Milburn looked surprisingly hale; I registered somehow, amidst my shock, for a man who had recently been in grave danger. He was immaculately groomed and turned out, and even looked as though he had a touch of color from the sun. His sleek, well-fed air, in other words, was a far cry from the ragged, pale, half-starved prisoner of war I had envisioned a hundred times over in my mind.

  “Well, this is quite simply one of the most shocking, no, disgraceful, things I’ve ever seen,” Milburn said, stepping into the room. He eyed the tangled heap we made on the carpet.

  I could only imagine what a man would feel to return from a harrowing campaign only to find his affianced wife scandalously entwined with his twin brother on the library floor.

  “This is an outrage!” he continued. “Those trousers you are wearing are a disgrace, Cambourne! And this waist-coat!” He picked up the garment from the chair, where it had ended up pushed behind Cambourne’s back before our precipitous descent. It dangled off one finger. “It’s, it’s … crushed!”

  He seemed fully prepared to continue in this vein, but Cambourne said, in quite a dangerous sounding voice, actually, “Milburn!”

  “Yes?” Milburn enquired, staring despondently at the waistcoat, hanging from his hand.

  “As edifying as this conversation is promising to be, I think we should postpone it. Perhaps we could meet you in the drawing room shortly?”

  “Very well,” Milburn said. “But do bear in mind that I’ve an appointment at Hoby in an hour—m’boots are a wreck—so don’t be too long about it. Hallo, Gwen,” he added, as though noticing me for the first time, and then he left the room, still clutching the waistcoat, and rather rudely—if one were to take into account our state of dishabille—leaving the door wide open.

  Cambourne swore as he jumped to his feet and then turned and extended a hand, helping me to mine. My legs were shaking like jelly. I could barely bring myself to look at him as I tried to straighten my bodice. “Gwen,” he said, looking down at me, intently.

  But I was staring at the door through which Milburn had so recently departed. “He saw,” I said, stupidly. “Us. He saw us!”

  “Yes,” Cambourne agreed. He crossed the small room in two strides and kicked the door shut with a good deal of force. It did penetrate my foggy brain that he was angry. Really angry.

  “He didn’t care!” I said as he picked up his cravat.

  Cambourne turned from the door and draped the cravat around the neck of his crumpled shirt, as he looked at me.

  “But you, you—” I broke off, blushing “—had your hands—he didn’t care!”

  “And did you care that he didn’t?” He looked at me intently.

  “I—I—How could he not have cared?”

  “I shouldn’t be too certain that he didn’t, anyway,” Cambourne said, his fingers deftly tying the cravat.

  “I was,” I said, thinking aloud, “no we, were about to take an irrevocable step, and now suddenly, here he is. Milburn!” And he didn’t care! I simply could not believe it. Did I say that already? It is just hard to convey the depths of my shock and disbelief at that moment. I looked down, ineffectually trying to smooth my hopelessly crumpled gown. Embarrassment heated my face. I cast about for words, but found none.

  Cambourne studied my face, and spoke, after a moment. “I see,” he said, slowly. I thought he was about to head to the door, but he surprised me, taking my shoulders and turning me roughly toward him, forcing me to look at him. “Is it your intention, then, to run to him?”

  “I’m not—I don’t know,” I whispered. In truth, I was still too shocked to have thought about how I felt. I did know, though, that while I no longer particularly wanted to cling to the idea of my marriage to Milburn, Cambourne’s words and tone were making that old, familiar contrariness rise. “Are you saying that I can?”

  “Will I stop you, do you mean?”

  I nodded. “Will you?”

  “Are you asking if I will bind you in legalities?”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Well, I won’t,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

  “And will you bind me in other ways?” I asked in a whisper. “By telling me the truth?”

  He hesitated. “I cannot, Gwen. I just, simply … can’t.”

  “I see,” I said. “Well, at least now I might be able to find out what has transpired.”

  “You think Milburn’s going to tell you?” he asked, with a raised brow.

  “Yes,” I said. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  After a moment he bent down to pick up my slippers. As he handed them to me, I was startled by the realization that those were the only items I had actually shed during our interlude. His gaze met mine, and that slow smile spread across his face. “Let’s go see, then, shall we?” he said.

  As he knelt to help me lace my slippers, I looked down at the top of his head, and my throat tightened. “We’d best be quick about going to see him,” I managed to say around the lump in my throat. “Lord knows, one doesn’t want him to be late for—

  “Hoby,” we finished together.

  19

  In which Milburn is late for HobyVery, very late, indeed

  So regrettably late, in fact, that I later heard he had suffered the fate of having been canceled in favor of Rowan Craddock—quite an insult, considering that Craddock’s shine was widely known to be dubious, at best.

  Once we had put ourselves as close to rights as we could, Cambourne, ever the gentleman, offered me his arm, and we headed together toward the drawing room. After the warmth of the library, the hall was chilly, but I doubted that accounted for why I was shaking so much. I would have been hard-pressed to say which was in more turmoil: my body or my mind.

  I have often heard it said that worry assuaged turns quickly to anger, and looking at Milburn sitting in the drawing room, with his spectacularly unscathed boots stretched out before him, drinking brandy and looking so well, I was suddenly so angry that I would gladly have thrown something at him.

&nbs
p; And then I realized he was not alone.

  “Hard to say,” he was saying. “Style is a fickle master, of course, but m’self, I always prefer an oxblood color for a boot—”

  He glanced up as we entered and my eyes went to his companion. A woman. No. Not a woman, a vision. The vision, who was seated on the sofa beside Milburn, and appeared to be possessed of her own glass of brandy, had glossy black hair and cherry lips. Not to mention pale, flawless skin, beautifully arched dark brows, and smoky violet eyes. The woman actually had purple eyes! Who has purple eyes? She had décolletage impressive enough to completely eclipse Mathilde Claussen’s, and had an air of self-assurance that I could feel from across the room. I highly doubted she had asked for ratafia.

  While I was still attempting to make myself comprehend the situation, the vision rose in a rustle of silk skirts. With no regard for proper modes of introduction, she held out her hand to Cambourne and smiled. “ ’Allo,” she said in English with a charming French overlay. “You must be Ber-tee’s brother, I think. I am his wife, the Countess of Cambourne, but you, please, must call me Therèse.”

  It would be something of an understatement to call the silence that followed this stunned. Therèse indeed looked nonplussed by the complete void that followed her pronouncement; just a tiny bit of her self-assurance seemed to fall away.

  I blinked at Milburn, unable to fully comprehend his betrayal. He smiled and leaned back on the sofa.

  “How lovely to meet you, Therèse,” Cambourne said in courteous tones, after a moment. His voice rang clear, but his gaze was also fixed on Milburn. “You must understand that this comes as something of a surprise, as I have long been accustomed to thinking myself the Earl of Cambourne.” He paused. “And this is my wife, Gwen.”

  Well, not exactly his wife, I thought, but forgave him his presumption, under the circumstances.

  Therèse looked puzzled. “You must excuse me. It is my poor English, doubtless, but I think I do not perfectly understand you.”

  “Your wife?” Milburn said.

  Cambourne bowed over Therèse’s hand. “I somehow doubt that the problem is your English, ma’am,” he said, still looking hard at Milburn. “And, yes. My wife.”

  “Still I do not understand,” Therèse said, a slight frown edging between her perfect brows. She turned a questioning gaze on Milburn. “Ber-tee?”

  “Perhaps,” Cambourne suggested silkily, “Ber-tee could see his way clear to enlightening us all?”

  “Indeed,” I said. “Perhaps he could.” And refrained from adding, and it had best be good.

  “Glad to,” replied Milburn. “Need a bit of sustenance first, though. Deuced peckish.”

  Cambourne nodded as he steered me toward a chair and I slid into it, grateful that I no longer had to concentrate on forcing my knees to hold me up. “I’ll ring for something,” he said.

  “Don’t bother,” replied Milburn, rising to walk to the bell rope. “My house,” he said, slowly. “My rope. My bell. My butler. Remember?”

  I looked hard at Bertie. What on earth had happened to him? Instead of his usual lazy, amiable expression, his eyes were cold and surprisingly sharp.

  Giddings arrived, and without so much as betraying a flicker of surprise, took the request for refreshments and departed. And then—as bizarre as this sounds—we all sat and chatted of inconsequential subjects while we waited for it to arrive. Fortunately, their journey and zee wezzair, as Therèse so charmingly called it, provided any number of conversational openings. Eventually, even these topics palled as fodder for witty repartee, and we all seemed mightily relieved when the trays arrived. I know I was.

  “I was traveling to Toulouse,” Milburn began, and his gaze met Cambourne’s for a moment.

  “Yes,” Cambourne said, tightly. “I know that.”

  “Well, I did not,” I said.

  Milburn ignored me. “But of course you did, dear brother!” he said. “But then, it was at your behest. Almost got killed a few times, but, what hey, that’s neither here nor there. Not like I’m the heir or anything.”

  If Cambourne flinched inwardly at that, it was not apparent to me.

  “Anyway,” Milburn continued, “as you know, I like to, you might say, enjoy the local color when I travel.”

  “You do?” I said, my surprise forcing me to find my voice. “With guidebooks to local flora and fauna and such?” It seemed inconsequential, but somehow it was so at odds with my picture of him that I could not leave it.

  “Well, not guidebooks exactly.”

  “Then what?” I demanded.

  “Perhaps you’d like to continue with your tale,” Cambourne suggested, quickly.

  Milburn shrugged. “Anyway, in this particular village there was quite a bit of local color to explore. And I had to spend some time there, as I had some business to undertake that entailed waiting. I was enjoying a bit of sightseeing with Therèse—”

  “It was my father’s barn, that I was showing him,” she said.

  Cambourne raised a brow. “You have developed an interest in barns?” he said to Milburn.

  “Some,” Milburn said. “Particularly fascinating, this one.”

  Therèse nodded. “And my father, he catch us.”

  “Touring the hayloft,” Milburn contributed.

  “He is something of a terrier, my father.”

  I stared at her. All things considered, it seemed highly unlikely that she had been sired by a small dog. “A terror?” I suggested.

  She broke into a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said. “A terror, yes, of course he is. He insisted that Ber-tee and I become very quickly married.”

  “Oui, he insisted with a large gun to my head,” Milburn said. “The man has a positive fondness for large firearms.”

  “You were sightseeing in Therèse’s father’s barn when you were supposed to be on your way back to England to marry me?” I asked, as the fury rose in me.

  “And you, I collect, were pining for me there, on the library floor?” he returned.

  “That,” I said, “is entirely beside the point!”

  “How?” he demanded.

  Cambourne’s eyes were locked on Milburn’s face. “Could I have a word?” he asked politely. “Outside the room?”

  I was beginning to think that inside the room would have been much more appropriate.

  “I s’pose,” Milburn replied, taking his time about setting down his plate and standing. I guessed the hardships of travel to have taken their toll, because his hair was straight, his jaw was tight, and he looked remarkably like Cambourne.

  “Do excuse us,” Cambourne said, as they stepped from the room. He looked utterly calm, but I could tell by how carefully he closed the door that he was absolutely furious.

  Me too, I thought.

  I wished I was alone so I could listen against the door. I looked at Therèse; she looked at me. After a moment I raised an eyebrow. She nodded. As of one accord, we stood—some things transcend issues of national origin—and rushed for the door. Unfortunately, we couldn’t hear a thing other than the low rumble of their voices. It was clear that they were disagreeing, but the content was a mystery. Therèse shrugged her frustration and we again took up our seats. Some time passed. We toyed with some biscuits and discussed fashion in a desultory sort of way. And then, finally, the gentlemen returned.

  Cambourne was looking extremely still and composed, which, like the quiet closing of the door, I was coming to understand signified anger. Milburn was bright red in the face.

  “Well—” said Cambourne when they had closed the door.

  Milburn interrupted, turning, and tapping him on the chest. “Why do you always get to be in charge of everything,” he demanded. “It’s my house. It’s my problem, too. I want to tell them.”

  I resisted the urge to shoot Cambourne a meaningful look. He did always get to be in charge of everything.

  “Be my guest, brother.” Cambourne sat down next to me, folded his arms across his chest, and
looked expectantly at Milburn.

  “Ber-tee! It is the truth, I think!” Therèse burst out. “You are truthfully not the earl?”

  “I should say not,” I replied, for him.

  Milburn shrugged. “Missed it by about a quarter hour, I am given to understand.”

  “I see,” she said, and then, “You will continue, please.”

  “Yes,” I said, starting to feel some solidarity with her. “This promises to be very interesting.”

  The tips of Milburn’s ears turned red. “Well, I couldn’t marry her under my own name,” he said, hotly. “Because I was supposed to come home and marry you, Gwen.”

  “You did it for me?” I demanded. “Is that what you are saying?”

  “This situation, it is most interesting to me,” Therèse said, as she turned her head and looked Cambourne over. Very slowly, her eyes traveled the length of him, from the tips of his Hessians to the top of his head. Then her gaze made the return journey, equally slowly.

  He returned her perusal; I could only assume he liked what he was seeing. I was seeing red. Did he truly think he could tumble me on the carpet and then an hour later be salivating over another woman? I gave them another moment to finish. “Enjoying the view, are you, Cambourne?” I said sweetly, when they had.

  He tore his gaze from Therèse and smiled at me. “The local color is quite spectacular,” he said. “A man could surely be forgiven for wanting to linger in the barn.”

  “The native passion for firearms might prove somewhat dangerous to you,” I said.

  He aimed his smile at Therèse, and, as that dimple came out in force, my heart plummeted. When he set out to charm, I knew better than anyone that he could be positively dangerous. “In that case, I should be forced to allow the women of the village to nurse me back to health,” he said.