Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

‘You can’t be wondering at it, Mrs Harris,’ Heneage observed. ‘He’s a man in his prime and he needs to be settling down and starting a family.’

‘Got more of one than I realised.’ Perrott piled clotted cream on one of Mrs Harris’s scones. ‘There’s a brother, I hear, and a serving of scandal with him.’

‘Half-brother,’ Mrs Harris corrected. ‘William Gillan, and a nice lad he is too, even if that old rogue Billy’s his grandfather. Lily, his ma, is a good woman and brought him up decent—no shame to her what his late lordship did, poor lass.’

‘Still, there’s not a lot of gentlemen who would acknowledge the family by-blows like that,’ Perrott observed, the jam and cream-laden scone halfway to his lips. ‘Getting a tutor for him and setting him up for the law and giving him the run of the house.’

‘Might make difficulties with a new wife,’ Heneage said. ‘What if she disapproves, which many might? Or thinks the boy’s his? He was wild enough as a lad, as I recall.’

‘Then his lordship would be better off without her.’ Meg replaced her cup in the saucer with a clatter and got to her feet. ‘If she puts appearance over family affection and doing the right thing and if she cannot take his word, she does not deserve him, whoever she is. Excuse me, I must go and think about Mr Jago’s letter.’

She was out into the passage, the door almost closed, when Perrott’s low whistle made her pause, hand on the knob. ‘That was a trifle vehement! You don’t think—’

‘I try very hard not to think, Perrott,’ Heneage said repressively. ‘It just leads to imaginings, and I don’t hold with that. Not about the family.’

Meg eased the door closed and walked blindly away from the kitchen. When she pulled herself together she was sitting in the shelter of the rustic arbour looking out over the rose garden. A light drizzle had begun to drift in from the sea, darkening the flagstones at her feet. Meg curled up on the seat and thought grimly that it provided an counterpoint to her mood that had slipped, in less than an hour, from confused happiness into miserable uncertainty.

It was easy to fall in love again, it seemed. Or had what she felt for James ever been real

love? Was that why it had been so quick to turn into affectionate exasperation? She had been very young, besotted, romantic. And the man she had left her sisters for had always been younger than her in every way except years. It was easy to see that now, when she loved a man, not a handsome, gallant, heedless boy.

So, where am I now? Meg broke off a pink rosebud and fretted at the tight petals with her fingernail, peeling them back with painful concentration. She loved Ross and she had made love with him and now, soon, she must leave him. Sooner than she had hoped, if she was to avoid bringing gossip down on the household. She had betrayed herself to the upper servants, it seemed. They would be loyal and discreet, but it would only take a whisper and the local families would think twice about their precious daughters. It was bad enough, the less charitable would think, that Ross acknowledged his half-brother, but an affaire with his housekeeper really would put the cat amongst the pigeons.

And what of Bella and Lina? She had carried out her plan and now the unthinkable had happened: her agent had not found them. Perhaps if she went to London, found some occupation there, she could advertise for them. If she could only think straight, work out how much money she had left, how long she dare remain here. Meg shivered; she was becoming cold, but it was hard to move. The rosebud, ruined, lay in her palm, the fragments of petal scattered over her dark skirts, clinging as the sea fret dampened the fabric. But the golden heart of the flower was revealed in all its complex beauty and when she lifted it to her lips the rich perfume still filled her nostrils with sensual delight.

She would go to Ross tonight and every night that he wanted her for one week. That was all she could permit herself, the gift of loving him for seven nights. Then she would go before she harmed him, go and devote herself to finding her sisters and making her own life.

The clock on the landing, five minutes out of time with the others in the house, struck one. Meg started, her fingertips sliding across the oak panel of Ross’s bedchamber door. Every sensation, the smell of the beeswax polish, the faint graining in the wood, the creak of the clock settling down again, was magnified by the sensual tension that had been gripping her ever since she had come in, damp and shivering, from the rose garden.

She had made a decision, set a limit, now she had only these days to create the memories that had to sustain her for all the years without Ross. Meg turned the handle and slipped inside, uncertain what to expect.

‘Meg.’ Ross got up from the chair by the fireplace, dropping his book unheeded on the floor. He was dressed in the splendour of a robe made from some exotic eastern brocade, gold and silver mingling and gleaming in the light of the candles that were blazing all around the room. ‘Thank you for this room,’ he said as she stood there, staring at him. ‘It is full of the sea—it reminds me of our voyage.’

‘Pain and boredom and a distressing break with the past?’ Her back was still flat against the door.

‘Never boredom. How could I be bored with you, Meg?’ He stayed where he was on the hearthrug, watching her. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ How could she touch him without letting him see how she felt? How could she explain to herself that she was staring at the most handsome man she had ever seen? Was it love that turned those harsh features into beauty? Then she realised. He was happy, home at last, and that contentment transformed him, even if perhaps it was only her eyes that could see it.

‘That is a very fine robe.’ Something safe to say.

‘An antique. Perrott has been delving deep into the wardrobes around the house.’

Under the hem of the robe his feet were bare and dark hair showed at the open neck. Beneath the heavy silk brocade he was naked, and the breath caught in her throat at the memory of his body last night. ‘Meg?’ Ross held out a hand and she understood. It was her choice. If she turned around and left, he would not pursue her.

Seven nights, my love. She walked forwards and put her hand in his, letting him draw her close so she could rest her cheek against the cool fabric. Ross smelled faintly of the sandalwood the robe had been stored in. Meg burrowed her face closer, searching for the real, familiar, scent of him, parting the lapels until she could press her lips against his shoulder. Oh, yes. ‘Mmm.’

‘Mmm?’ he queried, his lips vibrating where he was running them down the exposed curve of her neck.

‘You taste good.’ Meg touched the top of her tongue to the hot skin, then licked, drawing her tongue along the carved line of his collarbone.

‘So do you, and even better for an absence of salt and sand.’ Ross’s tongue was doing intricate, tormenting, delicious things to the whorls of her ear. Meg wriggled closer, insinuated her hand between them to search for the knot holding the robe closed, then tugged knot and robe open. He was hot, she found, stepping close so her whole length was against him. His skin was hot, his hands were warm, pressing against her shoulder blades through the fine muslin of her nightgown and the cotton of her robe, and the arrogant, heated thrust of his erection against her stomach made her gasp. Was he always so easy to arouse or could she dream there was something about her that brought him to this state?

Her own heat was flooding her belly, aching between her thighs, stinging her breasts as she rubbed, shameless, against him. But she dare not lower her hands from his chest, dare not let them slide over the bronzed skin, down to touch him as she yearned to.

‘This is unequal.’ Ross lifted his head to untie the cord around her robe. He pushed it off her shoulders and then attacked the simple ties fastening her plain and practical nightgown. His fingers were deft with the dexterity of a man able to load and fire a rifle at high speed, and when she stepped back and gave a wriggle the garment slid from her shoulders to her feet.

‘Let me look at you.’ He gestured for her to be still as her hands lifted in the instinctive feminine gesture to shield the delta of her thighs, the erect buds of her nipples. ‘You are so delicate. Why did I not realise that? You held my weight in the river, you coped with all the privations of camp life. Even last night when you were naked, I did not see.’ Ross reached out, stroked gently over the modest curve of her breast, down to the swell of her hip. ‘And I took you, hard and fast and without care.’