Page 15 of The Baron Without Blame
Somehow, they had turned to face each other. Martin’s expression was outlined by a mixture of the moon and the spill of candlelight from the drawing room. It was a study of shadows and planes, fierce glittering eyes, and lips. Lolly couldn’t look away from his lips.
“The flaw in your logic,” he said, “is that I know you do not intend for there to be a wedding day.”
She drew her eyes upwards, painfully. “Perhaps if you had thanked me for the kiss, I would have changed my mind.”
Now their gazes were locked. Lolly felt a contest, as if whoever looked away first admitted weakness. But underneath that, a different kind of pressure built. A sizzle in the air between them. A quickening of her breath. A tingling in her fingertips and lips and hips. The urgent need to touch him and be touched and feel the world disappear again, the way it had that afternoon.
She thought he might be about to kiss her when Mr. Maulvi interrupted – again.
“My lord, may I have a word?”
?
Martin had lost track of everything except Lolly. It could have been the middle of the day or spitting snow pellets; they could have been totally alone or surrounded by a thousand onlookers; he could only say that Lolly stood before him in a pink silk dinner gown threatening to marry him after all.
She wielded it like a threat, anyway, couched in the past tense until he agreed with her about the rights of women.
At that moment, he would have agreed to anything – even to a lifetime of picking cotton in India – if Lolly would marry him.
“My lord?” Mr. Maulvi said again, and the world crashed back into place. The dark of dusk, the chill in the air, the aroma of spring plantings. And Lolly turning away from him, already looking at his secretary.
Maulvi stood at the gate that led from the garden into the northern fields. He had changed from his elegant suit into simple trousers and sturdy boots, what Martin realized were his travel clothes.
He couldn’t imagine what would be so important that Mr. Maulvi would interrupt at this hour, which only made his stomach twist with greater fear. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t for polite company. “Please excuse me,” he said to Lolly, putting enough pressure on her shoulder to orient her towards the house.
She trotted after him instead, stopping just behind him as he approached Mr. Maulvi. It was only when they got to the gate that Martin spotted the other two people, and he tensed instinctively at the surprise, splaying out his elbows as if that could protect Lolly.
It was a man and a woman, with the distinctive Eastern features of China or Singapore. The woman boasted a huge belly; she was perhaps only days from giving birth, with a swollen face and neck to match. The man had his arm around her, as if his grip was the only thing keeping her on her feet. They both wore simple clothes and kept their eyes averted.
“I came across Mr. and Mrs. Chow on the road to Thatcham. They are looking for work. I thought perhaps Mr. Chow could join the gardeners and Mrs. Chow could join the household.” Mr. Maulvi stopped, almost as if tripping over what he had been about to say. His eyes roved to Lolly, whom Martin could feel beside him.
Martin prodded, “Mr. Hewitt could surely handle that.”
“Mr. Hewitt turned them away.”
Now Martin understood Maulvi’s hesitation – and his urgency. Mrs. Chow could hardly walk back to town in her state.
“On what grounds?” Martin feared he already knew. There were not many Chinese in Berkshire, and Mr. Hewitt’s specialty was instilling order, not being open-minded.
Mr. Maulvi glanced at Lolly again before answering. “He had several objections. Among them that the Chows were in the employ of Viscount Folkestone until a few months ago, when he discovered her condition, and have been essentially vagrants ever since.”
The Chows stood so still that Martin could feel the fear emanating from them. He would have accepted them on the spot, except for what Lolly had just said. She might marry him after all. And he didn’t know how she felt about hiring servants so objectionable that the head butler turned them away.
Lord Turner’s baritone drifted through the window as he lectured at his daughters: “Curse the Englishman who shows more care for the East than he does for the opinion of Parliament.”
Mrs. Chow swayed a little, and her husband’s knuckles went white to keep her standing.
Lolly surged against Martin, her voice a hot, urgent whisper. “What are you waiting for? Can’t you see she needs rest? Give them somewhere to sleep!”
It was no great act of charity. Had they been of the parish, any lady of the land would have offered them rest before showing them to the vicar for assistance. But Lolly’s insistence rang all the way down to the depths of Martin’s soul. That he could find a woman who would see the world as he did. That he could end up betrothed to her. That she might choose to wed him after all.
Martin gave Mr. Maulvi the necessary instructions to tuck Mr. and Mrs. Chow into a comfortable room amongst the servants. He offered them the shortcut through the garden to the servant’s entrance. He ordered a hot meal served to their rooms. But the whole time, he felt Lolly behind him. And as soon as Mr. Maulvi led the Chows inside, he whirled around to grab her. She was tiny in his hands, nothing but hot flesh and cool silk. He pressed her against the brick wall and – before she could protest – kissed her the way he should have that afternoon.
“Is this what you want, then?” He scraped his lips along the side of her neck. “Is this the equality you demand?”
The gasp he got in response was not one of shock or surprise but pure, female delight. Her fingers weaved through his hair as his attention returned to her mouth. She tasted like hot, needful desire. There was nothing innocent about the way she thrust her tongue against his or nipped his lower lip between her teeth, and Martin’s whole body responded. He pressed closer, his cock nestling against her soft thigh; even through the cushioning of petticoats, the touch was insanity, scattering his thoughts to nothingness.
Lolly’s fingers tightened in his hair to guide his head downwards to her breasts. They were on display, as per fashion, in the low cut of her dress and the helpful push of her corset. All evening he had avoided them, afraid that once his eyes landed there, they would never pull away. Now he feasted. Lolly’s guidance forced his lips to them. He tasted her bare skin, tracing his tongue along the edge of her bodice, languishing on the rises just above her nipples. The little moan that escaped her vibrated against his lips, and he felt it in every nerve ending. He pushed closer against her, his cock slipping now to the valley of skirts between her legs.
