Page 49 of Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman

‘N-no. If I end up making a fool of myself, I’d rather he not know I’d discussed my feelings with anyone else.’

Papa gazed down at her, tenderness in his smile. ‘If my daughter loves him, ’tis Anders who’d be the fool not to love her back. And Mr Anders, Puss, does not strike me as foolish.’

She exhaled a shaky breath. ‘Well, if he doesn’t want me, I can stay here and keep house for you, can’t I?’

Papa chuckled. ‘Oh, I don’t foresee so dull a future.’

The very notion of becoming Greville’s wife, waking with him at her side, greeting him with a kiss every day when he returned from his tasks—and spending every night in his bed—brought an upswell of joy within her. ‘I think I would love becoming mistress of a small estate somewhere.’

‘Just make sure you’re the wife of the master, not just his mistress,’ Papa warned, a twinkle in eye.

‘Papa!’ she protested, blushing as she recalled what she let Greville Anders do to and for her. What she couldn’t wait to do again.

‘Come talk with me after you’ve spoken with Mr Anders. And don’t worry so much about his reaction. I may be a dried-up old man, but even I noticed how he’s moped about since you left, looking like his last friend had abandoned him. I’m betting his reaction to discovering you are willing to turn your back on London will be everything you hope.’

‘Oh, I hope so, too, Papa!’ she cried, throwing her arms around him again and hugging so tightly that he protested he was hardly able to draw breath. But with Papa’s blessing on her choice, her happiness was complete.

As long as Greville Anders loved her.

How long was she going to have to wait to find out?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Late that evening, mud-spattered and weary, Greville rode in from Blenhem Hill. He’d pushed his tired mount on until they reached Ashton, not wanting to spend another night on the road, so he might be ready to resume his duties first thing in morning.

His excessive fatigue might have one benefit; perhaps tonight he wouldn’t dream of Amanda Neville, waking with delight that turned to bleak desolation as he discovered the image of her in his arms, her passionate panting breaths filling his ears and exulting his heart, was only an illusion.

After walking up from the stables, he encountered Sands in the hall. Stopping short, the butler said, ‘Welcome back, Mr Anders! I wish you’d sent word that you’d be arriving tonight; I could have had some supper waiting. Shall I have Cook prepare you a tray?’

‘I’d be most grateful. Please, don’t disturb Lord Bronning or Miss Althea to inform them I’ve returned; I expect they’ve both already retired. I’ll greet them tomorrow.’

Sands hesitated, as if he were about to add something, then nodded. ‘Very well. Shall I send the tray to your chamber?’

‘Yes, please. And make it just a cold collation. Before I retire, I wish to review the accounts, so I may discuss them with Lord Bronning first thing tomorrow.’

Sands bowed. ‘Very well, Mr Anders.’

Greville thought longingly of a hot meal, a warm bath and a soft bed. He could scarcely wait to wash off the grit of the road, but Lord Bronning was an early riser, and he wanted to greet his host already in possession of the latest details on the status of the estate.

The allure of sleep did prompt him to quicken his step. Half-an-hour’s inspection of Lord Bronning’s well-organised ledgers should be sufficient to bring him up to date, and then he’d rest.

Greville checked in surprise at the threshold of the estate office. It must be fatigue, for he didn’t recall asking Sands to illumine the candles, but golden light was spilling out into the hallway. He was through the door and halfway across the room before he realised it wasn’t empty.

Sitting at his desk, her face angled pensively towards the window, was Amanda Neville.

Greville blinked once, then twice. Memories of her had ridden on his shoulder, whispered in his ear all the way back from Blenhem. After discussing details of purchasing the estate with Greaves, he’d argued with himself over whether to go immediately to London before returning to Ashton Grove. Asking her, this time point-blank and directly, whether the emotion he knew they shared was strong enough for her to consider giving up London and her dreams of a life there.

Had having her fill his heart and mind for so many hours made him conjure up her very image?

Before he could decide whether his wits had been addled by some pleasant madness, she looked up, saw him and gasped.

In one graceful movement, she leapt up from the chair, flew across room and into his arms.

Greville bound her to him, pressing his face into the silken warmth of her hair. If this were an illusion, he wanted it never to end. It took several minutes of contact—and his body’s inevitable response to her nearness—before he decided he wasn’t hallucinating and it really was Amanda he held in his arms.

In which case, he needed to put her at a distance before his hungry body tempted him to bring her closer still.

He was, with difficulty, forcing himself to release her when, apparently realising the impropriety of her actions, she disentangled herself from his arms, blushing.

Though thrilled by the spontaneous warmth of her greeting, he tried to rein in his stampeding hopes. ‘What are you doing at Ashton?’ He recalled Sands’s hesitation when speaking about the family, and sudden alarm pulsed through him. ‘Nothing has happened to—’

‘No, no, Papa is fine. I…just needed to come home.’

Alarm of a different sort filled him as the other matter she would have felt compelled to see her father about flashed into his mind. ‘For…some particular reason?’

She stepped away from him. ‘If there was, how would you feel about it?’

Hoping she wasn’t referring to an engagement with Trowbridge, but afraid she might be, he asked, ‘About your connection with a certain…gentleman?’

‘Precisely.’

Panic whipped through him and he felt a searing pain, as if his heart were shattering. For a moment he couldn’t summon even thoughts, much less speech.

The new Greville, noble gentleman that he was, would want only the best for her. He’d congratulate her on achieving her fondest desire and wish her every happiness.

Greville opened his lips to say just that. But before those syllables emerged, the old Greville wrested away control and he heard himself cry, ‘Do you really love Trowbridge? Do you want to give yourself to him? Do you want his hands, his mouth, on you every night for the rest of your life? Will he worship you with his heart and all the passion within him…as I would?’

While her eyes widened and her lips parted, Greville found himself on one knee before her, rushing on, ‘I know he can offer you the brilliant future and position you’ve always wanted. But I can’t let you go to him without telling you how I feel. I think I started loving you the moment you frowned at that disreputable specimen besmirching your pristine entryway—but made him welcome anyway. I tried to conceal my feelings, even from myself, but by the time you left for London, I could no longer deny the truth, though I kept it from you. I said nothing because I wanted you to arrive in London unencumbered by any previous attachment, free to pursue your dreams.

‘Though my wealth will never match Trowbridge’s,’ he rushed on, desperate to get it all out before she stopped him with a flat refusal, ‘you would be mistress of Blenhem Hill, filling the role of a country gentleman’s wife, a task you would perform as expertly as you would that of society hostess. One I think you enjoy. There’s even a seat in Parliament in a nearby borough I might stand for. If you would consider, my darling, making me the happiest man alive by agreeing to marry me, no one could love you or desire you more than I do and always will.’

She shook her head wonderingly. ‘You truly love me, then?’

‘“Love” isn’t large enough to encompass all I feel. For weeks I tried to forget you, mourned losing you, pined for you, tried to convince myself that I could build a life without you. The misery I experienced only proved to convince me of the depth of my emotions. I…I know you care for me. Can I dare hope you could love me even half so well, and marry me, and be content as the wife of a country gentleman and member of Parliament, rather than lady to some great leader of the Lords?’

‘As long as I am your wife, that’s all that matters,’ she murmured, pulling him up from his kneeling stance and leaning in to his kiss.

His dazzled mind could scarcely comprehend her assent, for the instant her lips met his, all his thoughts dissolved. Greville harnessed every iota of the joy and wonder coursing through him and put it into that kiss.

After a reverent, gentle brush of his mouth against hers, he deepened the pressure, using a sweep of his tongue to trace and caress the outline of her lips. Moaning, she swayed into his chest, opening to him.

Fired by her invitation, he plunged within the sweet warmth of her mouth, sought out her tongue, teased and traced it, sucked and nibbled gently. Then harder, faster, deeper, until desire pulsed in his head and the sweet sound of her gasping breaths filled his ears.

Not until one hand began to creep towards her breast and his arm moved to pull her closer against his turgid length did prudence break the hold of need, and he realised he must stop before he was beyond caring that the butler waited outside and her father and cousin slept somewhere down the hall.

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