XIII #2
“Nell?” He said it twice before she heard him, and then she only tilted her chin to a more defiant angle, glaring at him through tears that sparkled on her lashes.
Huntley took a step nearer, anger replaced by concern.
“What is it, Nell? What did I say to make you look like that? Damn it, don’t cry!
” He reached out a hand and laid it gently upon her shoulder, as though he would draw her nearer, but she pulled away from him, her hands dropping to her sides at last.
“I won’t cry,” she said grimly, clutching at her skirts. “I am not a stupid watering pot. Nor am I as silly as Rory, damn you!”
He made no immediate reply, and if there was amusement in his expression, Nell was too angry and too concerned with controlling her tears to notice it.
After a moment he asked gently, “Did that hurt so much?” Angrily she turned her back on him, but he stepped closer, his hands upon her shoulders again.
“I never meant I thought you as silly as your niece, Nell. Only that you did not act very wisely today. Now, turn around, look me in the eye, and tell me, if you dare, that I’m wrong. ”
Her shoulders shook a little under those gentle hands, and two wrenching sobs escaped her before she forced herself to breathe deeply in an attempt to regain control of her ragged emotions.
Huntley said nothing at all, nor did he move, and after a moment or two her breathing steadied, though her nerves did not.
He was too close, yet she did not want him to move away.
It was almost as if she hoped to gain the very strength to face him from the warmth of those hands upon her shoulders.
Realizing the thought was an absurd one, she took another deep breath, wiped her hands on her skirts, and turned, looking up at him through her damp lashes, the picture of contrition.
“You are not wrong, my lord.” She spoke gruffly, but his gaze held hers for a long moment, and she could not seem to turn away.
The tension thickening between them quickened her pulse, but more than that, she was aware of a look in his eye that she had seen a time or two before, almost as if he felt some pain or other.
Whatever it was, she was conscious of a need to comfort him.
“I may not be as silly as Rory,” she said quietly, watching him closely, “but I deserved a trimming just as surely as she did. If your words upset me, ’twas only because I knew I had acted foolishly and was annoyed with myself.
I own, I have often ridden up here with only Peter’s escort, but never so near to the camp as this. That was indeed foolhardy.”
“You are not to come here alone at all, Nell,” he said sternly, reaching into his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief, with which he began to mop at her cheeks.
“And do not dare to tell me I have no authority over you,” he added when her mouth dropped open as though she would protest. “It is my belief that, in your father’s absence, you have become as fond as your niece of having your own way, and if no one else will take it upon himself to curb your high flights, as your friend I must. I don’t mind telling you that this little escapade of yours frightened me witless. Here, blow your nose.”
She had been holding her tongue only until he had quite finished, intending to declare her independence, her maturity, and anything else that might be necessary to convince him that, while he might be in the right of it over the way she had dealt with things today, he still had no right, even as a friend, to dictate to her.
But his last words put a period to that little speech before it was begun.
Instead, she took the handkerchief from him and obediently put it to good use.
Then, clutching it in one hand, she looked up at him again, her head tilted a little to one side. “Did I truly frighten you, sir?”
His jaw tightened, and he turned slightly away, drawing in a long, slow breath. Thinking he was exerting himself in order to keep from treating her to the benefit of a few more blistering words, Nell touched his arm.
“Please, Philip, I—” Whatever else she might have said was lost as she found herself suddenly crushed against his broad chest. She struggled briefly, but it was useless.
He was too strong. With a little sigh she relaxed, putting her trust in fate.
He was muttering into her curls now, something to the effect that she had frightened the very liver and lights out of him.
The phrasing tickled her sense of the absurd, and she chuckled against his waistcoat, only to find herself thrust suddenly away, his grip bruising her shoulders as he peered anxiously down at her.
“Here, you aren’t crying again, are you?” Her eyes twinkled as her lips parted slightly, and he groaned as if he could stand no more. “Damn you, Nell,” he muttered, pulling her into his arms again and lowering his head to claim her lips in a ruthless kiss.
Astonished, even stunned as she was by this sudden display of passion, it never once occurred to Nell to resist him.
The feelings coursing through her would have made such a response seem entirely ridiculous.
Instead, she followed her instincts, meeting his demands with a passion that matched his own, offering no resistance, even when his tongue moved against her teeth, demanding entrance.
She seemed to know instinctively what he wanted from her, and she responded willingly, trusting him still to do nothing that would harm her.
If she had been capable of rational thought, she might have been amazed that she could respond so easily to Huntley’s passion, for although she had been frequently in his company of late, she had continued to think of him primarily as a comfortable escort, a dear friend.
If she had begun to turn to him more and more for advice, she would have said—had anyone remarked upon it—that it was only because he was so readily available to her.
Her thoughts on that or any subject, however, were not rational at the moment.
Indeed, as Huntley’s hands began to move over her body, following the curve of her waist and hips before moving upward again, Nell was lost, suspended in a world of wondrous sensations.
The roughness of his coat seemed unique and somehow fascinating beneath her fingers, and her hands began to roam just as his were doing, seeking new textures, delighting in the feel of his hard, muscular body.
She was hardly aware of the actual course they took, however, for her senses were overwhelmed by the magical feelings his kisses and the touch of his hands stirred throughout her own body.
His hands moved gently over her soft breasts, and she gasped, pulling slightly, involuntarily, away from him.
At once his arms encircled her, crushing her against his chest again, and she felt the stirring of his warm breath against her curls.
“Oh, Nell, forgive me,” he murmured. “Or send me to the devil for a hypocrite. To think I dared to preach responsibility to you! I ought to be horsewhipped.”
She drew in a long breath, not daring to examine her own upended sensibilities, but forcing all her energies of concentration onto his dismay instead.
He was her best friend, and he must not be allowed to castigate himself.
Not for something which had seemed, incredibly, to have happened quite naturally and which had clearly been pleasurable for them both.
Not that it wasn’t rather pleasant to have the boot on the other foot for once, to see him angry with himself instead of with Rory or with her.
The thought steadied her still-reeling senses.
When she moved a little within his arms, he loosened his hold, thus enabling her to look up at him.
It took some effort to appear calm, but the hint of a mischievous twinkle lurked deep in her eyes.
“If I were the green girl you accused me of being some moments ago, sir, you might indeed deserve to be punished. Although,” she added musingly, “I cannot think who might attend to the matter for me. Kit, perhaps? Or, no, that would be if there were to be a duel, in which case you would, of necessity, delope, and all would be well, because although he is expert with a shotgun, poor Kit could not hit a mail coach at ten paces with a pistol. But for horsewhipping, one is supposed to send one’s lackeys. Is that not so?”
His lips twitched slightly, but he managed to answer evenly enough. “It is the recommended procedure.”
“Well, then, what are we to do?” She tilted her head.
“Peter has already shown a detestable willingness to obey your slightest command without so much as asking my leave, which, you will admit, hardly encourages one to believe he would support any effort to effect your punishment. Moreover, there is the difficulty of your size. His head scarcely reaches your shoulder. And if you are thinking Kit’s groom might be more equal to the task, let me tell you, you are quite out, for Ned is a mere scrap of a fellow.
And Trilby, my coachman, as you know perfectly well, is well past the age mark. So we are at a stand, I’m afraid.”
He laughed, tweaking one of her curls. “Nell, are you never serious?”
“Yes, of course I am, but not when others talk fustian.”
He grimaced again. “It’s not fustian, and you know it. I had no business to do what I did, but oh, I wish that I had and that Fate had not served us such a devilish trick.”
The last few words made her tremble, but she forced herself to ignore their possible meaning as she placed her hand upon his arm and looked him straight in the eye.
“Dear friend, you did nothing that I did not allow you to do, and I never once feared for my honor or my dignity. Indeed,” she added, managing a nearly roguish smile, “I must be an abandoned woman, for I enjoyed myself hugely. And if I do not regret what happened, why then should you?”