Once Blakeney showed them to their very fine bedchamber with its attached dressing and bathing room and yes, even a water closet, he lightly touched his hand to Graham’s shoulder, smiled, bowed, and left them.
The moment the door closed behind him, Cam threw her arms around Graham, whispered in his ear. “King’s Head is huge, larger than my father’s country home, Bryne Hill.”
“Ryder told me Bryne Hill is a lovely manor house nearLoddenwell in Devon. He also told me he’d heard your older brother is a fine master, though he’s rarely in London, preferring to live in Boston.” He stroked his fingertips over her eyebrows, slid her glasses off her nose and slipped both glasses and gold chain into his vest pocket. He said, all conversational, as he unfastened the long row of beautifully sewn buttons on the back of her traveling gown, “King’s Head is old, built way back in the time of Queen Elizabeth on the ruins of an Augustinian abbey. You and I will explore the ruins, the monks’ cells, picnic with the dozens of sheep under an ancient oak tree. No, we will not swim in the Green Stream as it’s called. It’s far too terrifying. Everyone believes there is something lurking beneath those green waters, something from another time, something dangerous.” He didn’t add he always carried a small pistol in his coat pocket, a knife strapped to his ankle.
She blinked up into his vivid blue eyes, saw there was even something more, and it was passion. She said, “It is close, but perhaps Mr. Riker is even more informative than you were.”
He laughed as he slipped the gown off her shoulders. “Now.” Graham kissed her, nuzzled her neck. Her finally sewn linen chemise and the light corset, the three petticoats were familiar to him now so it didn’t take him long to strip her down to her lovely bare flesh. He couldn’t stop kissing her, telling her what he was going to do, quite graphic he was—thanks to Jayne and several hell-raising young men at Oxford—and if she wondered where he’d learned such immensely delicious phases and words, she was too beside herself to ask.
When Graham was down to his skin, she couldn’t help but stare at him. He was so splendid, so very perfect. She stroked her hands down his back, over his flanks, as far as she could reach. She bit his earlobe, kissed his neck, whispered, “Do you think the servants know what we’re doing?”
He reared up, smiled down at her. “My father tells me they’rea smart bunch, and, of course, all-knowing when it comes to the family, like all your people at Whitsonby House.”
“But, Graham, we were so discreet on our trek to our bedchamber perhaps they believe we are in here behind a closed door pondering the mysteries of the steam engine or maybe examining the bedchamber furnishings and the wallpaper, or perhaps napping due to fatigue from our long journey from London. Don’t you think?” Cam leaned up, bit his shoulder, licked where she’d bitten. “Or perhaps all the males are talking about how strong and manly you are, that you could easily demolish the heavyweight champion Ben Counts.”
“However do you know about Ben Counts?”
She grinned. “I heard two stable lads had won bets on him. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I know all the females are whispering how very beautiful you are and wondering if I’ve fainted dead on the floor at the sight of you.”
“Am I as bare as you are, dearest, or am I modeling my new vest and trousers?”
“Surely that is indelicate. Well, yes, your vest is probably under the bed.” Cam pulled him down on top of her.
CHAPTER 53
The bedchamber was bathed in late-afternoon shadows when Graham, heart still pounding, managed to come up on his elbow and look down at Cam’s beloved face. She was still breathing hard enough to please him greatly. Jayne would have approved. He wasn’t a clod. He marveled that this lovely creature with her shining hair tousled across the white pillowcase was his. His wife. It was amazing. He found himself wondering if he hadn’t been the long-lost heir to Earl St. Lucy, if he’d merely been a business partner of sorts, would her father have considered him a fortune hunter, certainly not worthy of her, and kicked him to the curb? Very probably so.
From one day to the next, he, Alex Ivanov, with a blank brain, had become Viscount Whitestone, his earl father’s only heir.
And someone wanted to kill him because of it.
Graham sighed, banished the ever-present fear, and lightly smoothed a fingertip over her eyebrows.
Cam opened her eyes, dreamy, still glowing with pleasure, her cheeks still a bit flushed. He kissed her, felt the tip of hertongue glide over his mouth, and of course he stirred. He said nearly touching her mouth, “No matter our wondrous subtlety in excusing ourselves, you know as well as I do every single staff member knows exactly what we’re doing and that is why we haven’t been disturbed. I doubt if we didn’t emerge from this bedchamber for two days, trays would be left outside with only a discreet knock on the door.
“However, my father is a different matter. He could well be pacing outside the door right now, so alas, dear one, we cannot remain in bed for much longer.” And he grinned, kissed her eyebrows, the tip of her nose.
Cam sifted her fingers through his hair. “Silk, your hair, glorious silk.”
He picked up a thick, heavy tress currently fallen over her forehead. He brought it to his cheek. “I’d like to wrap myself in your hair.”
Cam blinked up at him, grinned like a bandit. “I shall have to grow it for ten more years because my hair could be a blanket. Then perhaps to earn an extra groat or two, you could let me play Lady Godiva.”
“The thought of you wearing only your hair atop a horse with dozens of men staring at you makes my blood clot in my veins. So I’ll be content to rub your hair on my face. Now, about my father just outside, possibly listening for snores or conversation, I think it best we rouse ourselves.”
“It’s marvelous—your father is so happy to see you, so happy to have you home, at last. And now that you are here to live, under his roof, he just might come to approve of my snagging you so quickly after he’d finally gotten you back. Wait. Graham, maybe I do hear someone just outside, maybe walking up and down in the corridor, maybe muttering.”
He laughed and kissed her, oh how he loved her mouth, and laughed some more. “Maybe both my father and Nutworthy are pacing together.” He forced himself to pull awayfrom her and sit up. He said nothing for several moments, looked thoughtful. “Wife, do you think perhaps now we have conducted sufficient observations to draw conclusions and posit a marital theorem?”
Cam said, “An excellent question. I read one cannot conduct too many experiments, consider too many results before forming a theorem. One must be committed, regardless of the hour. But I suppose I am nearing starvation, so our next experiment will have to wait. Well, for a little while. Maybe three hours. Do you agree, my lord?”
He didn’t agree, not at all, but there was duty and expectation and his father, an excellent man he prayed he’d soon remember. The love Graham felt from him, the absolute joy, it moved him unutterably. He wanted his father again, wanted him in his heart, where he belonged.
It turned out only Nutworthy was walking up and down the hallway. Graham’s father was pacing in his own study, looking at the very old ormolu clock on the mantel every other minute, waiting, waiting, close to wearing holes in the Aubusson carpet, Blakeney observed later to Mrs. Mince.
Nutworthy said while assisting his lordship, “When Mr. Blakeney asked me about your absence, my lord, I replied in very proper English obfuscation. I told him since you and Lady Camilla were newly wedded, your union sanctioned by God and the English government, it was to be expected there would be the very frequent exercise of vigorous young blood. Ah, did you notice my wit, my lord?”
Graham grinned at Nutworthy’s face in his mirror. “Yes, your wit is noted, Nutworthy. I could not have explained in a more proper manner or disagreed with anything you said.”
