If Love Were Enough Read online

  What did a female have to do to reject intimations from such men?

  She rose from the bench to move to the fire that made her room, her unscathed childhood sanctuary, warm and welcoming. Before the hearth, the heat blazed against her.

  She shed the silk robe slowly, relishing the movement of its softness over her skin. When her arms and hands were free, she wrapped them around her.

  She had forgotten her lotion. She turned back to her dressing table but paused for a brief moment.

  Why did she have the sense she was being watched?

  Her eyes scanned the chamber. She went first to the bedchamber door then to the dressing room door to insure that they were indeed locked. She had just closed and locked the window to the balcony. Shaking off the feeling, she took the lavender scented lotion from the dressing table and returned to the rug before the hearth.

  After filling her palm, she placed the bottle on the mantle. The scent filled her head, easing her mental anguish. She started to rub her arms then her legs.

  She turned away from the fire to warm her back.

  Her nipples hardened as she plied her breasts. Her body heated even further than the blaze behind her would warrant. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Her head rolled, her hair slid over her shoulders and her back.

  She lowered gracefully to her knees then raised her hair and spread it behind her as she lay down upon the carpet.

  She sighed. How good it would be to hear Robert’s voice while she touched herself. To hear his gentle instructions, his gruff moans. To have him urging her on to her pleasure.

  She slid her fingers between her thighs, breathing deeply, remembering the last time her husband shared caressing words with her.

  “That’s it, love. Touch yourself there. You like that, darling. I know you do. I can hear your breath catch; see your skin flush. Faster now. Touch yourself harder; move your fingers faster. Don’t stop, Cilla. You’re almost there. Can you feel it, love? Can you feel the tension, the need?”

  She pinched her nipple hard while her fingers massaged frantically. She arched her back up from the floor and gloried while the tension sprang loose and the wildness inside her soared.

  When the rush was over, the tension depleted, she sank back to the rug gasping for air.

  The silence once again overwhelmed her.

  Once again she was alone and empty.

  Brandon fell back against the balustrade, then grabbed on tight to prevent himself from falling over the railing. In desperation, he took deep breaths, his mind trying to take in all he just witnessed.

  His body was hard. Everywhere. In fact, he ached. It had been months since he’d had such a raging need, and he did not believe he had ever been in such a painful, fevered state of arousal. He hardly noticed the kink in his neck from pressing his face against the glass when Priscilla had lain upon the rug.

  Would that he was down there with her.

  He had to calm down. He had to regain his control.

  He threw his legs back over the rail. Once he gained purchase on the trellis and wisteria, he schooled his concentration to make it down. No sooner had his feet hit the ground than he headed down the slope toward the lake.

  He could not rid himself of his clothes fast enough once he was standing on the edge of the rippling water. Naked, he dove in full force and stroked through the cold liquid out to the center, which was no mean distance.

  Finally, treading water, he paused to catch his breath. Though his heart was still pounding, his lungs still gasping for air, the chill lake water eased his physical ardor.

  And none too soon. It was a near thing. He came close to losing his control, standing on the balcony watching Lady Rutherford through the window, like an untutored school boy.

  With one last deep breath, he headed back, strong arms pulling him through the water, strong legs pushing him back to shore. When his feet came to ground, he stood, sliding his hands down his arms and torso to rid his body of the wet. Standing next to his pile of clothes, he ran his hands over his body and limbs once more, sluicing the water from his chilled skin, before he reached for his pants.

  They were gone.

  “Looking for these, Brandon?” came a sultry voice he recognized all too quickly. His instincts were correct. Anne would choose not to credit his lack of interest.

  She stepped out of the shadows the quarter moon created from a weeping willow. Before he could speak, she stepped closer, so close in fact he could feel her warm breath against the skin of his chest.

  He reached for his trousers but she pulled them away.

  “Anne, I think it best . . .”

  “I do too, my lord. I think it best we are alone out here next to the lake where no one else will see us. Those other fools are missing the delights of such pleasant weather, are they not?” She kissed his nipple then had the audacity to take it into her mouth and bite it.

  Brandon grabbed her arms and pushed her away. “Does tact not work on you, my lady? I tried to politely tell you I had no interest.”

  “I saw you come down to the lake, Brandon.” Anne crooned in a low, gravelly undertone. “It was obvious enough to me you had some interest in something. Or, should I say, someone?”

  She grabbed his sex in her hand and slid down its length.

  Brandon tried not to groan. This was not the woman he wanted despite how good it felt to have someone touch him thus. His body responded without his consent.

  “Look, my lord, you seem happy enough to have me touch you. I swear you are the largest man here. And I speak with intimate knowledge. Mmmmm . . . Do not my attentions feel good?” She slid her hand up and down his shaft, squeezing, inciting.

  It became very clear to Brandon this was not going to be easy, neither for his body nor Anne’s self-esteem. He grabbed her hand with his then pried her fingers loose.

  But she was not to be denied. She dropped his britches to the ground, her free hand finding his sex, and renewed her task.

  “Anne, please.” He grabbed for her pleasure-giving hand, refusing to relinquish the hand he already held. He knew what she would do with it.

  His sex was hard again with need when at last he released it from her grasp.

  “Brandon, your body tells me more than your words ever can. You want my attentions. You want me.” Frustrated by her struggles to release herself from the strength of his grasp, she fell to her knees.

  Brandon’s mental relief was fleeting. Anne’s mouth found his cock and took it deep, sucking hard and fast upon it.

  He was losing what few shreds of control he retained. He was only a man after all, and it had been a long time since he had a woman. While his sex was tended by Anne’s wild ministrations, visions of Lady Rutherford pleasuring herself were taking him fast and furiously near the edge.

  “No,” he shouted, regaining control and shoving Anne away. She fell to the earth, her startled eyes wide. “I said no. Can you not comprehend?”

  Brandon grabbed his clothes and boots quickly, then stomped toward the manor still undressed.

  “You will want me before you leave, Brandon. Just wait and see.”

  Chapter 6

  Brandon entered the dining room early the following afternoon. Once asleep, he slept soundly, and his erotic dreams of Lady Rutherford generated no need, nor interest in rising early. He pushed the forced intimacies of his encounter with Anne to the back of his thoughts and spent his efforts on how he would introduce himself to Asher’s widowed sister.

  He had no desire to be categorized with the other men who leered and hovered over her the previous evening.

  He was relieved to find the room empty except for the attendance of a footman who moved to the sideboard to lift off the first lid of several chafing dishes. Brandon took a plate and selected his preferences when each
container revealed its delights. Asher seemed to be sparing no expense.

  After seating himself at the table, a cup and saucer appeared near his right hand and steaming coffee poured. Before he could request it, a sugar and cream service was placed within reach. Moments later his spoon was chiming against the porcelain, and he savored the first sip of the restorative brew.

  His mind turned to more intriguing matters.

  He felt his dilemma was to get Lady Rutherford alone but not somewhere where she would feel threatened. Although he could ask Asher, or even Anne if it came to it, for a formal introduction, he feared such a presentation would imply his intentions were just like Haddon, Blackston and the rest.

  Though he was more than interested in an intimate acquaintance with her, especially after viewing her private self-gratifications the prior evening, he also wanted to speak with her on matters of grief. With his father’s death coming near to hand, he wanted to know how one accepted such a loss.

  Had she loved her husband? How had she resolved her loss and gained the ability to move on? Had she started thinking of a future? Making plans? Had Rutherford given her some instructions as to what to do next? Should he request such from his father? Would he need instructions more intimate and personal than a will could ever hold?

  As he completed his meal, many such questions drifted through his thoughts. With the last sip of his now lukewarm coffee, he rose from the table to head for the door.

  It was Rogers who met him as he was leaving.

  “Are you quite finished, my lord?” inquired the head butler.

  “Why, yes, Rogers. I thought I would head outside. Do you know where most of the party is?”

  The butler waved to the footman to start clearing the sideboard. Evidently Brandon was the last to dine, and the food kept waiting just for him.

  He would have to thank his host.

  “Yes, my lord. The gentlemen have been off hunting. I do not expect them back until three o’clock or so.”

  “And the ladies, Rogers?”

  “All, except Lady Rutherford, are on the south lawn playing battledore and shuttlecock. Lady Asherton has borrowed the equipment from her children.” The butler bowed, preparing to take his leave.

  “And, Lady Rutherford, Rogers. Where might she be?”

  “Hmm. Oh, yes. Lady Rutherford inquired about the maze. She said she wanted to take a walk and enjoy her solitude.”

  “And, how can I find the maze, Rogers?” Was that a glint of approval in the butler’s eyes? Brandon visited Asheville Manor often enough the manservant could have formed an opinion of him. Was he aware of Lady Rutherford’s husband’s death and hopeful she would find another? At his estate, his staff were always current on the family goings-on and each and every one of his employees had personal opinions. He rarely heard them in detail, but he often saw a quick reaction to circumstances before a maid, butler, or his valet, Simpson, schooled their features.

  “Down the hall and out through the French doors in the music room, my lord. Just follow the path.”

  “Thank you, Rogers. You’re a prince.” Brandon turned toward the hall.

  “Hardly, my lord. However, if I might trouble you further.”

  “Yes?” Brandon said turning back.

  “To make your way quicker and easier, I might suggest right, right, left, right, right, left, left.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The maze, my lord. You could be lost in there for hours unless you take my direction. Take those turns and you shall come to the middle straightaway. And to get out, just reverse them.” Rogers bowed again and left him to it.

  “I am most gratified, Rogers.” Brandon called to his retreating back.

  Priscilla had not remembered the exact way nor had she concentrated on Rogers’s instructions when she inquired about the condition of the maze. After all, she had often played games in it with her brother in her youth. Thank goodness she remembered most of the directions. Still, she spent an extra quarter hour finding her way to the center. Had there been changes to the path?

  She was relieved to see, however, the private garden sheltered deep within the eight-foot hedge was little different from the last time she visited it, quiet and secluded.

  A fountain surrounded by a reflecting pool was centered at the far end of the open space. A number of flower beds containing budding roses and burgeoning spring bulbs outlined a meandering path with garden sculptures and benches placed in strategic locations for repose and reflection. She wondered whether it was Thomas or Anne who instilled in their gardeners the proper upkeep of the space.

  It had been a favorite of their mother’s.

  When she reached the flowing waters, she sat down on a nearby bench to study the streams that leapt from the mouths of several ornamental swans. She leaned forward to place a hand in the pool, surprised at how cool the liquid remained despite the many warm spring days that had passed.

  She shivered and withdrew her hand, reminded of Robert’s cold skin after his death. He had looked to be cast in wax, his kind face harsh without his twinkling green eyes gazing into hers. But other than his portrait as a younger man, she would see his face no longer. And, she expected, when she returned back to Northumberland, Robert’s nephew, Damon, the new marquess, would have taken up residence.

  Priscilla did not look forward to the encounter. Robert had only received Damon twice during her ten years at the manor. Both times his nephew’s approaches to her had been inappropriate and unacceptable. God knew what the rogue would do now that Robert had passed on. Robert had left her a comfortable portion, and she had full rights to the dower house but she would not be able to remain at the manor if Damon thought he had any rights whatsoever to her.

  If her plan did not work, where was she to go? She had Thomas, but she hated to impose herself upon him. She doubted Anne would be so welcoming if she came to stay for any length of time. Regardless of her ability to contribute to the family income, Anne seemed to like her entertainments too much to be inconvenienced by relatives of any sort.

  Further, theirs was more a marriage of arrangement. Anne became a viscountess, while her brother gained an heiress to fill the family coffers their father had left so depleted.

  She sighed.

  Brandon entered the center of the maze to discover Lady Rutherford sitting on a bench at the far end. Her gold-hued gown was accessorized by a brown velvet spencer to defray the chill of the spring day. The brim of her brown velvet bonnet shielded her face from view and she seemed to study the water garden near the bench. Even without seeing her face, she was a beauty in her deep reverie with her spine straight and her hands clasped in her lap.

  Lady Rutherford tilled her head so her profile appeared. She had not the youthful, passing beauty of their hostess, Anne, but the classical, elegant loveliness which would be stunning even as she aged. She had an enduring, endearing quality about her he had not seen in any other lady of his acquaintance.

  Even Estella’s fine porcelain skin and jet black hair seemed lacking in comparison.

  Lady Rutherford had yet to realize he was there watching her. Without intention, his mind drifted to the visions of her before a fire fondling and caring for herself the night before.

  His body heated and hardened more than he wished to admit. What would it feel like to touch her skin? Kiss her rose-colored lips? Thread his fingers through her silken auburn hair? Suckle her ruched nipple in his mouth?

  He tutored his thoughts to gain control of his body before he approached her.

  Fearing he would startle her, he hesitated. He cleared his throat. Her face, framed by the rich brown velvet, tilted up. And he was rewarded by wide green eyes looking up to meet his.

  Green, her irises were an astonishing emerald green. The wave of emotion that poured through him caught him unawar
es. It took every ounce of ton training not to display his reaction.

  Where his body had recently eased, it hardened yet again.

  “I beg your pardon. I am Lord Brookfield.” Brandon bowed but his quarry did not offer her hand. He still held her eyes. How to go on? What to say? What to ask?

  “Yes, my brother told me who you are. Would you like to sit down?” Priscilla shuffled her amber-hued silk skirts then slid farther along the bench making more than enough room for him.

  “Thank you. I know we have not been formally introduced. I thought to remedy that after dinner last night, but you were not in the drawing room when the gentlemen returned.” Brandon settled on the stone seat and turned toward her. He caught a whiff of scent that could only be hers, it stood out from the flowers he sensed when he walked down the path. Lavender was there, but he could not decipher further.

  He ignored the sexual desire coursing through his veins and urging him to make advances that would be most inappropriate at this time, and to this particular lady. She was, after all, her host’s recently widowed sister.

  “I have been through much of late. I sought to retire early.” Her eyes glazed before she looked away, the brim hiding her features once again, her hand worrying a pendant at her throat.

  “My sincere condolences on the loss of your husband. I understand you were married over ten years. It must be difficult to be alone again.”

  Lady Rutherford released the pendant to withdraw a lace-trimmed handkerchief from a pocket. “I have never been alone. Even after our parents died, Thomas was with me until I married. It is a forlorn and empty feeling.” She dabbed at her face, maybe her eyes.

  “I would imagine so. I am heading toward similar circumstances.” Brandon stretched his long legs out before him, crossed his booted ankles, and placed his palms on the bench on either side of his hips.