Susan Johnson - Again and Again

She gazed at him with scorn. “This is pointless. We’ve never agreed on anything.”

“Perhaps on one or two things,” he murmured, silkily.

“I hardly think sex is a basis for marriage.”

“But particularly fine sex might at least make it tempting.”

“On that predictable and might I add, disagreeable note, I’ll take my leave.” She turned to go, struck with what had become very wide discrepancies in their lives. And if anyone understood that sex wasn’t enough in a marriage, she did, she thought, moving toward the door. Perhaps it was fortuitous that Simon had appeared tonight of all nights when she’d been overcome with melancholy.

His frustrating inclination to assert his authority and his utter disregard for all but his selfish pleasures had destroyed any trace of her former sadness. She felt like causing him bodily harm.

Before she reached the door, he overtook her and scooped her up into his arms. “Did I mention the bishop will marry us at Kettleston Hall?”

Her eyes flared wide. “This is an enlightened age, you bastard. You can’t abduct me!”

“A shame I didn’t read the same page in the etiquette manual.”

“Damn you, I won’t allow this!”

“Nor will I allow you to warm darling Will’s bed,” he said, curtly.

“You’re bloody crazed! I’ll warm whomever’s bed I please!”

“We’ll discuss your amusements at a later date, but I don’t think I’ll be inclined to allow you any sexual freedoms. Once we’re married, you’ll be mine in every sense of the word, in the eyes of God and the courts.” His mouth set in a grim line. “You’ll be my property.”

She slapped him so hard she felt the jarring blow all the way down her spine, but he only grunted, not altering his stride by so much as a centimeter as he moved to the door.

“Damn you, Simon! Put me down!” She opened her mouth to scream, only to find her cry stifled as his mouth came down on hers with a forbidding harshness. He’d suffered her rancor with a rare tolerance that had finally reached breaking point. He’d offered her his name, title, wealth, and if not his heart, as near to that as he was able. Damn her perverse opposition. It was about time she recognized he was done playing games.

Reaching the door, he leaned into it, forcing her against the solid oak, the pressure of his body exacting compliance, his mouth ravaging hers, the plunging invasion of his tongue making it plain who was master and who was not and exactly what he intended to do to her. The violence left her breathless. But far worse, his brute force stirred familiar echoes of desire she didn’t wish to feel, quickened and excited her, pulsed through her senses, made her wet with longing.

She was panting softly when he finally lifted his head. “Now do as you’re told,” he muttered. “And if it matters,” he added, gruff and low, “I can say I love you.”

“So, you can say it when you want sex,” she mocked.

“And you can stop breaking my balls when you want sex,” he returned, his voice velvet soft. “Or was that someone else I heard panting.”

“Very well. You’re right and I’m wrong. But you needn’t go to such outrageous lengths as marriage to have sex.” Her brows rose faintly and the corners of her mouth tilted upward in a seductive smile. “Put me down, lock the door and we’ll have sex under this mural of a Tuscany sky in summer.” If she could keep him here, eventually Will would come looking for her and she wouldn’t be spirited away as though she were living in some long ago age.

“Sorry. I’d prefer my own home.” Simon grinned. “But it was a good try.”

Suddenly arching her back, she kicked out violently and started pummeling him, trying to break free. Ignoring her struggles, he just gripped her more firmly, opened the door and walked out into the corridor without so much as a glance for possible observers.

“Follow me,” he said brusquely, nodding at Aubrey between Caroline’s flailing blows.

Then he broke into a run.

He knew she was going to scream.

He also knew it wouldn’t matter because he’d be out the door before anyone could stop him. He was running full out as Caroline’s cry erupted. He’d almost reached the entrance hall before she drew in another breath and while the servants on duty looked startled as she screamed for help, none dared stop a noble of such eminence as the Duke of Hargreave. Although, even eminence aside, his fierce expression and formidable size would have deterred any interference.

The party in the great hall continued apace, the holiday revelers blithely unaware that Netherton Castle’s governess was being abducted. While Will, dutiful and obliging, waited patiently in the study.

In anticipation of a possible hasty exit, Simon had left Templar with a groom in the courtyard. Quickly mounting, he settled Caroline on his lap with only minor difficulty considering she was fiercely contesting her removal with sharp blows to his head. Wrapping his cape around her, he pinned her arms to her sides as he put spurs to his powerful black. Tucking in the folds of the cape to protect her from the cold with one hand, he guided his mount through the passage leading to the castle gateway. He didn’t wait for the bishop; Aubrey was capable of keeping up.

He nodded to the guards at the gate, but took the precaution of holding Caroline’s face hard against his shoulder, muffling her cries. He didn’t want to risk one of them not recognizing him in the darkness and using their weapon, although it looked as though they’d imbibed their share of holiday punch as they waved him out. But the moment they clattered across the drawbridge, Simon whipped his horse and released his hold on Caro’s head.

Let her scream. Templar had stretched out into a pounding gallop, his huge strides lengthening, picking up speed.

And no one was going to follow them on Twelfth Night.

The ride to Kettleston Hall was brief and surprisingly silent. Once they’d left the castle, Caroline decided it was pointless to scream; it would be like baying at the moon. And her throat actually hurt from shrieking at the top of her lungs-as if it had done her any good, she sullenly noted. For which Simon was entirely to blame. As he was for this entire, ridiculous, senseless, outrageously outdated abduction. Why he couldn’t act like a normal, well-behaved man was beyond her. Although with Simon that might be asking entirely too much. In any case, she alone was going to be in charge of her liberation and to that purpose, as she lay mute in Simon’s arms, she systematically surveyed her… relatively limited options as it turned out.

Since Simon had what he wanted, it mattered little to him whether Caroline talked or not. But he was grateful she’d stopped screaming. Ignoring Caroline’s outcries had stretched the limits of his patience. Taking advantage of her protesting lull, he reviewed the schedule of events planned for Kettleston Hall. Hopefully, all his directions had been received and since they were riding double, Aubrey should soon overtake them. Once they reached the house, he’d remind Aubrey again to keep the ceremony brief. Caroline was unpredictable. Like now. He glanced down, wondering if she’d fallen asleep.

She looked at him from under her lashes. “I’m planning your demise.”

And then, of course, in other ways, she was completely predictable.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to truss her for the ceremony.

Even having to travel by the roads, the journey to Kettleston Hall wasn’t long. On reaching the drive, Simon saw the fresh coach tracks and smiled. Good. Everything had arrived from London.

Tapers were burning beside the front door, the house was alight. He took note of the facade for the first time as they rode up the drive, pleased to see his purchase had clean lines. Some regional architects were eclectic in their tendencies, thinking more was better. The simple four-square brick house, flanked by graceful wings had a pleasing purity of design. He surveyed the three stories, the windows on every floor glowing with candlelight and wondered which of the windows were those of the master suite.

He’d sent orders ahead to prepare the rooms.

And the chapel.

He glanced down at Caro and smiled. Her eyes were shut now. She was pouting. But then he knew how to alter that pout He’d learned how years ago.

Grooms came running up as they approached the entrance, familiar faces from his home in London. He’d sent a small contingent of servants north.

Dismounting with Caro in his arms, he surreptitiously glanced at her, hoping she wouldn’t make a scene. Although, scene or not, he would marry her. He’d not once changed his mind on that score since he’d left Louvois’s house in Paris. And while he may not know what love was, raw desire he knew. His craving for her had consumed his thoughts, destroyed his peace of mind, and had withstood a serious attempt to drink it into oblivion.

So, he’d traveled three days over hellish roads.

And curbed his tongue at Netherton Castle.

In order to marry a woman who said she didn’t want him.

In a way, he was glad Caro was so far from London.

He would have been ridiculed mercilessly by his friends had his nuptials taken place there.

While the betting books at the clubs would have been filled with predictions on the birth date of their first child-and all the gossipy females would have been counting on their fingers. They still might He grimaced, the issue of birth dates bringing a contentious matter to mind.

The front door opened and a butler came hurrying out, curtailing Simon’s disconcerting thoughts.

As the elderly man approached them, his expression took on a note of concern. “Is the lady ill, my lord?”

Simon had been wondering as much himself, both Caroline’s silence and compliance unusual.

“She’s fatigued,” he said, hoping Caroline wouldn’t say something outrageous.

“I am tired,” Caroline remarked. While she had no scruples about venting her spleen on Simon, she didn’t wish to embarrass the old butler.

“Why don’t we get you inside where it’s warm?” Simon offered, moving toward the door. “By the way, I’m Hargreave,” Simon added, turning to the butler who was keeping pace.

“So we assumed, my lord. I’m Eaton, Your Grace, and this is my wife, Mrs. Hopper,” he added, beckoning to a woman who was hanging back at the entrance. “She’s been housekeeper to Viscount Manley for some twenty-odd years.”

Stopping just short of the door, Simon smiled at the plump woman bobbing a curtsy. “I’m hoping you can serve me as well. I presume the staff is still all in place.”

“Yes, sir.” The undercurrent of trepidation disappeared from Eaton’s voice.

“Good. Excellent. Well, then.” Simon smiled again, the relief on his butler’s and housekeeper’s faces revealing. He should have had Gore assure them of their positions long ago, he reflected with a small twinge of guilt.

“Yes, sir, this way, sir. Everything that you wished for has been done. If you’ll follow me.”

Caroline felt de trop and overlooked, like part of the baggage. If she resisted, she would only make an awkward situation more awkward. The servants didn’t know them. Apparently, Simon had never been here before. Nor were they likely to help her; she too had seen their expressions of relief when Simon had told them they could stay on. No doubt they’d spent a lifetime on the estate.

And if anyone understood the uncertainty of employment, she surely did.

But was she required to marry their master because she didn’t wish to put them in a position that might endanger their livelihoods? Or more realistically, would anything she did have any bearing on Simon’s attitude toward his staff or their marriage?

The answer, of course, was unpalatable.

And nonplussed, she wondered what her next move might be.

“Will you behave?” Simon whispered as they crossed the threshold.

“Do I have a choice?” she whispered back.

“Good girl.” He set her on her feet as though it had been his intention from the start

“We’ll see about that,” she said under her breath. “I’m hungry,” she announced, in a carrying voice.

Simon cast her a suspicious look, but only met a bland smile.

“What would you like, my dear?” His voice was smooth as silk, but his gaze was wary.

“Cake,” she said. “And tea to start with.”

Her implication that there might be some mysterious more to follow, added to Simon’s unease. “We’ll have tea in my apartments.” Perhaps a defendable position wouldn’t be out of order. “And brandy for myself.”

“Yes, sir, this way.” Bowing to Simon and Caroline, the butler led them to the stairway.

The rooms in the master’s apartment were large, a fire lit in each chamber, the furniture new and fashionable-perhaps one of the reasons besides gambling that Viscount Manley had decimated his fortune. Eaton showed them through the suite, shut all the drapes and with a courteous bow, left them to go and fetch Caroline’s tea.