rose gracefully from the bed to sway towards him.
‘How do you know you please me very well?’ he asked and pressed a kiss to the pulse bobbing beneath the porcelain skin of her throat. ‘I’ve never told you so.’
‘You don’t need to say. I know I do,’ she said huskily. An ardent gleam was darkening her blue eyes as she peeped up at him. ‘Shall I make you say it?’
‘Do you think you can?’
‘I know I can,’ she promised and flicked her small tongue to curl on his ear.
‘Well…in that case I suppose it would be rude to decline the challenge,’ Clayton said before his lips hardened on hers, parting her mouth wide so he could immediately plunge inside. He gasped a laugh as her nimble fingers immediately opened the buttons covering the magnificent bulge straining the material at his groin. They slipped inside to slide with skilful rhythm until he growled at her to cease. She did so and instead lithely dropped to her knees in front of him.
With blood pounding through his veins, Clayton curved long fingers over the dark head rocking efficiently in front of his hips. With a groaning oath he tensed and drew her up. Swinging Loretta in to his arms, he carried her back to bed.
At six in the morning Clayton again shrugged in to his coat and approached the door of Loretta’s boudoir. As she softly called his name he turned to smile at the dishevelled sight of her. Her half-open eyes were glazed in torpor.
‘I know I pleased you,’ she purred. ‘Deny it if you can…’
‘You pleased me. Without doubt you make an excellent paramour.’
Sensual languor was still drugging her mind, but Loretta frowned at the amusement in his tone. ‘I’ll make a far better wife than mistress. I meant what I said, Clayton,’ she whispered throatily.
He shot her a grin. ‘So did I,’ he said and went out, quietly shutting the door.
A nebulous March morning was moistening the cobbles as Clayton emerged into the street. He turned in the direction of Belgravia Place, a leafy square hemmed by elegant town houses, the largest of which was his home.
John Vane had left his young widow her own apartment conveniently situated in the heart of town. Thus it was just a short time later, and with a weak dawn light at his back, that Clayton was taking the stone steps to his mansion two at a time.
On entering the hallway he was surprised to see Hughes, his butler, striding towards him as though anticipating his arrival. The elderly servant had been in the army in his heyday and, being sprightly for his years, still strutted about as though on parade.
‘An urgent post arrived, Sir Clayton,’ he told his master and held out the tray on which reposed a parchment. If he deemed it odd to see his master arrive home at daybreak with his cravat trailing from a pocket and the remainder of his clothes in a state likely to give his valet an attack, he gave no outward sign.
Clayton took the letter while issuing an order. ‘Arrange for hot water for a bath, please, and coffee and toast.’
‘At once, sir,’ Hughes said with a crisp nod and marched off.
Clayton took a proper look at the writing on the note he held. A grin split his face. He recognised the hand as that of his good friend Viscount Tremayne. He guessed that, as the post was urgent, Gavin was already on his way to Mayfair from his estate in Surrey. Clayton dropped into his chair in his study and read the very welcome news that Gavin Stone was due in town today.
Chapter Two
‘Oh! You have not brought him for me to cuddle!’
‘You may cuddle me instead!’ Viscountess Tremayne teasingly replied and proceeded to give Ruth a warm hug. ‘I have missed you,’ she said fiercely.
‘And I have missed you,’ Ruth said simply, tightening her arms about her best friend. ‘I am longing to hear more wonderful news about Surrey. But first tell me—where is that darling baby boy?’
‘He has been snuffling a little bit and I thought it best to leave him in the warm with his nurse as the weather has turned so bitter cold.’ Sarah gave Ruth an expressive look. ‘James is teething and I fret that he might take a chill.’ A soft maternal smile preceded, ‘He is a darling little chap, the image of his papa, and at times I feel I will die for love of him.’
Ruth linked arms with Sarah and led the way to the sitting room. Once her visitor had shed her hat and gloves, they sat in comfortable fireside chairs. Logs were crackling valiantly in the grate, keeping at bay the draughts. Outside was weak spring sunlight, but the March winds were strong enough to infiltrate the casements and stir the curtains.
Ruth poured tea from the prepared tray that sat on a table close to the hearth. Once they had sipped at the warming brew their conversation was resumed with a fluency that mocked the long months and miles that had separated them. To an observer they might have been dear sisters, so affectionate and natural were they as they chatted and warmed their palms on the china cups.
‘How long will you stay at Willowdene Manor?’
‘Until Michaelmas…if I have my way,’ Sarah said with a grin.
Ruth cocked an eyebrow at her friend. ‘And I imagine you have a tendency to get your own way.’ She sighed in faux sympathy. ‘Poor Gavin!’
‘Poor Gavin, indeed!’ Sarah mocked, but her expression softened as she named her beloved husband. ‘He likes it very well when I get my own way, I assure you he does,’ she added saucily.
‘Hussy!’ Ruth chided and clucked her tongue.
‘Indeed I am,’ Sarah agreed with an impish look from beneath her lashes. ‘And ever was…as you know…’
An amicable quiet settled on the room for a moment while they dwelled on the events Sarah had alluded to and how, subsequently, her life had improved so wonderfully.
Just a year ago Lady Tremayne had been Sarah Marchant, a kept woman, shunned by the locals as a brazen harlot. Following her lover’s untimely death, she had been living frugally in the rural town of Willowdene when she met and fell in love with Gavin Stone, new master of Willowdene Manor. A few months after their wedding in the chapel at the Manor, Sarah had moved with her husband to his magnificent estate in Surrey to take up her new life as Viscountess Tremayne.
Now Sarah was a fine lady, with an adorable baby son. Once the two women had been united in living quietly, ostracised by the townsfolk. Now a chasm had opened between their positions. Sarah’s status as the wife of a distinguished peer of the realm meant her company was highly sought by everyone, especially the hypocritical. But far from resenting her friend’s astonishing good fortune, Ruth was glad that Sarah had been so blessed.
‘You’re very happy,’ Ruth stated with quiet contentment. ‘I knew you would be. Gavin is a fine gentleman and all that gossip about his roguish ways was piffle.’
‘Not quite…’ Sarah demurred. ‘Besides, roguish ways have their benefits,’ she said archly. ‘Gavin says he now has too many responsibilities to rake around town. He leaves that to his friend, Sir Clayton Powell, who, by all accounts, still does it very well.’
Ruth lowered her teacup and cocked her head to one side. ‘I remember him. He came to Willowdene and stayed for a short while when Gavin was here chasing after you.’
‘He did, indeed.’
‘Would it worry you if soon you saw Sir Clayton again?’ Sarah recalled that Ruth had been rather wary of her husband’s best friend. ‘One of the reasons we are back in Willowdene—apart from to see you, of course—is to make arrangements to have James christened at the Manor’s chapel.’ She placed down her cup to continue. ‘I so wanted to have the ceremony here where we were married and where my best friend is. I can’t deny that the chapel at