Finding Miss McFarland Page 15

  Determined to remain in control and not reveal how much she affected him, he pushed apart the lapels and shrugged. It loosened enough for her to take a firmer grip. She yanked, but the coat seemed fused to the thick muscles of his upper arms. He’d ridden hard, so it was no wonder the coat was tighter than usual.

  “How did you manage to don this coat in the first place?” she asked with grunt, jerking the fabric down another inch.

  He glanced back and saw her struggling to keep the end of the blanket in place. Another heady rush of arousal filled him. He looked forward quickly but let his head fall back on an oath. “It wasn’t wet when I dressed this morning. Perhaps it has shrunk.” His coat was the only thing growing smaller on him at the moment.

  “Or perhaps your shoulders are too . . . large,” she said, her voice as insubstantial as that strap across her bare skin. He felt the barest brush of her fingers over his shoulders. “D-did you get this way from boxing?”

  “Amongst other things.” He’d employed many strenuous activities of late to keep thoughts of her from distracting him. Tempting him.

  “Mr. Harrison told me that you went to see the boys and offered them boxing lessons.”

  He gave a sound of assent but made no comment. He hadn’t been able to get Delaney or Warthall Place off his mind and had decided to offer his own brand of support.

  In the next few moments, with their efforts combined, the jacket slid off and fell to the floor with a soggy plop. Keeping his gaze averted—or trying to—he picked up the coat, took it over to the door, and wrung it out. By the time he stepped in front of the fire, she’d moved her garments out of the way to make a place for his.

  “Now, sit down and let me take a look at that bump,” she ordered, as if expecting no argument.

  He was about to tell her that he’d received greater blows from Everhart than that little bump from the door, but instead, he found himself obeying.

  “Close your eyes . . . please.”

  When he did, she stepped in front of him.

  The edge of the blanket brushed his legs, just above the knee. The touch was light, almost imperceptible, and yet he felt it within the marrow of his bones. Unable to help himself, he opened his eyes to slits and watched her movements. Her soft hands brushed his hair back, and her fingers tenderly prodded the flesh above his brow.

  “Do you think I will live?” He wasn’t certain he would at the moment, not when every drop of his blood rushed to fill his erection. There was no concealing it in his current position either. The thick ridge was outlined clearly beneath his damp breeches.

  “I’ve no doubt your head is hard enough to withstand numerous collisions,” she teased.

  Then, as she took a step back, the end of the blanket fell free of her shoulder, exposing her. The small bosom he’d fantasized about for months flashed before him. Her transparent chemise did nothing to block his view of the delicate teardrop-shaped swells or the pale pink nipples near the center.

  Automatically, she went to cover herself, and in the same instant, untamable desire claimed him, taking control. He caught her hands. “Don’t. Please let me . . . just this once.”

  Restraint abandoned him. He couldn’t take it. He had to touch her, taste her, feed this growing need within him. Perhaps it was the bump on his head that had addled his brain, but he could no longer control his actions.

  Drawing her hands behind her back, he left her open and exposed for him. “You’re perfect. Just as I’ve imagined. Better than each of my fantasies.”

  She didn’t resist, but let him trail a finger along the outer edge of one breast and then the other. “You’ve imagined this? With me?” Her voice came out on a breath, as if awed by his admission.

  “Countless times.” And yet the color of her flesh was a surprise. Her breasts were white and flawless as porcelain. The puckered center was a delicate pink hue, paler even than the blush of her cheeks. They appeared almost fragile, or perhaps like pink-tipped meringues that would dissolve on his tongue.

  He tugged her forward and closed his mouth over one peak. She let out a muffled cry. The silk rasped against his tongue, but still he could feel her ruched flesh beneath. It wasn’t enough. He needed to taste the rain on her skin.

  Griffin released her hands in order to lower the straps. Slowly, he pulled the insubstantial fabric down, inch by inch, below her breasts and to her slender waist. Setting his hands on her skin, he explored the softness of her stomach, the slender cage of her ribs, and finally those perfect mounds.

  He feasted on her flesh, tasting her, devouring her. Delaney moaned and moved closer, straddling his legs. Fingers threaded in his hair, she pulled back his head and lowered her mouth to his.

  Her hair fell over him like a red curtain, sparking awareness. He’d wanted this, wanted her, for a very long time. It seemed like ages.

  She lowered onto him, the blanket falling away completely. That scrap of silk pooled at her waist and barely reached the tops of her thighs. With her legs surrounding him, he could feel the tantalizing heat of her. Moving his hands to the generous curve of her hips, he slid her along the throbbing length of him. They groaned in unison, agreeing for the first time.

  He should stop this, he knew. But raw, primal need drove him now.

  The kiss turned fierce. Wild. On her own, she rocked her hips in a rhythm that threatened to unman him. It felt impossibly good. Somehow, he knew this all-or-nothing woman would be the end of him.

  Griffin needed to stop. This was madness. He was too close to the edge. Too close to losing control. He stilled her hips, earning a groan of frustration from her. “Delaney, I—”

  “Please,” she whispered, imploring him with those deep violet irises. The taste of her sweet breath filled his mouth. She strained against his hold.

  He nearly embarrassed himself by coming apart in his breeches. His own release was close. Too close. But he couldn’t deny her. Slowly, he brought his hand to the core of her desire. Fingers brushing against the soft curls, they were instantly damp. A choked sound of pleasure tore from his throat. What he wouldn’t give to be inside her.

  She held his gaze, her eyes hooded with passion. He followed the seam of wet heat, stroking her flesh. A sound, almost a whimper, came from her open mouth. He wanted to memorize every part of her, every nuance of texture and heat. She was silk and velvet, slick and white-hot. He delved into those wondrous swollen folds to the ripe bud awaiting his touch. “So perfect,” he breathed.

  And with the barest touch, she shuddered. Neck arched, her hips jerking in unmistakable release. “Griffin!”

  Delaney collapsed against him, her breath heaving in and out of her lungs. Her inner flame was alive and brighter than ever.

  There was no denying it any longer. She was in love. She’d known it for weeks. Maybe even longer. She loved Griffin Croft. And it frightened her to death.

  Yet at the same time, it felt impossibly good. Especially when he’d said she was perfect and just as he’d imagined. He’d fantasized about her—her!

  He was breathing hard, too, his head hanging over the back of the chair, his arms slack by his sides. He turned his head and drew in a breath. “Mmm . . . I never should have underestimated the passion of a woman whose hair smells sweet, like rain and fire combined. I must be on my guard in the future, so that I am a fit husband. I very nearly embarrassed myself.”

  Delaney shot away from him in a flash. With her legs still trembling, she stumbled slightly. “Husband?” She struggled to pull up her chemise and slip her arms through the straps. “We are not getting married.”

  The look he gave was one of bewilderment. “After what has transpired? Oh yes, we are. I am not a man who would sully a young woman’s reputation and not make amends.”

  “I have not been sullied. Only . . . pleasured,” she admitted, solely out of requirement. Suddenly, she felt foolish and embarrassed. “No barrier has been breached.”

  “Believe me, had it not been for the buttoned fall of my breeches
your barrier would no longer exist.” Frowning, he stood. “Your passion rivals my own. In fact, you nearly unmanned me. There is only one acceptable conclusion for two such like creatures.”

  She swallowed, unable to fight the urge to look down. There, she noticed an unmistakably thick bulge that moved as she continued her intimate examination. Had she really been close to unmanning him?

  “If you would like, I could prove it to you,” he said, as if she’d spoken the question aloud. He took a step toward her. “In addition to removing you of your barrier and any further doubt of how well matched we are.”

  Her gaze snapped up to his. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of necessity,” he said, low enough that she barely heard him, his gaze making an equally intimate perusal of her body. “Then again, perhaps necessity is the correct word after all.”

  A confusing mixture of sensations moved through her. A pleasant, pulsing heat throbbed between her thighs, urging her to step forward and return to his embrace. On the other hand, her lungs seized and burned, compelling her to run from him. He expected to marry her?

  “You’ve nothing to fear from me,” Griffin said quietly. The passion that was in his gaze a moment ago seemed suddenly doused by concern.

  “I’m not afraid of you.” Stepping around him, she reached for her slightly damp petticoat and slipped it over her head. “I just don’t want to marry you.”

  “You’ll have to get used to the idea.” He crossed his rather impressive arms over his chest. There was no amusement or teasing in his expression.

  She glared at him. Did he actually believe she would simply give in to his demands? Arrogant, conceited man! “In case you have forgotten, we require different things. You require a wife who will give you an heir. I require a marriage in name only; ergo, no children and no true husband, fit or otherwise.”

  He smirked at her. “After what you’ve shown me this afternoon, I know very well that you require a husband in the truest sense—and often.”

  “You will have to be that husband for someone else,” she said, gritting her teeth. She tugged her dress free of the branches as well. Slipping it on, she tied the inner tapes before fastening the bib front to conceal her breasts.

  Throughout the entirety of her dressing, Griffin didn’t say a word. He merely watched, as if every movement she made was meant for his pleasure. “I’m afraid my mind is made up. You’re the only woman I want to marry. Though . . . I do not want a long betrothal. I believe I will speak to your father in the morning.”

  She yanked too hard on her stocking, and it ripped apart on the branch. All the breath left her lungs in a sudden whoosh of dread. “You cannot!” Even though she yelled it, the words came out a mere whisper. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “Griffin, please don’t do this. I cannot marry you.” She absolutely refused to repeat her mother’s mistake.

  He came forward and took her in his arms, smoothing the hair back from her face. “Don’t be afraid. I cannot bear it.”

  Did he think she was afraid of him? Guilt filled her at his incorrect assumption. She shook her head and reached up to brush her hand against his cheek. “I’m not afraid of you. Believe me, if I were a different person, I would be the happiest woman in the world to accept your offer.” She lowered her hand. “But the woman I am cannot marry you.”

  His nostrils flared as he released her and crossed the room. He jerked open the door and stood still for a long while, staring out at the copse of trees and beyond, as if to find a solution. But she knew there was none. The simple truth was, she could not marry him, because she loved him far too much.

  She folded the remains of her stockings in her hand and stepped into her soggy, ruined slippers. Before she could walk to the door, he turned.

  “Then we will marry in name only.”

  Delaney rarely cried and she never expected to do so in front of Griffin. The fountain she’d suddenly become annoyed her. Hot tears burned as they forged a path down her cheeks, dripping onto the damp muslin. “I am sorry, Griffin, but I refuse to do that to you.”

  “This makes no sense at all. If you would just tell me—”

  “Please,” she said, lifting her hand to his mouth to silence him. “If you care at all for . . . my honor, please let me return to the house, and don’t follow too closely behind.”

  He withdrew a damp handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and dried her tears before pressing the soft linen into her hand. “I won’t follow too closely, but I will come to call on you tomorrow.”

  She nodded and walked out of the little cottage without looking back. As for tomorrow, she planned to be far away from Danbury Lane.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Delaney McFarland had refused him. Griffin had offered her everything she wanted and yet, she’d still refused him. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand her reasoning.

  At his aunt’s house, he hadn’t had the chance to speak with her. They’d returned separately, but soon after he’d walked through the door, his mother had whisked his sisters, along with Delaney and her sister, into the waiting carriages without so much as a word to him. He’d been left to wonder what he could have done to earn such a rejection, first from Delaney and then from his own mother. In the end, he’d spent the entire ride back into town in trying to figure it all out.

  Hours later, he still didn’t have a clue. Did Delaney’s desire to have a marriage in name only truly have everything to do with money and her desire to have control of her own fortune?

  But hadn’t his involvement with the young men of Warthall Place reassured her on that account?

  “Griffin, come in here.”

  He’d been wandering the halls of the house after everyone else had gone to bed, or so he thought. Only now did he realize he stood directly outside his father’s study. The last time he’d looked at his surroundings, he’d been in the upstairs gallery.

  He moved into the room. “Yes, sir?”

  His father’s face was lit by a brace of candles beside him. And for some reason, he didn’t look pleased. “Sit down. I want to speak with you in regard to your behavior this day.”

  George Croft wasn’t usually so abrupt. Concern filled Griffin as he sat on the edge of the chair across from his father. Had something happened earlier that he didn’t know about?

  Looking at his father now, he wondered how he could have thought that the man no longer possessed command of that large wingback chair. If so, he was merely fooling himself. Right now, Griffin felt as if he were ten years old. “My behavior?”

  “Your mother informs me that Miss McFarland was alone in that little cottage in Springwood during a storm,” George Croft said, his voice hard and disapproving. “In that same span of time, you rode off to look for her. Yet according to both you and Miss McFarland, you never made it to the cottage.”

  Griffin sat up straighter. “Yes, sir.” At least that was the story they’d agreed upon. He claimed to have lost his seat and spent the entire time looking for his spooked horse.

  “Had you been at the cottage earlier that day, perhaps?”

  “No, sir.”

  His father released a long, drawn-out exhale. “Is there something that would explain how your mother spotted one of your monogrammed handkerchiefs in Miss McFarland’s grasp when she returned to the house?”

  He closed his eyes. The handkerchief. He’d been hoping to spare himself the humiliation of explaining what had transpired—how she’d refused him, not once but twice. He’d planned to leave tomorrow morning, speak with her father, and then come back shortly, announcing his engagement.

  It was no use. “Yes. I found her in the cottage during the storm. Needless to say, we both knew what it would mean if we were to return to the house together after a lengthy time away.” Griffin stood. Unable to contain his restlessness, he moved to the hearth. “Even so, I asked her to marry me.”

  His father looked at him with surprise. Then he smiled and laughed a familiar and hearty “Oh
ho!” that had been heard more often when his father’s heart was not as fragile.

  “When your mother came to me with her suspicions, I must admit to being worried. After all, you’ve done nothing but pace the halls since,” he said and made a sweeping gesture to him as Griffin poked the logs in the grate. “You can imagine my relief, though you are a sly devil, never to speak of your intent—”

  “She declined, Father,” he interrupted, still feeling the sting of it.

  The iron poker clanged against the rack as he returned it to its place. “What’s this? You finally find a woman you want to marry . . .” His father’s expression altered once again, from happiness to speculation. “Or is there another reason you must marry?”

  Griffin knew what his father was asking. “She is yet untried.” Though not by any lack of desire on his behalf . . . or hers.

  “Then you offered your hand in order to save her reputation.”

  “Yes.” Griffin’s hands flew up in an impatient gesture as he began to pace the room. “However, as I just mentioned, she declined the offer. That was when she asked to return to the house and for me not to follow too closely.”

  “Does she have designs on another gentleman?”

  He believed matters were settled between her and Montwood. There were no other paupers in her sights that he knew of. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “And yet, by all rights and purposes, a Season in London indicates that Miss McFarland is open to the idea of marriage.”

  “Yes, sir. Just not to me, apparently.” He stopped and gripped the back of the chair as if the action would keep him immobile inside. It didn’t. So, he went back to pacing. “She wants a marriage in name only. Since I require an heir, she declined. And yet, even when I cast my own desires for my future—not to mention the security of my sisters—and offered to marry her in name only, she still declined, if you can believe it!”

  The room fell silent. The events and disappointments of the day pressed on him.