Meant To Be: Pendleton Manor Book 1 Page 7

  But he was not going to marry her. She was not Sophy, and the ache in his chest only grew as the evening drew on.

  He hadn’t seen Sophy since he left for London. Now he was home, and he needed her. Several times he’d thought about sneaking over to the Harcourt’s cottage, but he was very much aware of the servants’ watchful eyes—they were always ready to report back to his father. He needed to show caution when it came to the girl he loved, something he had not always done in the past.

  At the same time, he worried that she must know about the earl and his daughter by now. Sophy would be thinking he had changed his mind and he needed to explain to her that everything that had happened while they were apart had only reinforced his resolve to marry her. Oh, Sir Arbuthnot would be furious, but Harry was determined to win him around—Harry was his heir and whatever his father might say in the heat of the moment, Harry knew he was never going to leave Pendleton to Adam.

  Harry and Lady Felicia made pleasant conversation over the soup. Both of them were polite but neither of them was particularly interested in the other. As the meal went on, however, Harry began to realise that Felicia was far more intrigued by Adam. His brother knew it too, sending her flirtatious grins when no one else was watching, and taking in her blushes. Unrepentant womaniser that he was, Adam was stealing Harry’s unwanted fiancé from right under their father’s nose.

  At first Harry was amused, but even his brother’s antics paled in time. He didn’t want to be here. He played with his silver cutlery—his father was looking to impress—and awaited the next course of what seemed an interminable meal.

  “My daughter is quite an artist,” the earl said, casting a fond glance at Felicia. “She even brought her sketch book with her. Never without it, are you, my dear?”

  The girl flushed and looked somewhat annoyed. Just as Harry had thought, she wasn’t docile. “I’m sure no one is interested in my little drawings, Father,” she said, her glance flicking to Adam.

  Adam grinned and Harry sighed. Sometimes Adam was so cruel to girls who liked him, and he wondered why. It might just be in his nature, but he had begun to wonder whether there was something in Adam’s past that had made him that way. Had something happened to his brother that Harry had failed to notice?

  “I’m sure that isn’t so,” the earl reproved. “I remember when I made my Grand Tour through Italy and Greece. I made a great many sketches. I still have them. Was it the same for you, Arbuthnot?”

  Sir Arbuthnot looked up, barely concealing his scorn. “I had no time for such nonsense. What is there to see in Italy and Greece anyway? I inherited Pendleton when I was twenty-four and it required my full attention. Still does. That is why it is one of the richest estates in England.”

  The earl raised an eyebrow at this show of bad manners but was too polite to rebuke him. Felicia stared at Sir Arbuthnot as though he had sprouted horns, and Harry hid a smile over his plate. Perhaps he would not need to worry about wriggling out of this match after all. His father had done most of the work for him.

  “Would you teach me to sketch?” Adam asked in a guileless tone. “I’ll be going to Spain soon with my regiment and I’d like to capture something of the countryside. A keepsake.”

  Harry stared at his brother in amazement. Last time he had spoken to Adam about Spain, he’d been more interested in surviving the parched, sniper infested landscape than drawing it. Harry spent a moment trying to decipher Adam’s motives. Unlikely as it seemed, was it possible he was being kind? He saw Lady Felicia’s green eyes soften as she looked across the table at Adam and shyly agreed to help.

  Harry’s thoughts drifted away from the meal and the young woman his father was pushing toward him as if to tempt his appetite. He didn’t want to be here.

  Sophy. He ached for her. She must be wondering if he had forgotten all about her.

  Harry decided right then and there that, after everyone had retired to bed, he was going to ride over to the Harcourt’s cottage and speak to her.

  Chapter 8

  HARRY

  The two storey cottage was dark, but Harry knew which window was Sophy’s. He’d been to the Harcourt’s house many times over the years on his father’s business. Now he was here on his own account.

  Harry had waited until the Pendleton household was abed—apart that was, from Adam. He’d heard his brother’s low voice in the parlour, and hesitated outside the door. There was a woman in there and it sounded like Felicia. He probably should see what Adam was up to but if he stopped now, interrupted whoever was in there with his brother, he might not get away until it was too late. So he walked past, slipped out of the house, and went to the stable to saddle his horse. Rather than go through the woods that lay between his home and the Harcourt’s, he skirted around them. The woods reminded him of Digby and his foolish behaviour in risking the girl he loved just to punish his former friend.

  He would never do anything to hurt her again.

  As he rode he felt his heart lift. The Pendleton estate, his land, his home, his kingdom. One day he would be master of all of this. But he knew right now he was walking a fine line. He didn’t want to jeopardise his inheritance, nor did he want to fall in with his father’s plans for his future wife and lose Sophy. Without her he couldn’t imagine being the man he wanted to be. Without her he might turn into his father and that thought made him grow cold.

  He stared up at her window for a moment, then grabbed a handful of earth from the garden, and flung it up against the pane. Silence. He did it again, holding his breath, hoping that George Harcourt wouldn’t hear. He didn’t want to have to explain himself, or run off like a child caught stealing apples. He was about to throw another handful when the window was pushed open.

  The glow of Sophy’s pale hair put even the stars to shame. He stared up at her, realising again how much he had missed her. He didn’t want Lady Felicia or her dowry; he didn’t want anyone but Sophy.

  “Harry?” she whispered when he didn’t speak. “Is that you?”

  “Come down,” he said. He tried to sound calm, but something in his voice broke and she heard it.

  She hesitated and then disappeared. He waited, not sure if she would come or not, as he stood and held the reins of his horse. The house door opened cautiously and then closed again behind her without a sound. She was wearing a cloak over her nightgown—the summer night was surprisingly crisp—but her feet were bare. He smiled. Only Sophy, in her eagerness to reach him, would not stop to put on her slippers.

  “What is it?” she asked, coming close. There was a note of anxiety in her voice. She knew him so well.

  “Ride with me a little way,” he said. “So that we can talk without fear of discovery.”

  She glanced back at the house as if deciding, then nodded. He lifted her easily onto his horse, her body so small and light in his arms, and then swung up behind her. He wrapped his arms about her, trying not to think that she was likely naked beneath her nightgown, and Sophy rested her head back against his shoulder. Harry urged his horse into a slow trot.

  Her hair blew across his face and she soon tucked it out of the way beneath the collar of her cloak. He dropped his face into the crook of her neck, taking in her warm clean scent. He set the horse into a gallop and she asked him where they were going but he didn’t answer. He didn’t know himself until he reached it, a place that seemed perfect.

  They were amongst the ruins of the old stronghold, a place that marked the heart of the Pendleton estate. The heart of Pendleton and the woman who was his heart, here together.

  He dismounted and held out his hands for Sophy. She slid down and for a moment she stood quietly in the circle of his arms. He was tempted to tighten his grip, bend his head and kiss her, touch her, but he let her go. He was afraid that if he held her any longer he would not be able to stop the sensual urges within him. Harry took an unsteady breath and put some distance between them, walking to one of the larger stones to place his hand upon the cool, smooth surface.

&
nbsp; “My father has guests at the manor.”

  “So I heard.” She looked away, pretending to admire the ruins in the starlight, but he knew it was because she didn’t want him to read her expression. There was a pause between them, a beat of silence that he wanted to break, but she spoke first. “Your father wants you to marry Lady Felicia, doesn’t he?”

  Harry watched as she came closer, her feet silent in the grass. “That’s his plan,” he admitted.

  She had reached him now. Her hair had escaped her cloak and hung loose about her shoulders again, a little tangled from their ride. Her gaze was lifted to his, eyes pale and wide. Even without touching her he could feel the tension in her body, sense her apprehension. Did she really think he was going to obey his father and cast her aside?

  “Sophy …” He closed the small distance between them. “I’m not marrying anyone but you. I don’t want anyone but you.”

  She lunged into his arms and they clung together. He pressed his nose to her hair, breathing her in, and the needy ache inside him doubled. Tripled. He wanted her so much and right now he wasn’t sure he had the strength to stop himself.

  “There is something I need to tell you …” she said. “You haven’t been to see me so I couldn’t before, but, Harry, my father is making plans with my aunt.” She blurted the words out, the urgency of them cutting through his desire.

  Harry lifted his head with a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “They want me to marry my cousin,” Sophy explained, and her voice held a tone that was almost resigned. As if she could already see herself with another man and Harry with another woman. He shook his head, wanting to argue, but she hurried on.

  “And now your father has invited Lady Felicia to Pendleton, and it seems as if they are gathering their forces against us. Harry, what if—?”

  “No,” he said, cutting through her fears. “I won’t let that happen, Sophy. You belong to me and me to you. I want …” He swallowed.

  “Harry?”

  “Don’t let them part us,” he begged her. “Sophy, we are meant to be together, you know that! Wait until I am of age. One more year. Just one. Then I will make you my wife and no one can stop us.”

  “My father,” she began, to remind him that although he would be of age, she would not. But Harry cut her short, arrogantly refusing to believe the Harcourts would snub the heir of Pendleton as a husband for their daughter.

  He wrenched the signet ring off his little finger—the Baillieu coat of arms was almost worn off it was so old but he had had it since he was a boy when it wouldn’t even fit his thumb—and took her left hand in his, sliding it onto her third finger. It was loose but she closed her hand into a fist to keep it safe, her eyes wide as she stared up at him. “In my heart, we are already betrothed,” he told her, his voice firm and sure. “This ring is a symbol of it.”

  “Harry,” she whispered.

  He could feel a tremble in her body, and her eyes filled with tears. The next moment, his mouth drove down on hers, hard and desperate, all restraint gone. He’d wanted her for years and always held himself back, but now the dam had burst. Sophy’s hands were around his neck, her fingertips sliding through his hair, against his scalp. She pressed closer, moulding her soft curves to his hard body. And then he tasted the salt of her tears on their lips and knew her desperation was as great as his.

  Harry stilled himself, wondering how out of control he was, only to realise that wasn’t true. He wasn’t out of control at all. He was very much in control. He was going to make Sophy his in the most fundamental of ways. He was going to claim her so that no one else could ever have her, and he was going to do it now.

  He cupped her face in his hands, smoothing away her tears with his thumbs. “Will you be mine?” he asked her, his voice rough with emotion. “Completely, Sophy. Body, heart and soul.”

  She stared back at him and he could see she understood. After a moment she nodded, licking her lips as if they were suddenly dry. He smiled and pressed his forehead to hers. “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

  “Will it hurt? I have been told … I have heard it hurts the first time, Harry.”

  At that moment it occurred to Harry that the sensual part of his nature, fight against it though he might, had at least prepared him for this moment. He would not need to fumble. He knew what to do, he knew how to please her and ensure this experience was the best that it could be. The other women had meant nothing to him—it was Sophy he loved—but they had tutored him in ways that would make this moment perfect.

  “It may hurt a little,” he answered her. “Then it will feel good. I will make you feel good.”

  He tucked her hair behind her ears, and slid his hand again to her nape, holding her head as he bent to kiss her, gently at first, then more deeply. She made a soft sound, opening her mouth to him, and was soon lost in the sensations he was evoking. By the time he drew back her eyes were closed, long dark lashes fanning her cheeks, waiting for what came next.

  “I want to be yours,” she told him. “Oh Harry, I’ve wanted to be yours forever.”

  Harry sank down onto the grassy ground, resting his back against the fallen stone, and reached up to pull her down onto his lap. His cock was an iron rod inside his breeches and he knew she could feel him, though whether his innocent Sophy knew what it meant he wasn’t so certain. She nestled against him and he kissed her hair, his lips following the curve of her forehead, before rubbing his nose against hers.

  She stretched up and found his mouth with hers. “I love it when you kiss me,” she whispered. “I want you to kiss me all the time, Harry.”

  He smiled. “And so I will. All the time.” He reached inside her cloak, gripping her waist a moment as he told himself again to slow down. He knew now that he was right and her nightgown was the only thing between him and her naked body. He smoothed his fingers over her warm skin, and slid his hands around to her back, finding the curve of her bottom and tugging her body closer to his.

  Their kisses had become more desperate now, and he could feel her tremble, hear her breathing quicken. He told himself they had time, there was no hurry, but he wasn’t sure he could wait much longer.

  He began to kiss her again, worshipping her, but she was restless when he wanted her languid and compliant. She unknotted his neckcloth and pulled it off, her fingers exploring his neck, and then slid them down to the opening of his shirt.

  “Harry, I want … I want …” Her fingers were tugging at the cloth. “Can I see you?”

  It was unexpected but Harry wasn’t at all adverse. He leaned back and, gripping his shirt, pulled it off over his head, and tossed it aside. She put her palms flat against his bare skin, holding them there as if she wanted to memorise him.

  Harry had prepared himself for his innocent Sophy to feel frightened, anxious, even repulsed by the physical nature of his love for her, but she seemed to feel none of those things.

  “You’re so warm,” she said. She began to smooth her hands over him—she seemed fascinated. “So different,” she said. “And hairy too.”

  He chuckled and then groaned as her fingers went lower, following the dark trail that ran from his belly button to the fastening of his breeches. At the sound her gaze returned to his, calculating, and then dropped down again, to the bulge in the front of his pants.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his voice raspy.

  “You,” she said. “I want you, Harry.”

  SOPHY

  He was kissing her again, his tongue seeking to learn her mouth, holding her face so that he could keep her right where he wanted her. Harry had kissed her many times before, but none of them had held such desperate, heartfelt emotion. He seemed to be delving into her very soul. He took her breath away, and she let him. She gave him everything, holding nothing back, risking all in this moment.

  Her nightgown had rucked up over her thighs and now he groaned her name, his fingers on her bare skin. He brushed over the swell of her breasts, still hidden by the thin clo
th, and she gasped at the sensation. His eyes burned into hers.

  “My turn now.”

  Sophy wasn’t sure if he would find her body beautiful. She thought not. She was slender and her figure girlish, not womanly. But Harry didn’t seem to care.

  He placed his mouth over the tip of one breast, sucking her hard nipple through the cloth that still covered her and the sensation left her damp. His hand stroked the other, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the aching bud. Tingles ran down her spine, making her arch her back, and her thighs tightened, as if to keep the pleasure from spilling out of her.

  She reached for him, fingers gripping his shoulders as if to anchor herself. She had thought when this time came that she might be shy, uncertain, but she was neither. She wanted this. She wanted Harry. And what better place than in the heart of ancient Pendleton to plight their troth to one another.

  His mouth was still on her breast and the sensation was so painfully exquisite she gave a cry. He raised his head to kiss her mouth again, his tongue playing with hers. This went far beyond her experience and although she wondered where he had learned such things, she pushed the spark of jealousy aside. It didn’t matter. They had each other now.

  Eagerly, she began to explore his chest with her lips and hands, learning his lean body. His breathing stuttered as if her fingers on him were as pleasurable an experience for him as his were for her. She wanted to kiss him all over.

  “Do it then,” he said hoarsely, and she realised she’d spoken aloud.

  She trailed a finger down his breast bone, leaning in to kiss his flat nipples, using her tongue as he had on her. When she reached his belly button he choked a laugh. He had always been ticklish. Again Sophy bent her head to the line of coarse hair that led beneath the fastenings of his breeches. He was swollen down there, eager as any of Sir Arbuthnot’s bulls, and a shiver of anticipation rushed through her. She rested her hand upon him, feeling the hard resistance.