Meant To Be: Pendleton Manor Book 1 Page 8

  His breathing turned ragged. He covered her hand with his, stilling her, but she ignored his unspoken caution, and began to undo the buttons. She looked at him again, awaiting permission. He swallowed and his hands fumbled as he pulled down his breeches far enough so that she could gain access.

  His cock was right there in front of her, thick and long, and Sophy forgot she was supposed to be a shy virgin. This was Harry, and every part of him was hers to explore. She reached out and took him in her hands.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised by how soft his skin felt, and yet how hard he was beneath.

  “Sophy,” he said in a strangled voice. “You don’t have to.”

  She looked at him, surprised. Didn’t he want her touch? But she could see he did. Despite his protests he wanted her to touch him more than anything. “I don’t have to, but I want to,” she said boldly. “Do you think I don’t know what happens between a man and a woman?”

  He tried to raise an eyebrow but his face was flushed and he was struggling to breathe. “I think you’re my pure, innocent angel,” he began, and then his head fell back on a groan as she ran her fingers up and down the length of him, playing, exploring.

  “Oh God,” he moaned.

  “I want to kiss you,” she announced, and bent down.

  This time he gripped her upper arms and held her back. “And so you may,” he growled, “but not yet. If you kiss me now I will be of no use at all. Take off your clothes, Sophy, so I can look at you.”

  Sophy thought he had probably already seen enough of her, but she complied, untying the strings of her cloak and letting it fall around her, and then lifting her nightgown over her head. She watched him watching her. His eyes were darker, and for a moment he simply sat and stared, before reaching for her.

  “You are perfection,” he said.

  Sophy knew she wasn’t perfect but now didn’t seem to be the time to tell him so.

  His hand rested heavily on her thigh, curving around the pale swell of flesh, caressing her skin while his mouth nuzzled into the crook of her neck. Sophy’s stomach felt as if ribbons of warm heat were twisting together in a dance she had never danced before. His fingers moved up her thigh, seeking the warmth between her legs, the secret place where she sometimes dared to touch herself when she thought of Harry. Now he was smoothing that slick flesh with his fingers, and she wanted more.

  He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers, shaking it back and forth. “Harry?” she said, confused. “What is it? Harry?”

  “I am trying to restrain myself,” he said, and raised his head, looking down at her. He looked tense, the corded muscles in his neck drawn taut. He looked like he was barely holding on to his self-control. “But I’m not sure if I can.”

  She ran her hand over his cheek, feeling the rasp of whiskers. Harry wasn’t a boy, she reminded herself. He was a man. He was her man, and she wanted him to make her a woman.

  “You don’t need to restrain yourself. I want you just as you are.”

  He’d been holding his breath, awaiting her answer, and as soon as he had it he began stroking between her legs again. His fingers delved and his face dipped down there, momentarily, shocking her with his warm breath on her most intimate parts. A lick of his tongue and a murmured plea, as if he wanted more. As if he was torn as to whether to stay down there or not.

  “It will be uncomfortable,” he warned her again. “I don’t know if I can be gentle.”

  She hadn’t been nervous but now she was. “I trust you,” she told him resolutely, but from his taut smile she gathered he read her doubts in her eyes. He stood up and began to remove his boots, then pulled down his breeches, and suddenly he was naked. She looked up at him from her kneeling position, seeing him entirely bare for the first time. Unable to stop herself she reached out to touch.

  When he groaned and arched against her fingers, she melted inside, knowing she could do that to him.

  “Soph,” he whispered. “Now?”

  She nodded, they were beyond words now, and he pressed her back onto her discarded cloak, his weight pleasantly heavy on top of her. He was still kissing her, stroking her, as he lay between her thighs, and she felt him press for entry there. It was easier than she expected, because she was so ready, and he slid in a little, just a little. Her body tried to adjust and she gasped at the sudden discomfort.

  He didn’t stop. He pushed in further, watching her face, sometimes his own eyes squeezed shut, as if he wanted to concentrate all of his thoughts on what he was feeling. The fullness increased but it was no longer painful, just different. When he was completely inside her he waited a moment, and she felt the coarse hairs on his body rasp against her softer flesh, the shudder as he struggled to hold back when clearly all he wanted to do was push and push and push.

  “I wish,” he said, and shook his head.

  “What do you wish?” she whispered, stroking the hair behind his ear, leaning to nibble kisses along his jaw. “Harry?”

  “That I’d waited for you,” he said.

  She paused, wanting to tell him he should have, that she hated the thought of other women doing this with him, and yet him knowing what to do had made this easier for her. “You’re mine now,” she said gently.

  “I’m yours now,” he agreed.

  He began to move with force then, sliding out slowly and then quickly back. Pushing in deep, making her body cling to his involuntarily, as if it knew what to do even if Sophy was a novice. She was aching now, wanting him, wanting something. He reached down, fingers finding where she ached the most, and suddenly she was flying.

  When she came down Harry was watching her face in wonder. She felt all limp and sleepy, but when she suggested they have a nap, he grinned and shook his head, his dark hair ruffled and untidy, falling into his eyes. He began to move again, and then she felt foolish, because he wasn’t finished. He buried his face in her hair and pushed into her, panting in her ear. The next moment his muscles went rigid, and he quickly withdrew, spilling his seed on her belly as he shouted out in ecstasy.

  She stroked his back as he lay there on top of her as if to comfort him, ignoring the fact that she was sticky and stinging, and he was so heavy. All the same she didn’t regret any of it. She wanted to tell him so, discuss what had happened, but he seemed to need the silence.

  Eventually he rolled over and they lay side by side, staring up at the sky. She wondered what he was thinking. His fingers searched and found hers, tangling them together and holding on tight, before he drew in a deep breath.

  “Harry …?” she whispered, suddenly uncertain of his mind.

  “Love,” he said, and turned his face to stare at her. “Love makes everything so much better, Sophy.” Then, his brown eyes bore into hers. “You’re truly mine now.”

  She completed the vow. “And you’re mine.”

  HARRY

  He took her home, holding her in his arms as they rode and then lifting her down from the saddle as if she were made of the finest porcelain. Only she wasn’t, he knew that now. He would still treat her with care, but Sophy had shown him she was a flesh and blood woman who deserved to be loved and held and not placed out of reach. It was something it would take time to come to terms with. He kissed her lips once more and then let her go, watching as she slipped back inside the cottage.

  There was a moment as he climbed back onto his horse when he felt as if he was being watched. He paused a moment to look about but the feeling passed, and he decided it was nothing but his imagination.

  Trepidation for the future had eased for now. No one could rip them apart. His father might try, and Sophy’s father, but he would fight both of them to the ends of the earth to keep her.

  He stayed a moment in the darkness outside her window, breathing in the scents of summer, planning his future. The days, the nights, the months, even the years ahead. Suddenly he seemed to have all the time in world.

  When he returned home, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  In
the morning, over breakfast, Sir Arbuthnot told Harry that he was sending him to his uncle, who was back at Langley Hall in Essex.

  “Why?” Harry burst out. He was shocked, as if the ground that had seemed stable last night was now shaking beneath him. “Why do you want me there now? I’ve only just returned.”

  “Langley is getting old, and lazy,” Sir Arbuthnot replied with a scornful shrug. “He trusts you. I want you to look around and see that all is in order. Familiarise yourself with the place. Report back to me. Langley will be yours too one day, Harry. Besides, there’s nothing urgent for you to do here. Is there?” His father stared at him over the coffee pot, his eyes piercing.

  For a moment Harry’s secret was on the tip of his tongue and he had a terrible urge to speak it out loud. But it was too soon. He had another year to go before he was twenty-one and his father could make things extremely unpleasant for him and Sophy in the meantime if his hand were forced.

  “There’s nothing urgent,” he agreed at last.

  He could go to Essex and be back in a few weeks. It wasn’t much to ask, and his father would be pleased with him. He needed to stay on Sir Arbuthnot’s good side, for now at least.

  They ate in companionable silence. When he finally looked up at his father, and saw the satisfaction in his eyes, Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  Chapter 9

  SOPHY

  Harry had been gone for five days. Adam came by the morning after Harry left, saying he was returning to his regiment, and handing her a note. Harry had been cautious in the writing of it. It was brief and to the point.

  “Why has he gone to Essex?” she had asked Adam, ignoring his knowing grin.

  “Father never liked the idea of our uncle having a lifelong ownership of Langley Hall. He believes the estate should have come to us immediately after mother died and we shouldn’t have to wait until poor old Lord Langley kicks the bucket. Harry has been sent to act as a spy, look over the state of things, and then report back.”

  Sophy had felt relieved. It was nothing then, just Sir Arbuthnot bossing his son around. She hadn’t told Harry everything about his father and hers, about the loan of money changing hands. She had been reluctant to do so. Harry had promised to marry her as soon as he could, he’d given her his ring, and she didn’t want to increase the pressure he must be feeling in disobeying his father. She was determined to stand strong, just as he was, and she would do it on her own. Only if things took a turn for the worse would she turn to him for help.

  Adam had leaned down from his horse. “Harry didn’t want to go,” he confided, before he turned and rode away.

  Sophy hadn’t wanted him to go either. After they lay together and whispered their promises to one another, she’d wanted to see him every day. Wanted to hold him and kiss him, feel his body against hers. She hadn’t realised how addictive physical love could be, or that her body was just as needy as her heart. But she consoled herself with the thought that soon they would be together forever. He’d promised her that and many other things too, and she believed them all. She believed in him.

  Every morning when she awoke she lay a moment in her bed, remembering what they had shared. Harry was a part of her now. They belonged together, two halves of a whole. But he was in Essex, and so every day she had to rise from her bed and pretend life was as normal. She had to come downstairs to breakfast with her father and begin another ordinary day with an ordinary routine.

  By the fifth day her father was frowning at her, the light of suspicion in his eyes. “Sophy? Whatever is the matter with you? You seem to be in a constant daydream.”

  Sophy touched Harry’s ring. She wore it on a ribbon around her neck, tucked beneath her gown. She wondered if her father could read her secrets in her face. There was still the threat of Arnold, too, and though Sophy would strenuously resist marrying him, she needed to be more careful. She and Harry needed time to consolidate their position. “Sorry, father.”

  George Harcourt fidgeted with his teacup, staring into dregs at the bottom as if he could read the leaves. Before Sophy could ask him what was wrong, he set the cup down with a rattle.

  “Sir Arbuthnot has asked to see the estate books. I’m supposed to present them to him at Pendleton by noon. Whoever heard of such a thing?” He sounded flustered, as if his employer’s demand was both unexpected and unjust.

  “But there is nothing to be found in them, Father? I mean, nothing that Sir Arbuthnot can question?”

  Her father stared back at her. “No, there is nothing,” he agreed. Nevertheless she could see he was shaken, and knowing Sir Arbuthnot she understood why. Was it to do with the loan? Had Sir Arbuthnot somehow discovered about Harry’s promise?

  A sense of dread washed over her, just as a sudden pounding on the door brought her and her father to their feet. The teacup went flying, smashing to pieces on the stone floor, but neither of them moved to pick them up.

  “Whoever is that?” Sophy’s father growled, but his expression suggested he knew, or at least suspected.

  Sophy watched as he made his way to the door, noticing how his dark hair stood on end as he was yet to comb it, and his beloved face was pale and drawn. The matter of her aunt and the loan, and his hopes for Arnold and herself, were keeping him from sleeping at night. She had heard him pacing.

  “What on earth do you think—?” her father began, only for the words to die on his lips. Sophy had followed him but his body blocked the entrance so that she couldn’t see who was on the other side, apart from a glimpse of a dark coat and the tap of a crop against a muscular thigh. Only as she moved closer did she realise their early morning visitor was Sir Arbuthnot himself.

  Her heart jumped. His face was red with fury and his dark brows drawn down tight. He looked as though he had worked himself into an alarming state.

  “I thought it was at noon that you wanted—” her father began.

  “Thief!” Sir Arbuthnot roared and pointed the crop at him, digging it into his chest as if it were a dagger. Her father took a clumsy step back but Sir Arbuthnot pressed closer, eyes blazing. “The constable is on his way and you will go with him.”

  Sophy found herself frozen in place.

  “Constable?” Her father repeated as if he had never heard the word before.

  “You have been stealing from me, Harcourt,” Sir Arbuthnot said, the words falling leaden from his lips. His eyes slid away briefly, as if the expression on his estate manager’s face had shaken him. “You will be arrested and sent to prison until you can pay my money back.”

  “What are you talking about?” Her father tried to moderate his voice. “That money was a loan! A loan agreed to between us!”

  “You’ve been stealing from me.” Sir Arbuthnot slapped his riding crop against his thigh like a nervous tic. “For months. Years, probably. You will go to prison until you can pay me back what you owe me.”

  It was as if he had learned the lines, Sophy thought, horrified and bewildered. Something rehearsed and planned, not a true bout of spontaneous anger. Sir Arbuthnot’s brown eyes slid by her father’s shocked face and fixed on her. And narrowed. What she saw in them lifted the hairs on her nape.

  She didn’t know the man, not really. He had been at Pendleton Manor all her life, and he was Harry’s father, but he was not someone she claimed to know, or even understand. And yet he had been genial enough to her, and there had been the night of the Christmas party, when he had praised her singing. The evenings when she and her father had dined with him and he had seemed so affable.

  Now he stared at her as if he wished her dead.

  Her father fell against the jamb, using it to hold himself up. “You loaned me that money so that I could buy back Audley Farm and give it to my daughter.” He was desperate now, knowing he was in a bad place. It was his word against Sir Arbuthnot’s and the power was firmly on the side of the latter. “I haven’t stolen from you. You know that’s the truth. I beg of you, tell them the truth.”

  “Then ask you
r daughter why I can no longer keep my part of our deal,” Sir Arbuthnot said between clenched teeth. “But before you do, remember I know everything that happens here at Pendleton. I have eyes everywhere.”

  His gaze had been on Sophy but now it returned to her father and some of the heat went out of it. For a moment it seemed that he might relent. Then his expression returned to stone. “We are finished. You will have plenty of time to consider your situation in prison.”

  Sophy stepped forward at last. “Please. Whatever you think happened … You cannot do this,” she said, her voice heavy with tears.

  “It is already done,” he said. “The constable is on his way and the magistrate has been informed. Prepare yourself, Harcourt.”

  Sophy’s father shook his head, unable to believe this was happening. Sir Arbuthnot’s gaze slid again to Sophy, where it became pitiless once more. He had made his decision and nothing would sway him.

  “Your daughter will leave immediately or I will have her thrown out.”

  Her father turned to her, as if he’d just realised the extent of his fall from grace. “Where is Sophy to go?”

  “Poorhouse.” He shrugged. “I really don’t care as long as I never see either of you again.”

  His cruelty was beyond belief. She dug her nails into her palms just to be sure this wasn’t a nightmare and felt the sting.

  “Prepare yourself, Harcourt,” Sir Arbuthnot repeated his warning, and then he was gone.

  “Father?” Sophy whispered, creeping closer.

  For a moment she didn’t recognise him. He was a shadow of his former self, his face sunken and lined, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked behind him through the open door as if expecting to see the authorities riding up to the cottage.