Bound with Passion Page 6

  For as long as he could remember, working on estate business had calmed and restored him. After he came down from Cambridge, Trevor knew Mayfield House was the only place he wanted to be, the only place he could ever imagine spending the rest of his life. Of course he’d spent a year or so in London—who wouldn’t? What young man didn’t want to sample the variety and crammed thrills of the capital? But after he and James had decided that no amount of variety or thrills would ever surpass the simple pleasure they took in one another’s company, they decided to move to the country all the year round.

  In a little under four years, James had managed to employ close to thirty local women in his hat factory, which he was now operating at a very tidy profit. For his part, Trevor had been implementing a slew of agricultural advances on the estate, and the results were starting to bear fruit. Everything had been running quite smoothly.

  Right up until her death, Trevor’s mother, Lady Penelope Mayson, had held the purse strings. In an unusual settlement similar to the one he and Georgie had negotiated, Trevor’s mother had retained control of much of her vast inheritance. She had been exceedingly generous regarding agricultural developments, and she’d also been exceedingly lenient in terms of James and Trevor’s living arrangements.

  Of course she never spoke of anything outright—as the daughter of an earl and the wife of a viscount, she would never speak of anything so private, dear—but she had accepted the friendship between James and Trevor in every way that mattered.

  Meanwhile, his father had always followed his wife’s lead, and his attitude toward James had appeared to be no exception. That’s why the past few months had proved so upsetting. Before his mother died, Trevor had never come close to imagining the depth of his father’s spite—since it had been so carefully concealed while his wife was still alive. Lord Lawrence Mayson had been a destitute viscount when he’d fallen in love with the blindingly rich Lady Penelope Culverton. In 1785, there’d been a few raised eyebrows—she was delicately beautiful and possessed a great fortune; he was ruddily handsome and possessed (very tenuously) a vast expanse of land in Derbyshire at the center of which sat (also very tenuously) the dilapidated Mayfield House.

  Lawrence and Penelope—Trevor very rarely thought of them as Father and Mother—had been ideally suited to one another. Lawrence adored her tenderness and care; Penelope adored his masculinity and rough humor. Unfortunately, when the tender, caring side of the equation died of a particularly aggressive pneumonia shortly after Christmas, all that was left was the rough. His father was devastated and angry after the loss of his beloved wife . . . and for some reason he chose to direct all of his rage at Trevor. Which brought them to their present circumstances.

  Trevor was still staring at the portrait of his parents above the glass display case when James strode into the study. As he turned, Trevor caught sight of the snowy white cravat: it had at least seventeen folds, if not more. James was as impeccable about his sartorial decisions as he was about every other form of personal expression. Tonight he sported a fitted wool jacket of the highest quality, which emphasized his lean strength.

  “What has you so quiet?” James asked, crossing the room and resting a hand at Trevor’s back.

  “Just thinking about my father.”

  “That doesn’t usually end well.” James pulled his hand away and went to sit on the large Chesterfield sofa that dominated the masculine room.

  “I can’t imagine how he could turn so quickly. Not that I ever thought he was entirely happy for you and me to be such particular friends, but I believed him to be, at worst, ambivalent.”

  James pretended to pick at something on his immaculate sleeve. “I’d say it’s slightly worse than ambivalent. He despises me.”

  Talk of Trevor’s father always put James in a peevish mood, not that Trevor could blame him. “I think despise is an awfully strong word.”

  “I think your father would agree with the strength of it.”

  “Well, it’s no matter now, I suppose. It is his right to do as he wishes with the estate.”

  “Not really. It was your mother who transformed this place—saved it really—from the near ruin of his side of the family. And she passed that love of the place to you. It was always her wish that you would carry on in her footsteps, keeping it going for future generations.” James stared at Trevor for a moment. The mention of future generations hung in the air until the fire popped and cracked loudly, as if to puncture the weighted silence. “It was a malicious thing for him to do and you know it,” James continued in an even tone. “What difference would it be to him if he left the trust and estate as your mother intended, with a generous portion going to maintain his life in town and the lion’s share going to the preservation and modernization of Mayfield? He of all people knows you can’t maintain an estate of this size without the cash to support it.”

  Trevor sighed. They’d been around this track so many times. “Look, it’s all going to work out fine, now that Georgie has agreed to be my baroness, my future viscountess. It’s not overly taxing after all. He’s exercising a bit of paternal will, nothing more. So I have to marry before the end of the year—and Georgie is perfectly happy to oblige.” He shrugged and walked across the room to fix himself a drink. “All will be well. My father can die happy, with some absurd image of me standing at an altar with a woman, and then we can all proceed apace. Maybe even have a spot of fun along the way.”

  James smiled and stood up to join him at the drinks tray. “You would find the silver lining in a black plague, I swear it.”

  “No point in fighting the tide, my sweet grandmother always said. I shall marry Georgie. Hardly a trial. Even if we don’t get to implement any of your diabolically tempting schemes in the bedroom, she’s a sweet friend to do it. Otherwise, I’d be left with Mayfield House and no resources to preserve it—which would be almost worse than getting nothing.” He handed James a crystal tumbler.

  “And your father knows it. He knows you would never abandon this place.” James gestured around the room, then took a sip. “Still . . . if you were willing to walk away, to call his bluff . . .” James’s voice faded away.

  “I could never play that deep. I could never pretend to abandon the tenants and laborers and, well, you know how I feel about it. I know you’re beginning to feel it too. It’s part of my muscle and bone. I don’t think I could really survive anywhere else.” Trevor finished pouring his own drink, then turned to look James in the eye.

  “I know, darling.” James’s face softened. “That’s why you are who you are. And I shan’t ever wish for you to be any other way. You are a loyal, devoted creature. The marriage to Georgie will satisfy your father’s controlling nature, and that could be the end of it.” James’s face turned serious. “But I don’t think either of us want that to be the end of it, do we?” James reached up to caress Trevor’s cheek. “What is it?” His thumb passed knowingly along Trevor’s brow. “Something’s happened.” Trevor’s face colored at the words. James narrowed his eyes and looked at him speculatively. “Did I miss something while I was putting these endless folds into my cravat? You look a little flushed at the mention of your intended.”

  “If you must know, I accidentally walked in on her as she was stepping into her bath.” Trevor tried to appear disinterested in his own report.

  James let his hand curl around to the base of Trevor’s neck and moved in close, until their bodies were nearly touching. “Really? Accidentally, you say?”

  Trevor nodded, but with James crowding him and the topic so . . . distracting . . . it was hard for him to concentrate.

  “Was she very beautiful, Trevor?” James set down his glass and pressed his other hand against Trevor’s rapidly hardening cock.

  “Please don’t,” Trevor whispered hotly, obviously warming up to the memory of Georgie in the tub.

  “Was she wearing a clinging chemise, like some of those modest females are wont to do?” He trailed the knuckles of his right hand up the si
lhouette of Trevor’s erection where it pressed against the elegant silk breeches he’d changed into for supper.

  “She was not.” Trevor’s voice lowered an octave as James gripped him harder.

  “So she was very naked, then?” James gave Trevor one more meaningful squeeze, then pulled his hand away carelessly. “I see.”

  Trevor exhaled. “She was so lovely, James.” His voice was still strained, but he appeared to have regained his senses now that James had taken his hand away. “I was . . . dumbstruck. And I know she was as well; I could feel it. She might deny it to high heaven, but I know she felt it too.”

  James looked into Trevor’s eyes. Deep shades of green and brown and goldenrod—like the best elements of the rich late summer fields that surrounded the estate—were all drawn together in those beautiful, loving eyes.

  “I want to give her to you like a present,” he whispered.

  “How primitive of you. Will you wrap her in white linen and carry her to me on the back of an ass in exchange for a cow and a bolt of silk?”

  James smiled at the idea. “I would, you know.”

  Shaking his head, Trevor said, “I know you would, that’s the problem. I think there’s a movement afoot here in England to stop selling human beings. And the minor point of her free will.”

  “Free wills can be . . . bent,” James taunted.

  The fire crackled and the door opened at the same moment. Both men turned, and the butler announced Lady Georgiana Cambury.

  She swept into the room as if she were the queen herself. Her dress was exquisite—James reminded himself to thank Mrs. Daley for her part in that—and her face and bosom were a delicate, fresh pink from the warm bath. And perhaps from her encounter with Trevor, James suspected. Her hair—what little of it there was—had been pulled back from her forehead with the hat James had made for her: a matching gray-green bandeau of pleated fabric with a spectacular peacock feather shooting off the side. The entire effect was magical.

  Both men bowed and gave a leg as she approached.

  “Oh, do stop with the courtly bows. It’s still me, after all.”

  James reached for her ungloved hand, not caring if she bristled at his warm attention. Kissing the backs of two knuckles lightly, he breathed in the scent of her skin and felt the answering quiver of desire course through her as plainly as he felt it in himself. Then he let her hand go. “You are simply stunning, Lady Georgiana.”

  She laughed lightly. “Such enthusiastic praise is so silly under the circumstances, Rushford. Honestly.” He smiled at her use of his last name, as if that could defuse the scintillating awareness that snapped and sparked among the three of them. She turned to Trevor, apparently hoping for a voice of reason in this storm of flattery and ardor, only to find him even more smitten than James had been. “Trevor?”

  He also reached for her hand with the slow grace of a full-blooded nobleman. “My lady.” He kissed the back of her hand and his eyes lowered slightly. James was unable to look a moment longer or he was going to do something completely barbaric—like hold Lady Georgiana Cambury pinned with her back to his chest, while Trevor lifted her skirt and made her scream with abandoned pleasure as he brought her to the heights of ecstasy with his mouth.

  Instead, James coughed into his hand softly and suggested they go to the carriage and get to Camburton Castle in time for drinks before dinner with Vanessa and the rest of the family. Georgie readily agreed, leading them out of the room with a businesslike stride—and a rosy bloom on her chest.

  The carriage ride was a silent business. James certainly wasn’t about to reveal the rude nature of his desires; Trevor looked like he couldn’t articulate his affection, even if he could find his voice; and Georgie, poor Georgie. She looked like she was on her way to a funeral—a perfectly beautiful, closed-up bud of a woman, on her way to a funeral.

  James wished he could make this woman enjoy her own beauty. Not merely the physical grandeur of her Olympian body, but the beauty of who she was as a whole person with all of her myriad interests and conflicting desires. He wanted to prove to her that there need be no conflict; that there was variety in every lamb that was born in springtime in the west pastures; that there was artistry in every hat that was made in his factory; that there was a life, a beautiful life, to be lived in this place she considered lifeless.

  Trevor and James could show her—through the daily practice of their own love for the place, through the deep rhythm and natural pace of it—that she could have a deeply fulfilling life with them, that the three of them could build something lasting and beautiful if she would let herself feel, let herself believe. Georgie would refute it of course; she would claim it was a monstrous show of their swagger, their eagerness to impose their wills upon her, their desire to change her—but that was not the case, and he was going to prove it to her.

  And this wasn’t an attraction that had formed over a matter of days. The seeds of Trevor and Georgie’s intimacy had been planted decades ago, James was certain.

  “How shall we tell them?” Georgie asked, breaking the silence of the fifteen-minute carriage ride as soon as the horses turned from the country road into the private lane that signaled the entrance to Camburton Castle.

  Trevor was agitated. “You don’t have to do it, Georgie. I mean it. It’s too much to ask. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Oh, it’s really nothing. And it’s all done and dusted with the solicitors at this point anyway. We might as well go through with it.” She tossed her hand in the air as if it were all a bit of nonsense.

  James saw how her careless words tore at Trevor, even if she didn’t.

  “But if you marry me, even though we know it is, well . . .” Trevor crossed and uncrossed his legs. “. . . whatever it is. The fact remains: you will never be able to marry for love if you are married to me.” He stared at her, and she narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t reply. “Don’t you want to take more time to contemplate the ramifications of that decision, of what that means for your future?”

  “I have contemplated the decision, Trevor.” Raising her hand, she began to tick off her reasons. “As I’ve already mentioned, we’ve drawn up the paperwork—everything is signed and official. Next off, it’s quite convenient for me, actually.” James watched her take on that blasted look of assumed carelessness that was becoming so familiar. She was a terrible liar to everyone except herself. “I no longer have to be seen as the dreaded single woman at the party—threat to man and wife the world over. Furthermore, I no longer have to see that desperate longing in my mother’s eyes for me to be the happily paired-off daughter she’s always wished for.” She stopped enumerating and let her hand fall to her lap. “Are you having second thoughts about marrying me, Trevor? Am I so troublesome, even on paper?”

  “What? No! Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing? I’ve never been so enamored—” He stumbled over the words. Poor Trevor, thought James. He was already wanting to throw himself at her feet. “—with an idea. I’ve never been so grateful in my life.”

  James suspected that hadn’t been the best choice of words; Georgie didn’t seem the type who appreciated being seen as a debt to be repaid. She looked as if she was about to speak, then decided not to. Perhaps she believed gratitude was slightly less terrifying than Trevor declaring his undying love.

  The carriage came to a halt, and the footman opened the door for Georgie to step out. She looked from Trevor to James, then back to Trevor. “So it is settled. I will tell my mother immediately.” She turned to the footman, rested her gloved hand on his, and stepped from the carriage like an empress.

  Georgie lifted the hem of her gown and more or less stormed out of the carriage. Her emotions were careening around in a most unpleasant manner—she did not countenance emotions, damn it, much less the careening variety! One moment she had thought—had hoped!—the man was going to make love to her in a hot bath, and the next moment he told her he was grateful.

  Grateful? Trevor was merely gra
teful? That was the best he could muster? After all those heated looks and whispered compliments in the library? After seeing her stepping into the tub? She’d hoped he would at least suggest something a little more, well, bawdy than gentlemanly gratitude!

  Bawdy?

  What was the matter with her? Of course he was grateful; that was quite the most appropriate feeling a man in his position should profess. Very appropriate indeed.

  So then why did his gratitude make her feel like something flat and empty, a shirt box that had been sent up from Jermyn Street? Lord Mayson is very grateful for his latest delivery from Ede & Ravenscroft.

  He was respecting her wishes. Perhaps she should do the same.

  Georgie held her spine straight and lifted the edge of her dress slightly higher so it didn’t drag along the pebbles of her ancestral home’s forecourt. She’d been practicing walking in dresses ever since that first tripping bout at the Lion and Lamb. Georgie knew full well how to be a British lady. It was a role like any other. Just as she lifted her chin to congratulate herself, she stubbed her (elegant, Italian silk-covered) toe on the last step and swore under her breath when a junior butler pulled open the two front doors. Swanson, the head man, must already have been in the drawing room, serving drinks.

  The servant bowed, and she nodded to him as she passed.

  “Is my mother already in the drawing room?”

  “Yes, m’lady,” he replied.

  She continued walking down the hall while Trevor and James presumably removed their gloves and hats and handed them to the butler behind her.

  “Georgie?” Trevor called.

  She paused and shut her eyes without turning. What was happening to her? This was Trevor! Trevor Mayson of rock skipping and horseback riding and rabbit trapping. Why was his voice starting to make her so . . . edgy?

  “At least let us accompany you into the drawing room, darling.”