Your Wicked Ways

by Eloisa James

  Godwin looked up, pulling his hand through his hair. He must have been dressing for the evening when he discovered the loss of his cravats; at any rate, he was wearing pantaloons. “Never mind about that,” he said with his sudden smile. “My fault for not wanting a valet around the place, fussing with my clothes. Likely my neck cloths should go out of the house for laundering along with Lina’s clothing. Could you send Sims out to buy a few more?”

  “I’m afraid that the Christian & Sons have closed their doors for the night,” Leke observed. It was at moments like these that he remembered why he hadn’t yet deserted Earl Godwin, even when the rest of the household staff had fled like fleas from a dying dog. The man lived an irregular life, and one could not approve of the fancy piece living in the countess’s quarters. But there was something disarming about Godwin, and he was far more reasonable when it came to household crises than many a gentleman Leke could bring to mind.

  Rees grunted. “Well, if they’re all closed, perhaps you could just pick out the least singed of those cloths, Leke. I can’t say it really matters much to me.”

  Hell-born brat, indeed, Leke thought, turning over the cravats. Had Rosy confessed her ironing failures immediately, he could have bought more cravats, and no one the wiser. Instead, here was the master going out for the evening, and nothing to wear but yellowed cravats.

  “I believe, sir, that if you tie a Mathematical with this pale pink cravat, the discolored starch will be inconspicuous. And may I offer my deepest apologies for this deplorable event?”

  “Don’t give it a second thought,” Godwin said. “Does it have to be the pink one? I feel like a man-milliner in it.”

  “The white cloths are beyond use,” Leke admitted. “I shall obtain new cravats at first light tomorrow.”

  “Right.” Godwin bounded up from his chair and threw the cravat around his neck. Far from tying a Mathematical, he merely pulled it into a rough knot.

  Leke restrained himself. He was no gentleman’s gentleman; he was a butler. “Will Miss McKenna join you this evening?” he asked, backing toward the door as Godwin wrenched on a tailcoat in a russet color that clashed abominably with his pink cravat.

  “No,” Godwin said, folding up the paper he was working on and sticking it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I’m off to Lady Hamilton’s ball for her daughter.”

  No more needed to be said. The strumpet (as Alina McKenna was known to the staff) obviously wouldn’t be welcomed by Lady Hamilton. Leke bowed and retreated back to the butler’s quarters. But he was burning with curiosity.

  Why was Rees Godwin attending a ball being given for a debutante? Could it be that he was the girl’s godfather? Surely they would have heard something of that in the past.

  “You are a hell-born brat,” he told his niece severely. “I’m docking your wages to pay for those cravats, girl, and you’re lucky to be a family member or I’d have you out the door in a twinkling!”

  Rosy scowled but kept her silence. Neither the earl nor her uncle had noticed the little brown tinges around the cuffs of Lord Godwin’s shirts, and she didn’t want to push her luck.

  Nine

  Of Great Acts of Courage

  Lady Hamilton’s Ball

  Given in Honor of Her Daughter Patricia

  Number Forty-One, Grosvenor Square

  There are moments of great bravery in every woman’s life. Helene had gathered from her friends that childbirth was one of those. She herself had exhibited a remarkably stupid form of bravery at age seventeen, when she agreed to elope with the heir to the Godwin earldom. But other than that one foolish act, there had been little cause for courage in her life. Until tonight.

  Helene was fairly sure that there was no moment more terrifying in her entire life than when she removed her pelisse and handed it to one of Lady Hamilton’s footmen. There she was: practically undressed in the antechamber of the house. The door behind her swung open and a crisp breeze went straight through two layers of silk. She could feel the chill all over her body, even parts which normally never felt a draft, such as her bottom. There was only one thing to be done, and that was to brazen it out.

  Sebastian Bonnington put a hand under her elbow and said “Courage!” in his deep voice. Then he gave her a look of such deep appreciation that Esme elbowed him and said laughingly, “Isn’t it lucky that I already warned Helene to stay away from you?”

  But then Sebastian turned from Helene to Esme, and the look in his eyes when he looked at his beautiful wife was far more potent than mere appreciation. He dropped a kiss on her lips that was so indicative of passion that Helene turned pink. Just seeing it stirred envy in her heart and an odd winkling feeling in her stomach.

  They were announced by Lady Hamilton’s butler. Helene had the distinct feeling that she was an imposter, and as such, she should have a new name. Was she really still Lady Godwin, the prim, contained Lady Godwin who was just announced? But at first, no one seemed to notice any difference. Lady Hamilton was frazzled by the stress of her daughter’s first ball; she smiled at Helene’s hair and whispered a compliment, but didn’t notice her gown.

  But little by little, the news spread. It was almost as if she could see it rippling through the ballroom. Helene solemnly paced through a country dance with Major Kersting. He and she, who had always been so comfortable with each other in the past, were quite the opposite now. He kept fingering his narrow mustache, and when they were greeted by three gentlemen at the close of the music, he fled with a look of extreme relief.

  Helene had never had more than one aspirant for a dance at the same time. The thrill of seeing three gentlemen before her went to her head like midsummer wine. None of the three were on Esme’s list, alas. Moreover, Lord Peckham was out of the question. The man was married, although he preferred to ignore the fact, and she would never be party to causing Lady Peckham the distress that she herself had suffered due to her husband’s infidelities. She raised a cool eyebrow at him and accepted the hand of Lord Ussher. He was a bit younger than she would have liked, but perhaps that meant his blood was redder.

  But by the end of their dance, she had quite decided against Lord Ussher. For one thing, he had sweated through his gloves, and his touch was unpleasantly damp. For another, he appeared to be quite overcome by her gown; he kept glancing down and then wrenching his eyes back to her face as if he were a starving man faced by an apricot tart. Tart being the appropriate word, Helene thought with some amusement. But the truly crucial thing was that he was unable to follow the music, and trod on her toes several times.

  When the music stopped, instead of three gentlemen asking for her hand, there were seven. They crowded around her, brown-eyed, blue-eyed, young and old: surely Mr. Cutwell was far too old? Helene smiled at them all, trying desperately to remember what she had heard about each. Did anyone here have an affinity for music? How would she know if they did? Presumably the only way to tell was to dance with each, and assess his ability to keep from stepping on her toes.

  She put out her hand more or less at random. Some minutes later, she returned from dancing with the Honorable Gerard Bunge to find that the crowd that surrounded her now rivaled any that had ever surrounded Esme, even at the very height of her popularity as Infamous Esme. But this time it wasn’t so difficult to choose a partner. For as she smiled at the circle, acknowledging their bows with the smallest inclination of her head, Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne, effortlessly brushed the other men aside without even seeming to notice them.

  Mayne had never paid Helene the least attention. Yet now he walked toward her as if they’d known each other their entire life. He looked the epitome of a London buck: his hair brushed into a perfect tumble of curls, his pantaloons sleekly following the line of muscled thighs, his eyes alive with a wicked combination of laughter and desire. “Lady Godwin,” he said easily, holding out his hand. “I believe this is our dance.”

  To Helene’s utter surprise, rather than babbling agreement, she found herself raising an eye
brow and looking him over from his hair to his glossy boots. It was a look that she had seen Esme give various gentlemen, and never thought to use herself. But it seemed to come naturally to a woman surrounded by men, all of whom were clambering, nay panting, for the same thing. A dance. Or (insisted Helene’s common sense), a chance to lure her into a side chamber.

  Mayne seemed unbothered by her survey, just waited with a little smile playing around his mouth, as if he had always known that they would be partnered, and he had merely waited for her to discard her corsets before telling her.

  The thought hardened Helene’s heart. He thought he could just have her, did he? Well, he could. But on her terms.

  She stepped forward, and silk embraced her legs. The other men seemed to melt away. “Lady Hamilton has an exquisite Broadwood piano,” she said, giving him a provocative smile from Esme’s repertoire. Goodness knows, she’d spent enough of her time in the past six or seven years watching Esme seduce gentlemen. “Would you accompany me to the music room? I should like to play…a tune.” She lowered her eyes and watched him through her eyelashes.

  He didn’t show even a flicker of surprise. “That would be my pleasure,” he said, holding out his arm.

  Really, men were absurdly easy to seduce, if that was the right word. Last spring, she had invited Mr. Fairfax-Lacy into her bedchamber merely by reading a poem. Of course, the whole event hadn’t turned out exactly as she planned, but the invitation itself was effortless.

  Mayne was just as amenable as Mr. Fairfax-Lacy. They strolled into the music room; he closed the door behind them; she leaned against the polished wood of the Broadwood piano.

  Surely he would lunge at her directly? But no, he strolled over to the sideboard and poured them each a glass of wine.

  As he handed it to her, he said, “Lady Godwin, you are quite ravishing in that gown.”

  She said, “Thank you.”

  And he began kissing her. It was all quite effortless, really.

  Five minutes later, he drew a teasing finger down her neck and stopped just at the edge of her bodice. It felt white-hot, as if his very finger blazed a trail on her skin. Helene drained her glass of wine, and Mayne promptly poured her another. Then he put his finger in the glass and put it back on her throat. Helene could feel her eyes growing wider as his wet finger slid across her skin, inside the frail silk of her bodice.

  “I should very much like to escort you home,” he said, his eyes blazing down into hers.

  “Home?” Helene repeated. She was having trouble paying attention. One part of her was absolutely enthralled by his games with the wine. The other side of her (alas for her practicality!) was hoping that he wouldn’t stain the silk. She wanted to wear this gown again.

  “Yes, home,” Mayne said, smiling down at her. “Your home or mine.”

  Helene gulped. She didn’t want to take the man home, for goodness’ sake! Didn’t he realize that he was supposed to get the job done here and now? “Absolutely not,” she snapped, and then realized she didn’t sound very agreeable. So she put her hands on her hips and gave him one of Esme’s curling, seductive smiles. “Why don’t you just kiss me again instead?”

  His eyebrow went up. “Why, Lady Godwin, you are growing more surprising by the moment,” he murmured, bending to her lips.

  Of course, he immediately started plunging about with his tongue. Helene had never liked that sort of kiss. To be honest, it reminded her of the marital act, and both things were just far too intimate for her. But she had to admit that Mayne seemed to be better at it than Rees ever was. His tongue felt rather delicate and enquiring, rather than bullishly trampling. Naturally, he wished to continue kissing long past when she, Helene, would have closed her mouth and moved on to other things. Her mind started wandering. What was it that Esme said she must do? Be encouraging, show enthusiasm, and be intimate. Intimate must mean use of his Christian name. Helene ran her hand up Mayne’s shoulder and gasped, “You’re so marvelous, Gerard!”

  “Garret,” he murmured. “And you, Lady Godwin, are a very interesting bundle of womanhood indeed.” His hand was running down her back to her—to her bottom! Helene almost jumped out of her skin.

  “No corset,” he murmured against her cheek.

  She shook her head.

  “No chemise?” he suggested.

  She shook her head again.

  “A package wrapped just as I most like them,” he murmured, and captured her mouth again. Helene stifled an inward moan. Wasn’t he ever going to be done with the kissing? And, “Do call me Helene,” she said, once she managed to get some air in her lungs. “Shouldn’t you lock the door?”

  “In a moment,” he said. His hands were stroking her back. It felt rather as if he believed her to be a cat: up and down, his hand sliding against the sleek silk. Helene had to admit that it felt quite nice. Although he did end up touching her bottom quite a few times. The caress made her feel rather wiggly and pleasant, rather than outraged. She took advantage of a moment’s pause to gulp her second glass of wine.

  Really, she was quite getting into the spirit of the thing now, she thought rather dazedly. He kept kissing her ear. Well, nibbling it really. And although the thought of such an action wasn’t very enticing, Helene felt it was something she could definitely live with. If only ear-nibbling gave one a child!

  Time to give him some more encouragement. If he were as slow with the rest of it as he was with the kissing, she wouldn’t get home until the wee hours of the morning. That was one thing she could say about her husband: he never wasted any time in the bed. “Gareth,” she whispered into his ear, running a finger down the side of his cheek. He really did have a lovely lean cheek, and he smelled good too.

  “Helene,” he whispered back. “My name is Garret.” There was something about the slightly husky tone of his voice that gave her the oddest feeling between her legs.

  She was about to suggest that he hurry along, but she gasped instead. Because he scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to the couch in one long stride. A moment after that, she had almost forgotten that she wanted him to hurry. Because Garret, as it turned out, liked her breasts. Adored them, in fact. He said so, several times.

  “They’re perfect,” he said, in his faintly husky accent. His hand ran over her bodice, again and again, shaping the silk against her nipple and running his thumb over it. Helene had to admit that it all made her feel most peculiar.

  “Where is your accent from?” she said, and was surprised to hear her voice was slightly breathy.

  “My mother was French,” he replied. And then: “Helene, I believe it might be time to lock that door. Would you be agreeable if I were to do so?”

  And Helene stared at him, knowing that her eyes were as big as saucers, and feeling that odd sparking queasiness between her legs, and whispered, “I would—yes, please, Garret.”

  He stopped for one second to kiss her again. Helene was thinking that perhaps kissing wasn’t all that terrible, when there was a noise at the door and someone walked in.

  “Merde,” he said under his breath and pulled back. But he didn’t seem terribly perturbed. “One moment, Cherie, and I will—” Mayne turned to look over the back of the sofa and his body stiffened.

  “Who is it?” Helene said, wondering if she should stand up. She would be ruined anyway, once she had a child, so she couldn’t bring herself to care overmuch about being caught kissing. Besides, as Esme said, half the women in the ton had kissed Mayne.

  “Your husband,” he said briskly, putting her on her feet. “Good evening, Lord Godwin,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps you were looking for your wife?”

  And there was Rees, looking like an olive-skinned, brawling prizefighter in comparison to Mayne’s sleek elegance.

  “Yes, I was looking for her,” Rees snarled. “I’d be grateful, if you’d give us a moment to speak before you add my wife to the list you keep nailed to your bedside table.”

  For a moment, Helene thought there would be a f
ight. The air in the room seemed to have vanished, and the menace on Rees’s snarling face was matched by the potent fury on Mayne’s. Then she blinked. She had almost forgotten that Rees had relinquished any claim to being her husband, that in fact he had virtually ordered her to find a consort. It’ll do you good, wasn’t that what he said?

  She put a hand on Mayne’s arm. “Will you give me a moment to speak to my husband?” she said, giving him a significant glance. “I will rejoin you in a moment.”

  Mayne had gone white with fury and looked even more amazingly beautiful. Rees’s ancestry was just as ancient, but his face looked as if all his ancestors were farmers rather than courtiers. “I dislike the idea of leaving you with a man who may not be able to control his temper,” Mayne said.

  She gave him Esme’s liquorish smile, and this time it didn’t even feel like Esme’s—it felt like hers. There was something in the smile that thanked him for the tingling feeling she had all over her body. Thanked him and welcomed it again. “My husband is of little concern to me,” she said softly, but not so softly that Rees couldn’t hear it. “Although I thank you for your concern.”

  Rees moved backwards with mocking gallantry as Mayne started for the door. But Mayne stopped just beside him. They were of a height, and oddly enough, although Mayne’s rippling muscles were so much more in evidence because of his well-fitting clothing, they seemed to be of similar body weights as well. But the comparison ended there. The Earl of Mayne was dressed with a Gallic flare; his neck cloth, for example, was an exquisite snowy white, tied in a complicated fashion. Earl Godwin seemed to have knotted an old kitchen cloth around his neck; the outline of an overly hot iron was face-out, for all the world to see.

  “I suggest that you not exercise your temper overmuch,” Mayne said, and the French tinge to his voice sounded truly dangerous now.

  “The day I take orders from a dissolute frog like yourself is the day I go to my grave,” Rees stated.