Rogues Like It Hot

by Tamara Gill

  “Pray do not swear at me Perry.”

  “I'm sorry Mama but this is quite ridiculous. I – did – not - snub Lady Childs... Ah... I recall it now. It was at the punch table and she was telling me about her father's estate or something or other. I thought that she'd finished, and turned to leave, perhaps too quickly.”

  “But why would you leave anyway? Lady Childs is exactly what we're looking for?”

  “Mama, I love you dearly, but you are testing my patience... What 'we' are looking for?”

  “Yes, we. You seem to think that your unmarried state is no one's concern but your own. It isn't. It concerns everyone. Your family, your friends, the staff at Blackwood House and Blackwood Chase - the staff you prize so highly.”

  “Don't forget my horse Zenobia, and the cows, sheep, ducks, fowl and pheasants on the estate.”

  “Perry! This is a serious matter!”

  “Indeed it is Mama, so serious that I must leave you for a moment to get some air. Will you excuse me?”

  The Dowager's only answer being a sweep of her fan, Perry left.

  As he moved across the room, he could see Clara, laughingly surrounded by a whole troop of eager young men. He consoled himself with the fact that at least his eldest daughter was happy.

  ~~~~~

  That night Constance and the Earl lay, united under the high chimneyed roof of Blackwood House. United in one thing only: sleeplessness.

  For Constance, the excitement of her realisation that she did truly love the Earl had worn off, had given way to a weary but nagging sense of hopelessness. Yes, she loved him with all her mind and heart and soul, but – what of it? Would she ever be free to express the depth of this love? No. Would they ever be able to meet freely together? Stroll in Regent's Park, or across the Blackwood Chase estate, together, laughingly unconcerned? No. Would they be able to have a child? Would she ever see him proudly cradling the son – or daughter – she had given him? No. No. No.

  'Look. Here I am, lying in this narrow bed in the servants' quarters. Where is he? Lying, fast asleep in his great four-poster after all of the excitement of Lady Clara's coming out Ball. Where, doubtless, he was surrounded by the youngest, freshest, richest, most buxom young women in the Kingdom, all of whom would be overjoyed to marry him. He must marry if he's to have an heir, and the Dowager will eventually see that he does. He knows, himself, that he must have an heir if the estate is to remain intact, and he's a man who knows his duty, and fulfils it – somewhat tardily I'll grant – eventually. No. However much I love him, adore him, desire him, would dedicate the rest of my life to making him happy, it's useless. Useless....'

  Constance turned over and buried her face in the pillow, softening its roughness with an uncontrollable flood of tears.

  ~~~~~

  If Constance could have seen the Earl's face at that moment, or been able to hear his thoughts, she doubtless would have cast aside her conviction of helplessness and thrown herself upon him.

  For there was only one thing on his mind: Constance, and how she held herself, how she moved, how sometimes, her words, ironically tinted, slipped sideways from her beguiling mouth; how her eyes glinted mischievously, stirring his manhood... how she looked, eyes closed beneath him, every other part of her open to his touch...

  'If I could magically spirit any female in the kingdom into my bed right now, who would it be? Be honest with yourself now Perry. Think of all of those lovely English Roses at the Ball. Think of Lady Childs, that figure! Lady Densmore? What fierce passions lurk behind those deferential eyelids? And who was that plump little blonde with the dancing ringlets and the pouting expression? Lady Barry? yes Antonia Barry. Imagine any one of these ladies, naked, next to me now... no, it's no good.

  If I had the choice, only one woman fits the bill: Constance Leslie. Constance Leslie, at this moment fast asleep in the servants’ quarters... a servant! If she were not a servant, I'd damn well race up the stairs and propose marriage to her right now, and silence Mama for good... propose!?... Marry?... marry a servant?... is it so utterly unprecedented? Lord Blakemore married his housekeeper, didn't he?

  Mind you, he was renowned for his eccentricities and didn't give a tinker's damn for what anybody thought, whereas if I give a damn, it's only for the sake of my daughters, and Mama. Besides which, I'm damnably Romantic! I could only marry for love.

  What would Lydia say if she saw me stepping down the aisle with Lady Childs or little Lady Barry? No, dammit, I want to marry someone I love! Love with all my heart and soul and every shred of flesh.'

  Constance's face was clear in his mind, with a smile, a rueful, knowledgeable smile, on her dew-soft lips.

  'I would happily -joyfully! - marry... you Constance.'

  The truth, long present, finally dawned. He loved Constance! He sat bolt upright in the bed.

  'Well I'll be damned! It's true! I do love Mrs Leslie! But how did it happen? Let's see... I recall admiring her courage... yes... her keen wit... yes... her... vivacity... such vivacity! So much life packed into that beautiful form!... Her durability... yes... she has not had an easy life, what with one betrothed and one husband dead, and a family less than sympathetic to her plight... by God she's a woman to have beside you on the battlefield!... And what is life if not a battlefield, a war?... Yes, I admire her tactical sense when it comes to dealing with people... what else... where, how did love come into it...?'

  He thought back over their encounters of the past weeks, right back to the first moment that he'd spoken to her, when he'd summoned her to the library at Blackwood Chase to ask her to explain her reasons for leaving his employ after just a few days.

  Something had happened during that interview - as she sat there in the armchair, nervous but self-possessed, she had lit a flame that had ignited in his breast.

  He recalled, when she had left the room, how her image had remained behind, had grown in detail, and spread its filaments through his veins, heating his blood as it went, the blood which fed his heart... yes, a spark had been lit, a spark which was somehow reflected back into her, for thanks to it, all of the qualities he had come to admire, her courage, her wit, her vivacity, had taken light, had billowed into flame!

  'It's true, you fool Perry, you've loved her for weeks!... But can't I... unlove her? Impossible! I could no more have stopped loving Lydia. My darling Lydia... And what more fitting tribute to poor Lydia than to spend my life being happy, to love Constance as I loved her... to love Constance... more?'

  Chapter Eighteen

  The following morning, with the birds merrily chirping, found Perry red-eyed and weary from lack of sleep. He was both excited and dismayed by his realisation that he loved Constance. Excited by the emotional vistas his love promised, but dismayed by the difficulties involved in reaching them. Sighing, he threw back the covers and swung his feet onto the carpet, yawning as he groped for his slippers.

  After the excitement of Clara's highly successful coming out, his daughters were still asleep, or, at least, still in bed, and only his mother was at the breakfast table, looking as smart and fresh as if she'd been sleeping for a week. After bidding her good morning, he went to the sideboard to see what was available for breakfast. He could feel her eyeing him intently over the rim of her teacup. Undaunted, he lifted some nicely grilled kippers from the tureen, and sat down opposite her with his plate, stifling a yawn as he did so. He'd barely begun slicing into his first kipper before she put her teacup down.

  “I've had a note from Lady Prudence Morton. You remember Lady Morton?”

  Sensing, but too tired to believe what was coming, he carried on carving his kipper.

  “Yes, Mama I remember Lady Morton.”

  “She is coming up to London tomorrow, and I've invited her to dinner. She is most eager to see you.”

  “Is she indeed?” He put a piece of kipper in his mouth and began chewing, it wasn't quite as tender, or as oily, as he liked it, but it would do. He went on silently savouring it, ignoring the look of annoyed e
xpectancy on his mother's face.

  “And you recall how much Lady Morton loves the theatre?” He merely nodded, concentrating on removing a rather prominent kipper bone from his mouth. “I think it would be a capital idea for you to take her to see Edmund Kean at Drury Lane tomorrow evening. He is playing Shylock again. His greatest role, as I recall you saying yourself.”

  Perry dropped the bone onto the plate, and carefully arranged his knife and fork against the edge. “Mama, this is simply too much. I am forty-two years old and here you are arranging trysts for me as if I were Clara's age. Mama: I CAME OUT, so to speak, a long time ago!”

  “Are you still of the same attitude as last night then? Did nothing I say strike home to you?”

  “Mama, I have not slept, I am tired, particularly after the last few weeks, what with arranging Clara's Ball, along with a host of other matters. Will you please drop this tiresome subject?”

  “Tiresome? To be concerned about my only son's happiness?”

  “Mama, if you truly cared for my happiness you would not mention Lady Morton, or any other Lady, again.”

  Heart thumping, he picked up his utensils again and approached the neglected fish.

  “I care more for your happiness and the well-being of all of us than you do, apparently.”

  He dropped his knife and fork onto the plate and shoved it away.

  “How dare you! Not a moment passes when I'm not worrying about the well-being of my daughters, of you, of everyone on the estate – while simultaneously trying to keep the Prince Regent, Lord Liverpool and half the damn ministers in the Commons happy! How dare you say that Mama! It's unworthy of you!”

  “And how dare you speak to me in this manner! Is seeing my son happily married 'unworthy' of me?'

  “Mama, from the legions of wide-hipped, empty-headed women you've pushed my way since Lydia died, I can only conclude that your one, obsessive, concern is that I produce an heir, nothing else. Certainly not my 'happiness’.”

  He stood up and flung his napkin onto the wasted fish on the plate. Not one to be easily daunted, the Dowager rose majestically and flung her napkin down too.

  “Yes, I am obsessed with you producing an heir! I admit it! Where is the shame in it?! I am sick and tired of watching you eat yourself up with grief for Lydia, spoiling your children in the process! Do not preach at me about 'obsessions’. God rest her Perry, but Lydia is dead, she has been dead for five years! There is a time for grief and there is a time to look to life and the future. Now, is that time.”

  They stared at each other, eyes blazing, both aware that further words would escalate the argument dangerously.

  “You don't care who I marry then, am I correct?”

  This was said in almost a whisper, and the Dowager, leaning her fists on the table responded, icily, in kind.

  “No, I don't care. And neither should you. You will never find anyone to replace Lydia, so why try? Just marry, give us an heir and then take as many mistresses as you want.”

  “Excellent. We finally understand each other!”

  Leaving the Dowager feeling somewhat less confident than she looked, Peregrine marched decisively out of the room. As he was crossing the hall to the library, he spotted a footman and called him over.

  “Please send Constance Leslie to me immediately. I'll be in the library.”

  “Very good milord.”

  ~~~~~

  A few minutes later, Constance, perplexed and apprehensive, knocked lightly at the door. She had barely closed it behind her when she found herself wrapped tightly in the Earl's arms, his lips on hers. Again, she felt the familiar, delicious, illicit feeling of all strength and will draining from her flesh, leaving nothing in its place but a hunger to be kissed, to be held tightly, to drown in his passionate embrace.

  He drew back and led her by the hand into the centre of the room. What was he doing?

  Was he leading her to the divan? Did he want her? This early in the morning!? She mustn't! It would be wonderful, but it was all so useless. Refuse, Constance, refuse! But he didn't lead her to the divan. Instead, holding her left hand tightly, he lowered himself until he was kneeling on his right knee.

  “Marry me Constance!”

  “Marry you?... What?... You... marry me, a servant? No! You can't mean it!”

  She twisted away but he grabbed her and held her fast.

  “Listen to me. I've been a complete fool for the past few weeks. Now the scales have dropped from my eyes. I love you Constance. Love you with all my heart, and mind and soul, love you truly. There is no one else in this world for me but you. Come, look at me, and look into your own heart. You know that I speak the truth. You know that you love me as I love you.”

  She looked at his pale exhausted face, even more handsome for its tiredness, his eyes more black than green, bottomless as wells into which she could feel herself falling.

  “Can you deny that you love me? If you can I'll never trouble you again.”

  “But your mother, the Dowager...?”

  He leapt to his feet laughing and crushed her to him until she struggled for breath.

  “Is that your idea of an avowal! 'But your mother...' oh Constance I love you! My mother, the Dowager Countess of Blackwood no less, has just informed me that she doesn't care a fig who I marry, as long as I marry. I thought of you immediately!”

  Beaming broadly, he held her close again and kissed her fiercely. She could feel all that boyish joy within him welling up, overflowing, turning the world, irresistibly, infectiously, upside down. She returned his kiss as fiercely, reaching up, allowing him to lift her and swing her clear off the ground.

  “I am immensely flattered. But, somehow, I don't think that the Dowager had a housemaid in mind when she said marry 'anyone', do you?”

  “No, I don't think she did. I think she might just have imagined that I might lead a Baronet's daughter down the aisle, or some solitary offshoot of a mere county vicar. Never a housemaid, no. She's certain to be surprised.”

  They kissed again, longer, and even more ardently, vistas of future happiness opening in their imagination.

  “Now, I must set the wheels of her surprise in motion!” He gently set her down. “To wit: I have to go and fetch a special license. Fortunately, I know just where to go.”

  “And what shall I do?”

  “Anything you please my darling. The main thing is not to forget that I love you and that you are going to be my wife. Now, one more kiss and I'll be off.”

  As he held her, she didn't want to let him go, she wanted him to lead her to the divan, or upstairs to her lonely bed in the cramped servant's room. But leave her he did.

  She stood, half-dazed and weak at the knees, as he sped from the room, blowing her one more kiss before closing the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Constance stood where Perry had left her, still reeling with shock and amazement. Had what she believed to have just happened, really happened? Yes, it had! But did he really mean it? Yes, apparently so.

  Peregrine Stapleton, Earl of Blackwood, had just knelt and proposed marriage to her, Mrs Constance Leslie, formerly Miss Constance Ballantine, daughter of Robert Ballantine, Edinburgh merchant, here in the library of Blackwood House. She had accepted him too, though not in so many words.

  But... how will society react! How will the Dowager, and her friends, and the girls and their friends, not to mention the Prince Regent and all of those in court circles, react to the Earl of Blackwood marrying a housemaid, a respectable merchant's daughter yes, but still – a housemaid!

  Had he considered this? Or was he dangerously overwrought from a sleepless night, not in his right senses, and simply trying to shock his mother? Was it that boyishness she so admired, spun out of control? And what was she to do now?

  '’Anything I please' apparently. And what pleases me now is the strongest cup of tea the kitchen can muster! But first I think I must just carry on as normal, and wait to see what happens. If he returns with the marriag
e license or comes to his senses. If he comes to his senses, and it is all a fantasy brought on by sleeplessness, anger, and exasperation with his mother... well, I'll just pack and leave. I couldn't take another such scene.'

  Constance went to the window and looked out at the garden, breathing deeply, and trying to steady herself for whatever lay ahead of her. She looked at the blooming rose bushes, and the trunk of the great chestnut tree, and savoured again the ardent kisses of just a few minutes ago, their warmth still on her lips.

  'Is it possible that I will have these kisses, this passion, every day! And at my own choosing? Can it be possible? Oh, it's all just too good to be true! Come Constance, on with your duties, and then – hot strong sweet tea! Isn't tea as fulfilling as any Earl's kisses?'

  Not that, she admitted to herself, she’d had any other Earl’s kisses to compare. Laughing mockingly at herself, Constance went upstairs to Lady Harriet's room.

  But Lady Harriet wasn't in her room. Constance heard excited chatter coming from down the hall, coming from Lady Clara's room. She rapped lightly. Sure enough, Lady Harriet was sitting on Lady Clara's bed, with Lady Amelia, rapt, as Lady Clara related the glories of last night's Ball. Constance looked on, pleased at the sight of this picture of sisterly affection. For there was no trace of envy on Lady Harriet and Lady Amelia's shining faces as Lady Clara related who she had danced with and consorted with and what young Lord Flyte had said to her at the punch table.

  “Shall I order tea and scones as breakfast for all of you, here, your ladyships?”

  “Oh, Constance, that would be marvellous if you would please! I have so much to tell my sisters.” Lady Clara, looking fresh and happy, interrupted her discourse to turn a smiling face towards Constance.

  Constance went down to the kitchen to have the girls' breakfast sent up, and then sat down at the long table with a whole pot of tea and a plate of muffins at her elbow. The kitchen staff, coming and going, cast curious glances in her direction, and finally Mrs Wilson, coming in for a spot of tea herself, asked if Constance was feeling well.