Seductive as Flame

by Susan Johnson

  Resting against the pillows, Alec relaxed after two days of Zelda’s passionate, occasionally strenuous demands. Contentment seeped into his bones, a comforting stillness crept into his consciousness, the strife and dissension in his life momentarily obscured by deep-felt bliss.

  The notion of bliss registered in his brain with shock and reduced him to a breath-held silence. Feelings of bliss were so far removed from his life that he surveyed the scene of this strange happening with wonder, as if some clue to his extraordinary emotions were visible in this room he’d slept in since childhood. But nothing had changed: the furniture, draperies, carpet, the paintings on the walls, unchanged. He started breathing again.

  Perhaps it was just that Crosstrees had always been a refuge. Perhaps it wasn’t bliss so much as the simple comfort he’d always found here. Or perhaps he was overtired, over-fucked, and too exhausted to think straight.

  Apropos his flagging reason, another freakish thought entered his mind. A thoroughly ludicrous, ill-advised thought, considering the fact that he was married, his mother was frail, and God knew where Violetta was.

  He should introduce his mother to Zelda.

  Christ. There it was again. Not the why, just the blinding impulse.

  Of course, he’d mentioned as much to Zelda earlier, but his remark had been mere courtesy—the kind of thing one said but didn’t mean. Then, defying common sense and good judgment, the idea took on substance, took on a matter-of-fact life of its own. They’d like each other. They both like children and horses. And him. None of which was sufficient reason to complicate his already complicated life.

  Yet . . . the thought remained.

  His heart raced for a moment, issues of witchcraft briefly considered.

  Only briefly.

  He was, after all, a man of measured disposition. The reason why, he supposed, he’d struggled so with his powerful response to Zelda. He wasn’t by nature capricious. He’d faced too many difficult choices in his life.

  But now strangely, in this same room, in the same house where he’d always felt the weight of responsibility, his burdens had miraculously lifted. He no longer despaired that he’d sold his future at great cost. He felt instead, a pleasant triumph, as though he were in possession of the field, the battle won.

  As though he’d reached safe shores.

  An impractical whimsy, of course.

  But whimsy or not, real or not, it felt good—like a fresh wind of freedom.

  Smiling to himself, he took pleasure in that newfound sense of freedom, however fanciful, delighted in the sweet illusion, gave a grateful nod to accident or fate or Lady Luck—whichever had sent the ravishing Miss MacKenzie his way.

  Now he must find some way to keep her. For however long he could. She’d fuss, of course—a pale word for her dissent, he knew. But he’d deal with that, too.

  Much later, with nothing resolved other than the inclusion, somehow, of Zelda in his life, his breathing slowed, his eyelids slowly shut, the challenging pressures he faced ceased to trouble him, and the Earl of Dalgliesh drifted off into a deep, unafflicted sleep for the first time in years.

  CHAPTER 19

  ALEC CAME AWAKE first. With morning, reality once again intruded, and with it, all the impossible strictures of his life. Swearing under his breath, he grimaced—all his liabilities preying on his fragile hopes. Then he glanced at the clock, viewed the time with surprise, and leaving Zelda sleeping, quietly vacated the bed.

  A moment later, he entered his dressing room. “’Morn-ing, Jenkins.” As usual, his valet was waiting for him with his morning coffee and the day’s first mail. “I’m afraid I’m late. Is the coffee still warm?”

  “Yes, sir. I had the chef send up a pot I could put on the grate. Your robe, sir.”

  Alec slipped his arms into the robe Jenkins held out and smiled. It was warm from the grate as well. “I hope the coffee’s black.”

  “Very, sir. I thought you might like it stronger than usual this morning.” A man of indeterminate age with the muscular, wrestler’s physique of his native Wales, Jenkins had valeted Alec since boyhood. With her son’s safety in mind, the dowager countess’s decision to hire Jenkins twenty-two years ago had factored heavily on Jenkins’ athleticism. “The first delivery, sir.” Jenkins held out Dalgliesh’s correspondence. “James said there are two telegrams of note.”

  Knotting the tie on his robe, Dalgliesh took the small stack from his valet and, without looking at it, inquired, “Did the information I requested arrive?”

  “Yes, sir. The countess left early this morning. John spoke to the maid who packed for the countess. Lord Mytton left as well.”

  Dalgliesh frowned faintly as he listened. “They’re being followed?”

  “Yes, sir. Six men. Just in case they’re needed. They’ll telegraph throughout the day, as you wished.”

  “I want to be informed discreetly when the telegrams arrive. Miss MacKenzie’s not to know.”

  “Naturally, sir.” As a pause developed—the earl momentarily preoccupied in thought—Jenkins said, “Your bath is prepared in the Adams’ suite. I could bring your coffee there.”

  Dalgliesh looked up, glanced at his bedroom door, at the clock, then back to Jenkins. “Why not.”

  “The maid will inform us if Miss MacKenzie wakes, sir.”

  Dalgliesh smiled. “Ever efficient, Jenkins. Thank you. Do we have a sweet pastry of some kind for the lady’s morning tea?”

  “Of course, sir,” Jenkins replied, looking pained.

  “Excellent. Thank you again.” Alec smiled at his invaluable valet who anticipated his every whim. Then he turned and strolled toward the hall door.

  “Will you be riding today?” Jenkins picked up a tray from the grate.

  “Probably.”

  “I thought as much. The weather is excellent. A light breeze from the west, sir, but clear and sunny.”

  WHEN ZELDA WOKE, Alec was dressed and sitting in a chair by the windows, a cup of coffee in one hand, a recently delivered telegram in the other.

  “Business?”

  He looked up and smiled. “Morning, dear. Yes, business. Nothing important.” He set aside his cup and the latest telegram from Knowles. “Would you like to bathe first or have breakfast?”

  “Are we expected downstairs?”

  “Not necessarily. Chris eats in the nursery if I’m busy.”

  “Will you be busy?”

  He laughed. “I just got dressed.”

  “I could help you undress.”

  “In that case, I’d be delighted.” He rose. “Let me have Jenkins deliver a message to the nursery. Should we say eleven for Chris’s lessons?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “It always is,” he said with a grin. “I’ll be right back. You need a bath, don’t you?” he said over his shoulder as he walked away. “I could help you with that.”

  “Ummm . . . how nice. Do hurry, darling.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  He turned and flicked his hand downward. “Does it look like I’m complaining?” His massive erection stretched the soft chamois of his riding pants.

  She felt the hot libidinous jolt down to her toes. “My God, Alec,” she breathed. “I’m going to die for want of you. I have no restraint—none at all. It’s terrifying.”

  “I, on the other hand, find it deeply gratifying.” He smiled, then put a finger to his lips. “Jenkins is tidying up next door.” Opening the dressing room door marginally, he issued a few brief instructions before shutting the door and turning back to her. “There now. We have two hours. Are you undressing me or am I?”

  Her bath was all she wished and more. Alec played lady’s maid with much more tenderness and considerably more pleasure. And when they left the bathroom, the water that had splashed over the sides of the large marble tub in the course of Zelda’s bath required a few words with Jenkins.

  “I’ll be right back, dear. Decide what y
ou’re going to wear and I’ll help you dress.”

  She smiled. “Really?”

  “Or do something else.” He grinned. “You decide. But that water needs taking care of,” he added, moving toward his dressing room door, clothed only in his underwear. He was too hot and wet to even think about dragging on tight chamois riding pants. And Zelda might change her mind about dressing in any event.

  His dressing room was empty, but he rang for Jenkins, and when his valet arrived, quickly explained the situation. “The bathroom’s a mess. There’s water an inch deep on the floor. If you’ll see that someone cleans it up, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Not a flicker of surprise greeted the news. Although, Crosstrees as an amorous retreat was unique.

  “I apologize for the flood in there,” Alec said, knowing as well as Jenkins how unusual the circumstances. “I’m afraid there might continue to be extra work for the staff with Miss MacKenzie visiting. I hope no one minds.”

  “I’m sure they don’t, sir. Miss MacKenzie has brought Crosstrees to life, if I may say so. The staff enjoys the change of routine.”

  Alec smiled. “You’re very kind, Jenkins. I’ll tell Miss MacKenzie that she’s appreciated not only by me but by everyone.”

  “Very good, sir. Would the lady wish for breakfast anytime soon?”

  Alec hesitated. Zelda’s sexual appetites took precedence. “Why don’t I ring when Miss MacKenzie’s ready for her breakfast. We have our appointment with Chris at eleven. Presumably she’ll eat before that.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell Baptiste.”

  Alec grinned. “Is he raging already?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “Perhaps his mother would like to come and visit him or take a trip somewhere. Rome perhaps. She’s religious, is she not? You could suggest a private railcar for her from Paris to Rome. Would that soothe Baptiste’s artistic temperament?”

  “I’ll mention it, sir.” He wasn’t so sure, with the deafening level of shouting and pot banging coming from the kitchen.

  “Better yet, just ask Baptiste what he wants to deal with what looks to become an irregular schedule. Miss MacKenzie is of rather a capricious nature,” Alec blandly said in lieu of the more prurient truth. “Breakfast is likely to be ad hoc. Luncheon slightly less uncertain, I suspect. And tell Baptiste, his sacrosanct dinner hour will be preserved save for, shall we say—some personal emergency.” The earl smiled faintly. “See that Baptiste is rewarded for his patience and understanding in whatever fashion he prefers. I can’t guarantee regular mealtimes for the foreseeable future. I’ll talk to Creiggy myself about the changes.”

  Both the words foreseeable future and Creiggy’s possible reaction to a reversal in the settled meal schedule, when repeated by an awestruck Jenkins on his return to the kitchen, served to fuel wild speculation. All the servants wondered what the earl’s intentions were apropos the beautiful Miss MacKenzie. And where they might lead.

  As it turned out that morning, Alec and Zelda barely made it out to the stables in time for Chris’s lesson. And a day that began with such unalloyed delight, continued in the same vein. The jumping lessons were both instructive and playful. Baptiste had been mollified with an expensive trip for his mother to Rome and had shown his appreciation by serving many of Alec’s favorite dishes for lunch as well as several more appropriate to a lady’s palate.

  After lunch, Alec, Zelda, and Chris rode to a hamlet on Alec’s estate that was as well cared for and attractive as that on Groveland lands. They partook of cookies and cider, sweet cider for Chris, hard for the adults, and on their return to Crosstrees, Alec saw to it that Zelda was accorded the nap time she’d requested. In which no one actually napped.

  Katy had supplemented Zelda’s wardrobe with a tailored day dress in dark silk bouclé as well as an evening gown in cream satin that set off Zelda’s flaming hair beautifully. Dinner was lighthearted and convivial, the conversation quick-witted and merry. Embraced in the bosom of the small family—welcomed and made to feel at home, Zelda felt an undiluted joy. She even allowed herself to indulge in the fond illusion that Alec and Chris were hers; pure fantasy, of course. But she was deep in love; allowances must be made.

  Very late that night, with Zelda at last sated and sleeping in his arms, Dalgliesh engaged in reflection of his own. Although his had nothing to do with fantasy. He was rearranging his schedule. No longer dégagé about Zelda, no longer considering her a temporary amusement, he was averse to her leaving him. He wouldn’t go so far as to contemplate the word love. Coming from his background, perhaps he could be excused.

  But he was keeping her.

  And the necessary logistics required some planning.

  A woman like Zelda wasn’t looking for a protector, nor did she deserve to be treated as though she was. She’d object to his plans, of course; he didn’t relish the impending argument. Although any other woman he knew would greet his proposal with squeals of delight. Then there was her family. They, too, would take strong exception.

  But he wouldn’t be deterred.

  And if one plan didn’t work out, there was plan B. And if that didn’t work out, there was always the rest of the alphabet.

  He was determined.

  CHAPTER 20

  MONDAY MORNING AT breakfast, a servant delivered a note to the earl. Setting down his coffee cup, Alec took the envelope from the footman and glanced at the coat of arms gracing the top-left corner “Groveland,” he said to the table at large and, taking out the enclosure, quickly scanned it before looking up. “Company for lunch. I forgot I’d invited them.”

  “Oh dear,” Zelda murmured. She’d forgotten, too. Any number of embarrassments could be in store.

  “It’s strictly informal, darling,” Alec said to mitigate her obvious alarm. “They’re bringing the children. And you know everyone. I doubt they’ll stay long.”

  “Chris will enjoy seeing the children,” Creiggy interposed, thinking if Alec had invited children to his house for the first time in his life, there was no reason not to facilitate the miracle. “Chris, you can show little Monty your puppies. I’ll see that we have plenty of nursemaids on hand for all the wee ones and food for the childers.”

  “There, darling,” Alec said. “Everything’s taken care of. Thank you, Creiggy. Do you need us to do anything?”

  “Be on the drive to greet them,” she said, giving her employer a hard look.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alec said with a grin.

  “Just see that you are. No excuses.” And everyone, save Chris, knew to what she was alluding.

  The adults rode over, along with Monty and Celia, who sat perched in front of their fathers. The younger children and their nursemaids were driven over in a carriage, and after everyone dismounted and the carriage emptied, greetings were exchanged. Then all were invited in. Oz carried Celia, Monty roosted on Fitz’s shoulders, both children talkative, inquisitive, and clearly indulged by their fathers, who replied to their questions easily and with endless patience as the party proceeded to the dining room.

  Baptiste and his army of subordinates had, on Creiggy’s orders, outdone themselves in offering children’s fare in colorful display: macaroni formed into rabbit shapes with olives for eyes; buttered bread cut into star shapes and spread with pâté or jam; cheese balls piled high into a pyramid topped with a spray of succulent red grapes; huge strawberries from the hothouse; rice pudding with raisin faces; little decorated cakes in every color of the rainbow. Meanwhile, the adults partook of a tour de force of haute cuisine from Dalgliesh’s masterful chef, who was beside himself with joy at the prospect of an actual luncheon party in the house. The earl never entertained.

  It was a noisy gathering with the children, adults, and even the nursemaids seated at the table. The parents were immune to the raucousness. They all subscribed to a hands-on approach to parenting, unlike many in the aristocracy, who preferred their offspring remain in the nursery until such a time as they were capable of maki
ng intelligent conversation.

  Zelda found herself not at all embarrassed, instead delighted in the circus atmosphere. It reminded her of past mealtimes at home with all the children talking at once. Although, the babies particularly drew her attention—Oz’s Raj in his mother’s lap, dark like his father, plump and happy, even at three months riveted by the activity around him. Jamie’s boy, Davey, was walking at ten months and a handful even for his father, who was trying to keep him from crawling up on the table to get a closer look at the spectacular pyramid of cheese. Fitz’s Sibyl had her mother’s coloring, and while only a month older than Davey, sat quietly next to Rosalind in a high chair and daintily ate her bread and jam without smearing her fingers or face. A meticulous child, Zelda thought, smiling faintly; she’d find the world more messy than she’d like. Although with competent parents like hers, she’d likely have the talent to fix whatever needed fixing.

  Meanwhile, the two toddlers, Monty and Celia, were chattering like magpies to Chris, who, beaming, was serving as their youthful authority.

  Dalgliesh observed the alien scene with good-natured complacency, his arm laid along the top of Zelda’s chair, his fingertips idly brushing her shoulder from time to time. He was pleased that she was enjoying herself, that he could do this for her.

  At his direction, she’d been placed beside him. He liked her near—liked the scent of her, the lingering warmth from her body, the knowledge that she was his. Not that he’d discussed his proprietary instincts with her. Nor would he.

  Oz’s daughter, Celia, sat on her father’s lap while she ate. An incongruous sight, any of his former companions in vice would have reflected. But Oz wasn’t only a fond father but a fond husband as well, his attention to Isolde who sat beside him one of undisguised affection. Raj had fallen asleep like babies do—his eyelids fluttering once, twice before he’d abruptly dozed off.