Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  “Randall, I promise I won’t step a foot past the hall if you let me in and tell Mrs. St. Ange I’m here.”

  Still, the man hesitated. He knew his job well, but did he have to do it so superbly when it involved Michael, who’d found him the damnable job?

  “Look here, old boy, I am confident she’ll be happy to see me if you let her know I’m here.” Michael wasn’t confident at all, and this could be an occasion of great humiliation.

  The butler sighed, then stepped aside.

  Immediately, unthinkingly, Michael started for the parlor.

  “My lord,” Mr. Randall intoned, “you promised. I must insist you wait here while I let her know.”

  Chastised by the butler!

  The problem was the port decanter was in the parlor or in the drawing room. He didn’t remember which.

  “I’m very thirsty, Randall. Would you be so good as to bring me a glass of port, unless you have any French pleasure?” Maybe, knowing he liked brandy, Mrs. St. Ange had bought some. “If you do, I’ll wait right here.”

  “That’s highly irregular, my lord.”

  At that moment, one of her maids appeared, a duster in one hand. Stopping short at seeing him when she was supposed to be invisible to guests, especially while holding an instrument of cleaning in her hand, she tucked the feathered wand behind her back and looked to Mr. Randall.

  “Rachel,” he hissed, “you should use the back stairs.” The unfortunate girl turned to flee. “Wait,” the butler halted her. “Since you’re here, fetch Lord Alder a glass of port while I speak with our mistress.”

  Expecting all to be done as he’d commanded, Mr. Randall went steadily up the main stairs, neither hurrying nor dallying.

  Michael admired his aplomb. Undoubtedly, it had bothered the man to no end even to permit anyone entrance after his mistress had retired upstairs.

  In very short order, the maid returned with a generous pour of port. He hoped no one taught her in the near future how to dispense for a guest because this was precisely the plentiful amount he enjoyed.

  Feeling a little strange loitering in the foyer drinking alone, nevertheless, he would stand by his word and remain where he was. Glancing up the main staircase of the home that was extremely similar in layout to Elizabeth’s a mere two doors down, he could well imagine Ada Kathryn’s bedroom. At least, he could guess its location above. However, he didn’t yet know her tastes enough to imagine her bed. Wood or iron? Lacey hangings or a damask pattern?

  In a few minutes, with his drink nearly gone, Michael was now leaning against the front door and had practically designed her bedroom in his mind. What’s more, he could easily picture her stretched out upon a counterpane of ruby satin. He was wondering whether it would be worth the wrath of Mr. Randall to breach the sanctity of the upper floor and see for himself what her room looked like when he heard footsteps.

  Looking up the staircase, Michael saw her. Despite the ten minutes she’d had to prepare for him, she looked a far cry from her theatre-going attire. Her hair was up, but in a haphazard manner. She wore a plain gown of midnight blue cotton, probably soft and comfortable, and for some reason, her basquine, her skirts, and even her sleeves appeared wet. Despite it all, she looked beautiful.

  Taking the stairs at a quick pace rather than an elegant descent, in a moment, Mrs. St. Ange was before him, her eyes flashing.

  “Lord Alder. How positively surprising!”

  Her tone left no doubt as to her displeasure. Luckily, the port had warmed him against her frosty reception.

  “I half expected you to send your butler back downstairs to turn me away, especially after such a delay.”

  “How canny of you, for I nearly did. However, your appearance here, uninvited as it is, made me think there was some matter of importance you wished to tell me. Why else would you break the rules of a civil society? I came down as soon as I could.”

  She flapped her arms around, and he assumed she was attempting to dry her sleeves. Yet, her movements also brought attention to the dampness of the front of her gown.

  “What on earth were you doing up there?”

  She glared at him as if he were a half-wit. “Bathing Harry, of course.”

  “Bathing Harry,” he repeated. He pondered a moment. “But you have a nanny. I’ve met her. Quite stout and capable-looking. Is she ill? Has she gone on holiday?”

  “Nanny Finn is putting my son to bed presently. I bathe Harry because I enjoy it. He is a little mischievous, of course, as all boys are.”

  She let her gaze linger on his empty glass. “And thus, I am slightly wet from his splashes. I don’t mind. We have a jolly time of it.”

  He shook his head. “Amazing.”

  Without being asked, she was leading the way into her drawing room. Over her shoulder, she said, “How so? A mother bathing her child. What of it?”

  “Oh, I’m certain you’re correct. All across England, indeed, let’s add Scotland, Wales, and Ireland to the mix. Throughout the British Isles, dear mamas are bathing their sons and daughters. I would wager, however, you are the only one in London with servants at your beck and call, particularly a nanny, who is yet doing the bathing herself.”

  She stared at him, frowning, perhaps considering if he were correct.

  Then she shrugged. “Would you pour me a drink?” And she gestured to the sideboard before plopping herself onto one of the sofas.

  “Of course. If you can turn your hands to wrinkly prunes for your boy’s amusement, I can stretch my elbows to pour you a drink. Port or port?”

  “Port, if you please,” she said, going along with his joke. Then she examined her hands, and he laughed.

  “I was only teasing” He poured her half what the maid had given him and then he poured himself another of equal measure. “Not a wrinkle in sight.”

  Sighing, she then stifled a yawn, apparently tired, her defenses down, or he doubted he’d be in her parlor.

  “Well, I don’t care what you say,” she stated. “I love Harry more than anyone on earth, and I take pleasure in watching him play. Why should Nanny Finn have all the enjoyment?”

  “I suppose it is not so different from when I used to groom my horse as a youth. We had stable hands, naturally, but I took pleasure in brushing my favorite mount.”

  Her mouth had fallen open slightly, but as she took her drink from him, she started to smile. He loved seeing her normally serious face looking relaxed and amused.

  “No, Lord Alder, my son and your horse are not in quite the same category, but I do believe you understand my meaning. I would have changed out of these damp clothes except you were uninvited, and, frankly, yet another change today before my nightclothes was unwelcome.

  He grinned at her, trying to picture what she wore to bed.

  As if reading his mind, she blushed, dipping her head to hide her face. In the next instant, having collected herself, she raised her gaze to his, sipped her drink, and straightened her shoulders.

  “Why did you come?”

  The cool lady of the house had returned.

  “It seems a tad impetuous now, but I am growing my family’s fortune by way of the stock exchange. I have met with some success, and I wanted to share the news with someone.”

  Seeing her nod, without any great interest, he decided to speak more frankly.

  “No, not with merely anyone. That would be a lie. With you. My first thought was to tell you.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “I see. And what about your family? Wouldn’t they like to know?”

  Feeling deflated by her lack of enthusiasm, he shrugged and tossed back his drink.

  “I’ll tell them soon enough, and yes, my father especially will be pleased.”

  After a moment’s pause, she raised her glass to him. “In that case, let us toast to your success. I am… happy for you.”

  Except she’d had trouble with the word happy. What a strange woman!

  “I suppose while we are telling each other our news,” she began, “I
should confess I had tea with Lady Cambrey the other day, and the topic of you arose.”

  “Really?” He would like to have been a fly upon the wall.

  “Naturally, she was surprised to see us together at the opera, given your…,” she trailed off. “Anyway, I did tell her you hadn’t treated her sister badly the way she thought.”

  Thinking of Jenny, he looked to the decanter a few feet away. How differently he would have led the past few years of his life if they’d married and begun a family. Imagining what might have been used to sting, rather like splitting open an old wound. What’s more, that path of thought usually led to a strong drink. And another.

  Strange to find, tonight, the missed opportunity of Jenny Blackwood didn’t torture him as it used to. Moreover, a third drink so quickly, especially in this lady’s presence, might be ill-advised.

  “And what did the countess say?” he asked.

  “Not much,” Mrs. St. Ange said. “She will ask Lady Lindsey to confirm your tale for she couldn’t give it credence out of hand, even coming from me.”

  Michael shrugged. “Not when you received the information from me.”

  She didn’t even look abashed when she said, “Precisely.”

  After all, he knew his own reputation as a rogue. Why would any of the fairer sex take him at his word?

  “Did she say anything else about me? Perhaps give you some advice?”

  Mrs. St. Ange glanced away from him. Now, she did look disconcerted. Clearly, their discussion about him had included the usual warning one lady gave to the other over his wicked ways.

  And yet, Ada Kathryn had come downstairs in her damp gown to see him and was presently looking at him with her big blue eyes.

  Impulsively, he crossed to where she sat and joined her. Without even thinking about it, he took her hand in his, simply wanting to touch her.

  “After the earful of poison she must have given you, I’m shocked you didn’t send Randall back downstairs to heave me to the pavement.”

  “Poison, you say, but not lies?” Her gaze was fixed on his.

  “Most likely the awful truth,” he admitted. “I haven’t hidden who I am or what I’ve done. So probably Lady Cambrey knows as well as anyone.”

  She nodded, looking neither impressed by his wickedness nor fearful. Instead, she simply looked enticing, with her disheveled tendrils falling all about her face and with her water-stained gown.

  Michael bent closer. He hadn’t planned on kissing her again so soon, but now it seemed inevitable. As soon as he’d directed his carriage toward her door, he’d intended for them to end up closeted together and kissing. He simply hadn’t known it until that moment.

  Breathing in her scent, he enjoyed her fragrance of fresh soap, no doubt from Harry’s bath. Her hair was already unkempt, so he didn’t have to worry about messing it up further. Rather, he could give in to his desire to slide his fingers into it and cradle her head while pulling her close.

  To his delight, she relaxed against him as soon as his lips touched hers.

  *

  When Ada had heard Lord Alder was in her foyer, she’d known they would end up kissing. It seemed unavoidable whenever they were alone. She’d not only come to expect it but to anticipate it with pleasure.

  She would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t enjoy kissing him tremendously, even though she knew she was doing it only to ensnare him.

  When his hands sunk into her hastily styled hair, shaking out pins and letting loose tendrils, she felt a quiver of excitement. As his tongue swept familiarly between her lips to taste her, she slipped her hands behind his neck, interlacing her fingers and holding on tightly.

  Every nerve in her body became alert. She could feel her stockings snug against her toes, and her basquine felt too small across her breasts. Where her thighs pressed together, she trembled against the urge to open them. Already feeling the heat at her apex, she closed her eyes and imagined Michael Alder touching her there, precisely in the spot where she was on fire.

  She moaned, and taking it as an invitation, he pressed her down the length of her sofa. Hovering over her, boldly, he palmed both her breasts, his thumb swiping across her nipples, before he continued his exploration. Resting on one arm, he reached down between them to her skirts, beginning to pull them up.

  Feeling the cooler air on her ankles and calves, her body clamored for him to continue. So strange, this treacherous longing that gripped her, considering how disagreeable the actual act was.

  Why was her body overheating, practically melting beneath his touch?

  She felt his hand under her gown, brushing her left knee and then tracing a path up her thigh.

  “Yes,” she hissed against his mouth.

  In another instant, his fingers would touch her womanly mound, thread through her curls, reach her core. She had vowed it would never happen again.

  Inside, her rational brain was trying to be heard. Remember, this is Lord Vile. He takes what he wants, without thought for the woman beneath him.

  “Ada,” he murmured against her neck, and she rejoiced in her given name upon his lips.

  She nearly whispered his name back to him, but then his fingers touched her most intimate place, silencing her.

  Clenching her fingers into the cloth of his jacket, she sucked gently on his probing tongue. And then, deftly, softly, he stroked her. She bucked under him.

  Her body was throbbing with need. Of course, she’d touched herself there before, but lying prone, having a man’s strong fingers playing over her as if she were a stringed instrument was entirely different.

  Ada couldn’t move, couldn’t stop him because the sensations were so overwhelmingly delicious. Pure pleasure. Wavering between holding her breath and breathing deeply, she didn’t even mind when he tugged at her bodice, exposing her breasts. His mouth left hers to kiss a path down to her décolletage.

  Eyes shut tight, head arched back, and with something deep inside her coiled and ready to spring, when Michael latched his lips upon one of her nipples, she cried out again, “Yes!”

  To the ministrations of his lips upon her flesh, he added his clever tongue. All the while, his fingers at her core moved rhythmically, a little faster, a little more intensely.

  She wriggled against him, not to stop him, only to help herself to a culmination that was just out of reach.

  And then as he fastened his teeth gently onto one of her nipples, he slipped a finger inside her slick channel, even as his thumb continued its sweet stroking of the bud between her legs.

  “Oohh,” she moaned as she felt the tension inside her reach its peak and then, wonder of wonders, release like a fast unraveling spiral.

  It was glorious!

  It was exhausting!

  As if she’d been on a journey far away, she felt herself return to her own drawing room, her own sofa. Opening her eyes, she looked down the length of her body at the same time as Lord Alder lifted his head from her breast to meet her gaze.

  Thankfully, he didn’t add to her immediate mortification with a smug expression. Perhaps he seemed a little pleased with himself, yet he had the good grace to quickly remove his hand from her private area and begin to sit up. At the same time, he drew her skirts down.

  Scrambling out from under him, breathing hard, she sat up. What in blue blazes had happened to her control? And, sweet mother of God, how had she gone so many years without such an exquisite sensation! The explicit book, Aristotle’s Masterpiece, had been right all along.

  Lord Alder remained silent, staring at her as if she were a specimen under a microscope. What was he thinking? She couldn’t ask him.

  She’d known she was in danger of going further than a kiss, but she’d never intended to be transported to such giddy heights. Gracious! She’d let him touch her. He’d even bitten her.

  Glancing down, she realized the bodice of her basquine still rode low, exposing one of her breasts and half the other. With a fierce yank, she pulled it up, at the same time, stan
ding and facing away from him.

  Her hands were shaking.

  What should she say?

  Why didn’t he speak?

  “That was…” Dammit! She couldn’t say it was unwanted or even unpleasant. Undoubtedly, he could tell by her body’s reactions how very pleasant and wanted it was.

  Yet it had been inappropriate. Entirely so.

  “You shouldn’t have,” she said finally, a lame half-hearted protest.

  He chuckled softly, and she whirled to face him.

  “Are you laughing at me?” She didn’t think she could bear to be the object of his humor. If it was the case, she would banish him forever from her life.

  “No,” he insisted, standing up and swiftly moving to take her in his arms.

  “I was thinking how you may be right. I should not have done that, for now my discomfort nearly matches your pleasure.”

  Frowning, she felt wooly headed. What was he saying?

  He took her hand and placed it on the fall of his pants, so she could feel… Oh dear! His manhood bulged against the fine wool fabric, hard as a stick.

  With her fingers against him, he groaned, and her gaze flew to his.

  “You must know what it does to a man, to see the woman he desires reach her fulfillment under his touch. And then not to have any release himself.”

  She should know. That is, if she’d truly been a wife.

  It seemed painful. Would he explode?

  “Will you be all right?” she asked.

  This brought another slight laugh from him. “Eventually, yes. Everything will, uh, calm down. Perhaps another drink,” he suggested.

  She supposed if they were true paramours, after she’d found her release, as he called it, then they would have done what they’d done in the gazebo and—

  Yes, she remembered his extreme pleasure that night. He’d groaned and shot his seed inside her. Glancing again at his pants, she realized another Harry was just on the other side of Lord Alder’s trousers, waiting to reach her womb.

  She could use a drink, too, something to dull the many conflicting thoughts and feelings.

  Silently, she poured them both a generous amount, but she couldn’t sit. At least not there, on the sofa where he’d only just…