by Shirl Henke
Certainly Lady Oberly would not approve of “political females.” But she was the perfect woman for a man in his position, he reminded himself. Did it matter if bills pending in Parliament held no interest for her? Her first commitment was to home and family. She would be a fine wife and mother, just as his own mother had been. Then the scene with young Elgin last evening intruded. The baroness had tried to conceal her distress when her only child did what he and his sisters had always done—reach out for their mother, who always picked them up. Abigail St. John did not care if they damaged her dress. Of course, his mother never had the money to afford nursemaids, being the wife of a priest in a modest country parish. But then, she did not have many dresses, either.
The invidious comparison bothered him. Should he court Lady Oberly? He wanted a loving wife and mother for his children, but he also wanted a companion who shared his interest in bettering the world. Fantasia was not only witty but well read, as radical a reformer as he had ever thought to be. You could marry her no sooner than you could wed Gaby, fool! As if either one would consider such a misalliance.
He stared through the rain-spattered window glass just as the sun broke through the clouds, unable to forget Fantasia’s face, with its wide golden eyes and delicately arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and lush mouth. “Damnation, admit it, you want to taste that mouth, not hear it speak,” he muttered to himself. Saying the words aloud made him feel even more disloyal to Gabrielle than he already felt.
Fantasia was an infamous courtesan cloaked in mystery. At first he had convinced himself that he simply enjoyed verbal sparring with her, nothing more. After they survived death together, she had revealed her incredibly lovely face. At that moment he knew he had been deceiving himself. He desired her. When he made the decision to have a courtesan teach him how to become a good lover, he had never imagined that he would fall under the spell of not only his teacher, but her mentor!
The tall case clock struck the hour. The sun was sinking through the branches of the oaks outside. He had an appointment with Gabrielle at midnight. Did he wish to make love to her…or to Fantasia? Would the madam want him in her bed? Although he possessed great self-confidence in the political arena, Rob was not a vain man. She enjoyed conversing with him and had gone out of her way to find occasions for them to meet. They had much in common, unlikely as that would have seemed to him before he became acquainted with her. But that did not mean she returned his ardor.
To find out, he must pay her an early visit before he met Gaby in the darkness again…if he met her. She had already taught him more than enough to satisfy a lady. Yet the thought of saying good-bye to Gaby pained his heart. Was he going mad? He was torn between two women of the demimonde and disillusioned with the very lady for whom he had sought their help in the first place!
By the time Rob reached the House of Dreams, dusk was gently blanketing Alpha Road in a cool, spring haze. After Frog drove around to the rear entrance, the earl climbed down from the carriage and started walking toward the door. Some activity was going on in the surrounding woods. He could see the flicker of torchlights and hear voices, even the clang of swords, for heaven’s sake. Some rich man playing out his fantasy?
A scant few weeks ago he would have condemned such activity as immoral, or at least, foolish. Now he simply shrugged. Gaby’s relaxed French attitude had mellowed him. Forget Gaby. What are you going to say to Fantasia?
When he was admitted, the footman nodded discreetly at his request to speak with her. Shortly a carrot-topped serving girl led him upstairs into the sitting room. “The mistress will be along shortly, sir,” she said, bobbing a shy curtsy and scurrying away before he could thank her.
Rob looked around at the pale cream walls and rich green carpet, touched the smooth simplicity of the walnut furniture. No drawing room in London was more elegant or tasteful. Like the lady herself. He compared this room to the pink clutter of Verity’s home, then dismissed the thought as inappropriate.
Think about what you will say to explain your untimely arrival. Vexed because nothing came to mind, he suddenly seized upon his early morning conversation with Cobbett. At least that would provide an opening. Then what?
Bonnie knew that her mistress had never before taken a patron to her bed. She approached Lady Fantasia in the library, not certain that she had done the proper thing by admitting him to her private quarters. But she dared not turn him away. “That fine-lookin’ gentleman’s here, askin’ to see you, m’lady.” Her face flamed as red as her hair. “I put him in yer sittin’ room,” she said. “Is—is that all right?”
Amber almost overturned the inkwell, which would have spilled all over her bookkeeping ledger. Carefully righting the inkwell, she laid aside her pen after dropping a blob of ink over the neat columns of figures. “Oh, of course, Bonnie. Did he say why he’s here?”
When Bonnie shook her head, Amber dismissed the maid, instructing her, “Please see if Jenette requires any help.”
She toyed with the idea of concealing her face from him, but dismissed it. He would surmise that she was afraid of him and she could not allow him that advantage. Besides, he had seen her face in bright daylight and given no hint that he knew she was Gabrielle. She smoothed her gown, then walked down the hallway. As she reached the door to her sitting room, she paused with her hand on the cool brass knob.
Turn it, you lackwit! With as regal an air as she could muster, she plastered a smile on her face and opened the door silently. She had caught him unaware, studying the Turner landscape on the far wall. He was so splendidly handsome her heart stuttered in her breast. His black kerseymere breeches and cutaway jacket were expertly tailored to fit his tall, lean frame. The snowy cravat at his throat contrasted with his swarthy complexion. Night-dark hair waved around his face, in disarray, as if he had been combing his fingers through it.
When she glided into the room, he turned and fixed her with those dark green eyes. Sparks seemed to shoot between them as she met his gaze. With a hitch in her breathing, she said, “Good evening, m’lord.”
Rob had been startled by her cultivated, musical voice interrupting his reverie. Staring at her body swathed in sheer gold silk proved his undoing. The fabric clung to her hips and molded around her breasts. Its low neckline revealed wickedly soft cleavage where a lone topaz pendant nestled. “I see you have forsaken hiding your face from me,” he commented boldly as he advanced a step toward her.
Amber stood rooted to the floor, her gold eyes answering the heat in his green ones. What would she do if he kissed her? He would know. I must break this spell! She decided upon a direct attack, asking, “Why are you here so long before your lesson with Gaby?” He stopped, his complexion darkening just as it had done at his first halting attempt to explain why he had come to the House of Dreams.
Rob cursed silently. What had he almost done! “I, er, I wanted to inform you that Mr. Cobbett has taken your warning to heart. He and his eldest son sail with tomorrow’s tide,” he blurted out.
She tilted her head. “Excellent. Sidmouth will not—”
Before she could complete the sentence, Bonnie burst through the partially closed door, wringing her hands, a look of wild alarm on her freckled face. “M’lady, come quick! Robin Hood has sliced open the Sheriff of Nottingham’s bum! There be blood everywhere!”
What else could go awry this night? No, she dared not tempt the Fates by asking that. “Tell Jenette that I will be there immediately,” she instructed the maid, who ran from the room, so upset by the sight of blood that she forgot to curtsy. From the corner of her eye, Amber saw Rob take a step toward the door. “Please remain here, m’lord. Have a glass of brandy—or an entire bottle for all I care—but do not leave this room.”
Before he could respond, she seized a shawl hanging on a wall peg and rushed out the door. Rob decided he was not thirsty…but he was curious. Something must have gone dangerously wrong at the revels in the backyard. “Robin has cut up the Sheriff of Nottingham, eh?” he murmured to h
imself with a chuckle. His amusement was cut short when she ducked her head through the partially closed door. She had draped the wrap over her hair and face for concealment.
She quickly commanded, “What I said was not a suggestion, but an order, sir.”
Rob stepped closer to the door. “But I have battlefield experience. I may—”
“Sit!” With that she vanished down the hall.
“I am not a dog,” he muttered, slipping out the door. Even in the army, he’d never been good at following orders. He was careful to stay well behind her lest she catch him being insubordinate. The wooded area behind the house was lit by a series of torches, positioned among the budding oaks and hawthorns. Rob made his way down the twisting path in the gathering twilight. As he neared the scene, he ducked behind a large yew hedge to watch. The “players” were all dressed in medieval costumes, some as lords and ladies, most in forest green.
A man writhed on the ground, groaning and crying out, “’E’s sliced off ’alf me arse! I be bleedin’ to death!” A short, plump man in green tights that ill flattered his spindly legs brandished a sword over his prostrate victim. “You degraded poltroon, most fortunate are you that I administer so light a chastisement to one who dared lay hands on the fairest blossom of Sherwood Forest,” he declaimed grandly, as he gathered a stunned young woman to his side with his free arm. Pointing the blade at the downed sheriff, he asked her, “Art thou unharmed, dearest Maid Marian?”
Rob stifled a guffaw. Although he did not recognize the Sheriff of Nottingham or Maid Marian, he knew the wouldbe Robin Hood, a wealthy merchant who held a seat in Commons. It would be best if the merchant never learned he had a fellow member of Parliament witness his fantasy.
Apparently Fantasia felt the same, for she and Bonnie knelt quietly at the side of the injured sheriff, attempting to ascertain the damage without interrupting the action.
As a distraction, a tall slender figure wearing a scarlet jerkin and tights cried out in a throaty French accent, “My lord Robin of the Hood, we must depart hence before the sheriff’s villains descend upon us.” Startled by the intrusion, Lord Robin whirled around, sword raised, while he still clutched the woman at his opposite side, he accidentally sheared off the top of a ridiculous feather on his compatriot’s cap. Had not “Will Scarlett” ducked quickly, he would have been beheaded by Robin’s clumsy victory flourish.
The red-clad figure danced back as Maid Marian seized her hero’s arm, directing his weapon downward. “Oh, my darling Robin, you have saved me from a dreadful fate and suffered many a bruise to do so. Come with me and I will kiss each of those precious aches away.”
The adoring female caught Robin’s attention immediately. Will Scarlett nodded encouragement to her as she kept one eye on Robin’s sword, the other on Fantasia and Bonnie as they attempted to deal with the thrashing victim.
“Yea, away we go!” the peerless leader said, now ignoring his adversary on the ground as he was herded farther into the trees by Marian. Rob could hear her cooing, “Yes, my love, I will worship every bruise you have received on my behalf…I will kiss them ever so slooowly.” She drew out the last word in a breathless whisper that carried on the night air.
“Ooh, please kiss my bruises—every one—ever so slooowly. Oh, my, that would be the cow’s thumb!” Robin replied excitedly. Will Scarlett followed them into the darkness after relieving Robin of the wayward blade. The legendary hero handed it over without protest, too absorbed in having his bruises thus tended.
Rob doubled up trying to stifle his laughter. This is more entertaining than an evening at Covent Garden!
“Ralph, do lie still so we may see how badly you’re hurt,” Fantasia said to the fallen sheriff, who continued to thrash.
“Do like m’lady says, Ralphie. I seen me brothers’ bums aplenty. Yers is no different,” Bonnie scolded, trying to pry his hand away from his injury.
Will Scarlett returned to the scene, sword in hand. He gave the moaning man a swift kick in his good buttock with the toe of his boot, saying, “Lady Fantasia, this blubbering dolt has only been nicked.” Bending over, Will slapped the sheriff’s hand away so Bonnie and her mistress could see the wound. “Such a huge bebe,” he scoffed.
Upon closer inspection, Rob could see that the legs in those tights were most certainly feminine. The voice, although a low timbre, belonged to a woman as well, obviously a French woman, but not his Gaby. Gabrielle…what am I going to do tonight? Momentarily distracted, he barely listened when the red-clad female called out, “Corporal, where are you?”
Rob blinked as a brawny youth stepped from behind a tree. It was the guard from the front gate whom he had ordered to summon Fantasia the day he thought Gaby was ill. Like the others, he, too, was dressed in medieval costume. He said, “I were afraid to stop the play, Lady Jenette. The patron—he was enjoyin’ it so much.”
“You did well, Corporal,” Fantasia said, rising and dusting off her silk skirt, now satisfied that the wound was minor in spite of the blood. “Please assist Ralph indoors and take him to the housekeeper. She will stitch him up.”
Ralph started to protest, “No, no woman ain’t…” Fantasia’s quelling glare silenced him. The corporal helped him stand and walk while he clutched his rump once more. All the other characters in the farce melted away in various directions.
Fantasia turned to the woman Rob had heard her call Jenette. “I am so relieved that you are not harmed, Jeni. How on earth did our patron get an edged weapon? The ones we rent from Drury Lane are dulled with guards on the tips.”
The Frenchwoman pulled the cap from her head, spilling dark blonde hair about her shoulders. She inspected the remaining half of the feather. “This was no actor’s property, but Boxer would not allow a mere female to be in charge of weapons,” she huffed, then added, “I did not cheat Madame Guillotine in France to be beheaded in England. Blame your human mastiff.”
“This would appear to be an unfortunate week for him,” Fantasia said with a sigh. She turned to a worried Bonnie and said, “Please find Mr. Boxer and ask him to come to my office immediately.”
As the maid bobbed a curtsy and left, Fantasia said to the Frenchwoman, “Jeni, would you see that our patron is…ah, being well soothed?”
The blonde threw back her head and gave a deep laugh. “Cherie, would you have me observe his bruises being kissed ever so slooowly? No, ma coeur, that is certainly not my fantasy!”
Rob stepped from behind the hedge and leaned against an elm trunk, unable to stifle his laughter at Jeni’s bon mot. “Nor would it be mine,” he said to Fantasia.
Amber saw Rob and froze. “I told you to remain in my office.”
“Ah, I see you will not be left alone, so I take my leave,” Jenette said with a mock bow, skipping quickly away.
“Jeni, come back here at once,” Amber cried.
“Only remember, cherie, ‘ever so slooowly.’ Au revoir.” Her laughter faded rapidly.
Amber turned her fierce glare from her retreating friend to the earl, who approached, still laughing at the mad scenario he had just witnessed. “I imagine the poor Mr. Boxer’s rump will be as well chewed as my own,” he said.
Amber was furious. He had disobeyed her order and seen one of the fantasies turn into a humiliating disaster. More distressingly, his tall body looming over her in the torchlight did strange things to her heart. Backing up a step, she asked sweetly, “Did our near tragedy here provide sufficient amusement? We must be more entertaining than a carriage wreck, m’lord.”
Remembering the cleanly sliced feather on the nimble Frenchwoman’s hat, Rob quickly realized that this could have indeed turned into a tragedy. “I intended no insult. Please, do not be angry. I’m truly sorry, but the scene was just so…well…unexpected. Robin of the Hood was certainly caught up being Maid Marian’s hero.”
Amber’s anger died as she considered how the fat little merchant had looked in bright green hose and jerkin. Her lips twitched. “I suppose it was a bit amusing.”<
br />
“Yes, but Lord Robin would be better suited for the role of Friar Tuck.”
Amber chuckled and shook her head. “Our patrons usually wish to win the fair maiden, so being a monk would not serve.”
“I can understand why being Robin would be preferable.” He stepped closer to her. “After all, Mr. McGilvey’s bruises are now being ‘ever so slooowly’ kissed away by the beauteous Maid Marian.”
She was acutely aware of his nearness. The tension between them was palpable on the heavy night air. Sounds of soft laughter echoed in the distant woods, adding to the sensual allure. His eyes met hers and he held her gaze, mesmerizing her, rooting her to the ground. They were completely alone…and he knew the patron! The thought quickly jarred her out of the trance.
“Upon your honor as a gentleman, m’lord, please promise that you will never reveal his presence here or breathe a word about what occurred tonight.” She was quite certain he would never do such a thing, but exacting the pledge allowed her time to collect her scattered wits.
Rob realized that she had deliberately broken the spell cast between them. He was Gabrielle’s patron. She was the Lady Fantasia, mysterious and untouchable. “Of course you have my word,” he replied stiffly, offering her his arm. “After all, who am I to intrude into another’s dream?”
She rested her fingertips lightly on his arm and they walked. But with her other hand she once more held the wrap across her face. Now she required a diversion. “This is, indeed, the House of Dreams, m’lord. But not all of the dreams are amatory. A few seek to heal the wounds inflicted by reality.”
Rob’s flash of anger was replaced by curiosity. “Without jeopardizing the identity of a patron, could you explain that?”
She lowered the shawl and gave him a genuine smile. “Yes, I believe I can do so. There is a young woman in residence here whose indifferent father died, leaving her to the mercy of a greedy cousin who possesses none. As luck would have it, I was approached by a wealthy man of middle years, a widower still grieving for his long-dead daughter, a girl who would be about Lorna’s age. I am fulfilling a dream for both of them.”