Love Lessons at Midnight

by Shirl Henke

  They kissed hungrily as his hands splayed over the delicate curve of her back, caressing every tiny bone. Her nails dug into his shoulders as their hips met in an undulation as old as time. Wordlessly, he scooped her up and stepped over to the bed. When he bent over to lay her across it, she pulled him down with her, whispering, “Please, come inside me, my Rob. I need you. Now!”

  He was not alone in his need for the solace of blind passion. She had spent the day worrying about Jenette and Eastham—and how to stop her friend from undertaking such a deadly subterfuge. Hoping for a distraction, she had looked forward to the chess match that afternoon. Then when he sent his regrets, she worried that he might end both of his liaisons at the House of Dreams.

  Now he was here, his naked flesh pressed to hers.

  What more was there to ask for than this moment? Gabrielle gloried in it, guiding his hard staff into the wet heat of her body. She arched and gasped as he filled her, stretching her flesh, gliding in glorious friction. “Yes, Rob, yes,” she whispered hoarsely, locking her legs around his hips.

  They moved in a frenzy, the desperation each felt resounding in the other. He rolled onto his back and raised her upper body so that she could ride him the way they had accidentally discovered some time ago. His hands cupped her breasts, then glided down the curve of her tiny waist to cup her buttocks as they rose and fell while he thrust upward in counterpoint.

  Her fingernails clawed at the hardness of his chest, then raked through the springy hair covering flexing muscles. She tossed her head back, arching against the impossible pleasure of each stroke. “Slower, please…I do not wish to end this…”

  “Let me suckle you,” he whispered, holding her hips immobile, then resuming a much slower pace.

  She braced an arm on each side of his head and lowered her upper body so her breasts hung over his face, suspended like fruits ripe for plucking. His mouth was hot and sweet as he took one nipple, then the other, feasting on the hard points until she whimpered in pleasure.

  The sounds she made, tiny, indistinct mewls, sent the blood singing through his veins. He seized a fistful of her hair and guided her mouth to his for another soul-robbing kiss. Her tongue darted inside, bold and saucy for an instant, then coy and inviting as it retreated. He followed inside her mouth, twining his tongue with hers. Free of the restraint of his hands on her derriere, Gabrielle once again increased the pace, raising and lowering her hips, twisting and rolling as she felt the great onrush of culmination begin.

  “Come with me, my love,” she whispered raggedly into his mouth.

  “How could I not?” Rob rolled them over and plunged deeply, feeling the contractions of her velvety sheath drawing him to spill his seed. He let go of all the control he had schooled himself to learn over the past weeks. Assured that she would be with him in surfeit, he felt free to surge to the stars. He kissed her hard, pressing his body the full length of hers as the world exploded around them.

  Neither cared.

  He rolled over and brought her with him so she nestled across his chest. They lay, limp and panting. A light sheen of perspiration slicked their skin in the cool night air. Gabrielle glided her hand over the muscles of his shoulder, loving the hard, smoothness of his body. He was a horseman who spent hours outdoors. He had spoken about riding across fertile fields and working with breeding stock on his estate. Would he return to it and his family when the session of Parliament ended? Would the baroness pursue him?

  Those are not questions I have the right to ask.

  If he wished to speak more about his conflicting emotions regarding Lady Oberly, he would bring the matter up. If he did not…To keep herself from such troubling thoughts, she began nibbling kisses in the crisp hair on his chest while she caressed his face with her hand. When her lips grazed a hard male nipple and she tugged at it with her teeth, he let out a soft growl of pleasure.

  “You are an insatiable little minx, are you not, Gaby?” he asked in a husky voice.

  “Does this please you?” She could tell that her ardor pleased him mightily by the hardening of his staff as it pressed against her thigh.

  “I am here to please you, remember?”

  “Well…it would please me if we could begin all over again…only this time slowly, softly, like—”

  “Butterfly wings,” he whispered with a chuckle, brushing a soft kiss against her ear. Then he used the tip of his tongue to trace the outline of the small shell, sending shivers down her spine. “Yes, we can do this for as long as you wish, my darling Gaby.”

  “You know all…there is to know…all any woman…could ever want…ever imagine,” she gasped out between small hitches in her breathing as he laved her throat with his tongue and massaged her scalp with his fingertips. Then his hands roamed across her back, gently lifting the mass of her tangled hair away so that he could caress her dewy skin. He rolled them onto their sides and raised himself up over her to press kisses from her throat to her breasts, then down lower until he reached her navel. He devoted exquisite attention to it, making her writhe and arch.

  “I must taste like the salt block in Cook’s kitchen,” she murmured.

  “Did I ever tell you how much I enjoy salty delicacies?”

  He continued soft caresses, using his hands and his mouth, moving over every inch of her body, leaving her a quivering mass of pure bliss. While her body basked, her mind whirled. If only this could go on forever. If only they could close out the whole world and just be…suspended in time and space. But no, they had tonight.

  “Tonight, we have tonight. No one can take this from us,” he murmured.

  She had no idea that his thoughts so closely mirrored her own until he spoke. “Yes, tonight must be enough…” she whispered back, letting body overtake mind as she returned his kisses and caresses, marveling anew at the contrast between her soft body and his hard one, her smoothness and the abrasion of his body hair. Yet for all his strength, he cherished her body, fierce with passion, gentle with…

  Love?

  No, never love! He had said that they had tonight. Implicit in that was an eventual farewell. His duty was to leave. But not tonight. She wrapped her arms around him and held him fast, kissing him deeply. After a long while, they became one and rode again to the pinnacle together. Neither thought about the price of tomorrow.

  Rob left his mother beaming as one of the attendants assisted her up to the gallery in the House of Lords. Then he spent several minutes glancing over his notes before slipping them into his jacket. Several of his foes took their seats across from his, glowering at him and muttering none too softly about “lovers of rabble” and “disruption of the social order ordained by the Almighty.” He glanced nervously up to see if his mother had overheard them take the Lord’s name in vain, and was grateful that she had not.

  If only Lord Teesdale and his cronies minded their manners during the debate! If only sheep were not stupid! Engrossed in the opening arguments, he did not see a second lady come late and take the only remaining seat in the gallery, which happened to be next to Abigail. The second female was a widow, austerely garbed in black from head to toe, heavily veiled.

  Amber had read about the proposals put forth by Mr. Peel to reform the policing system—or lack thereof—in London. The mishmash of competing jurisdictions and bribery led to a thriving industry of thievery. The “flash houses,” as they were called, were not only refuges for cutthroats and street whores, but served as recruiting centers for children who learned to swill gin, pick pockets, and sell their bodies just to keep from starving. She wanted to listen to Rob’s proposals for stopping the abuse. But even more, she longed to see him move and hear his voice in the bright light of day.

  When Rob was recognized, he rose and began to speak. “We need a unified force immune from bribery, overseen by the governing authorities. Trained professional men must close down the flash houses. They are schools, not where the young learn to read and write, but where boys learn to steal and girls to sell themselves. How l
ong must this continue before we act?”

  As he elaborated the abuses and remedies with exacting and dramatic detail, Abigail leaned over and whispered in the widow’s ear, “I see you are as taken with the Earl of Barrington’s presentation as am I.”

  Amber looked at the elderly woman in the gray gown. Although of good quality, the day dress was utterly unadorned save for a small gold cross that hung suspended on a fragile chain. Her bonnet also was without feathers or any of the fallals so in fashion now. But her face was lively and kind. Grace, if she had been given the chance to be a country lady. Smiling at the whimsical thought, she replied, “He is quite a marvelous speaker, awake on every suit. That vile Lord Teesdale has yet to tangle the earl with words, and not for want of trying.”

  “Do you follow the debates often?” Abigail asked, warming to the young widow, who appeared quite well informed regarding political matters.

  “I subscribe to the Chronicle and the Times. Whenever I read that the Earl of Barrington will speak, I try to attend. We share a concern for aiding the poor, especially children. I greatly admire his keen intellect and strong moral compass.”

  “Have you ever met him, seeing that you have so much in common?” Abigail inquired.

  “No,” Amber replied, almost too quickly. We have far more in common than ever you could imagine. Even in disguise, she would never link herself to him in this place. “That is, although I would be honored, he is an earl and I but a poor widow.”

  Abigail patted her hand sweetly as Rob once more began to speak, rebutting yet another Tory lord’s diatribe about “the rabble.”

  As the afternoon wore on and the arguments on the floor became more heated, Abigail and Amber traded whispered commentaries on the fallacies of Tory social policy and the earl’s piercing wit in tearing them apart. When the session finally concluded, the two women rose and started to make their way from the gallery. Amber was prepared to thank the lady for her lively discourse, but her companion spoke first.

  “I have a confession I feel I must make, my dear.” When Amber cocked her head, Abigail whispered, “That handsome young rascal with the razor wit is my son.”

  Amber almost tumbled over the gallery railing to the floor below. “You are his m-mother?” she asked.

  Abigail smiled. “That is the usual way it works, I believe. And now,” she said, taking the widow’s arm, “I am going to introduce you.”

  Without appearing horribly rude and yanking her arm away, Amber could do nothing but allow the older woman to guide her downstairs. The Widow St. John was deceptively strong for such a birdlike little thing. “I really must go. Your son is surrounded by his political friends and I—”

  “Nonsense. He will be delighted to meet you. I am certain of it.” With that Abigail began wending her way through the press of much taller gentlemen, holding the delightful young widow’s arm firmly. If the baroness was as unsuitable as she suspected, this lady might be the perfect anecdote! How fortunate they had met.

  Rob saw his mother’s slight form appear. Members of Lords stepped aside, as if she were Moses parting the Red Sea. He smiled and walked over to greet her. That was when he saw the woman behind her. His mother had Fantasia’s arm in the kind of grip she had often employed to subdue unruly schoolchildren—even boys a head taller than she. He stopped dead in his tracks, his mind completely numb.

  A beaming Abigail St. John said, “You were brilliant, Robert!”

  He nodded woodenly, replying, “I hope I acquitted myself well, Mother.” Then he turned to Fantasia, who remained a prisoner of Abigail’s grip. “M’lady,” he said, bowing politely.

  “Oh, my, have you already met?” his mother asked with a puzzled frown.

  “Yes,” Rob replied

  “No,” Amber said at the same time.

  Now Abigail’s frown evaporated as she swiveled her glance from the flush stealing up her son’s face to the startled posture of the young lady. Whatever was afoot, it was obvious that the two were attracted to each other. Smiling once more, she said, “I was so eager to introduce the two of you that I neglected to learn your friend’s name. Robert, please introduce us.”

  Rob swallowed, trying to dislodge the knot forming at the back of his throat. “Lady Smithton,” he said.

  At that precise instant Amber blurted out, “Amber Leighigh.” Immediately horrified consternation struck her. What on earth had possessed her to give her maiden name? She had not uttered it in over a decade. Amber Leighigh Wolverton was dead and buried in Northumberland—and needed to stay that way! Recovering her wits, she said, “I had forgotten that we both attended one of the more frequented political salons.”

  Rob nodded. “Ah…yes. Lady Aberley’s.”

  At his hesitation, Amber again spoke too quickly, saying, “The Berry sisters.”

  Then in unison they said, “Both!”

  Now Abigail chuckled. “Well, there appears to be a bit of confusion here,” she said, arching one silvery eyebrow as she studied the darkening red beneath her son’s sun-darkened face. She was positive that if she could have seen the widow’s complexion, it would be flushed as well. An intriguing mystery…one that she intended to solve. “It does not matter where you have met, but I would prefer to know your name, my dear,” she said kindly to the agitated young widow.

  “I have used an assumed name at salons because I am newly widowed—it would not be proper for me to meet gentlemen outside of my immediate family…” Amber’s voice trailed away in abject embarrassment, which she hoped would satisfy the earl’s shrewd mother.

  “Smithton is a common name,” Rob chimed in awkwardly.

  Without giving either of them the chance for further prevarication, Abigail whispered to her son, “That dreadful Lord Teesdale is bearing down on you. You shall have to deal with him.” She patted his arm. “I know how crowded your schedule must be as the session draws to a close. Do attend your duties, only refrain from breaking Teesdale’s nose as you did the Harper boy when you were a lad.”

  Rob stood rooted to the floor as the Tory headed directly toward him with a sullen expression on his face. At the moment, the earl would have been relieved if Prime Minister Liverpool and Home Secretary Sidmouth had him carted off to Newgate—or better yet, he would be delighted to break Teesdale’s nose!

  Without paying her son the slightest mind, Abigail turned to the widow. “This is a beastly hot day. I have heard that a place called Gunter’s in Berkeley Square sells the most delicious ices in all of London. My dear, would it be too great an imposition to ask you to accompany me there?”

  Amber looked pleadingly to Rob, but Teesdale intruded, rudely ignoring her and Rob’s mother, demanding a meeting with members of Commons to discuss compromise legislation. “I should be delighted,” Amber managed to reply. “My carriage driver will be waiting in the courtyard.”

  “Splendid,” Abigail replied, nodding farewell to her son. She could see that he was distressed but she quickly hurried her young companion off before he could break free of Teesdale. She was relieved when he let them go without further protest.

  Once they were settled in the luxurious interior of the “poor widow’s” carriage, Abigail turned to her and said, “In spite of being perceived as a country bumpkin, I am a fair judge of character, my dear…Amber, is it?”

  Amber recognized the shrewd light in those blue eyes. Little escapes this woman’s attention. “Yes,” she said with a sigh. Perhaps a bit of the truth could be fashioned into a believable tale. “I have not used my true name for many years. My husband was brutal and I hold no fondness for his memory, nor would any of his family welcome me.”

  “Do you have children?” Abigail asked, concerned with the obvious pain in Amber’s voice.

  “No.”

  The terse reply spoke volumes. “No family of your own, either?”

  At this, Amber smiled inwardly and her voice softened. “No, although I have an abundance of friends who have become more dear to me than my own blood.”
/>   Abigail knew there was far more to Amber’s sad history but did not press. “It is a great blessing to have friends. I would like very much to be one.”

  “I would be honored, Mrs. St. John.”

  “Please, call me Abigail. I have spent my life in the country as a clergyman’s wife. I never imagined becoming the mother of an earl, until my brother-in-law and his two sons passed away.”

  Although Amber knew how keenly Rob felt the losses in his family, she could not reveal any knowledge of the tragedies. “It must have been very difficult for you and the earl.”

  “I am a woman of faith, child. One day we shall all be reunited. For now, I look forward to seeing my son settled in life. He is a good man, struggling with a fate he never expected to have thrust upon him.”

  “He has done extraordinarily well in Parliament,” Amber replied cautiously. Was Abigail matchmaking? What a tangle that would create—a parson’s widow confronting the proprietor of the ton’s most infamous house of courtesans! She had to divert the conversation in another direction, but before she could say anything more, her coach stopped under an oak tree across from Gunter’s shop.

  Boxer swung down from his seat next to the driver. He examined the busy street, paying particular attention to the carriages and closed coaches of other customers. In a moment an attentive waiter approached the coach.

  “Would you and Peter enjoy an ice, Sergeant Major?” Amber asked.

  “That would be most kind, m’lady,” the crusty older man replied while his eyes continued to scan the busy street.

  “Strawberry, correct?” she asked, knowing his preference.