Not Quite a Lady

by Loretta Chase

  To be loved.

  She felt his hands slide from her face, felt him start to pull away, and she wrapped her hands about his upper arms.

  Not yet, please, not yet.

  Only a little more, another moment. It had been so very long a time she’d done without this. She’d forgotten how sweet it could be, a kiss, merely a kiss. She’d forgotten how perfect the beginning could be, before everything turned cold and ugly.

  She held on and pressed her mouth to his.

  Come back. I’m not done.

  She coaxed him with all the sweetness she could find within her.

  She coaxed him with all the dreams she’d given up dreaming.

  She coaxed him with all the longing she’d stifled, all the wishes, all the loneliness.

  Ten years.

  It spilled out of her, as though an inner dam had broken.

  Ten years’ boredom, frustration, and anger.

  Ten years’ lying and evasion and manipulation.

  Ten years’ suppressed laughter, too.

  It spilled out of her, all of it.

  It was only a kiss, a mere kiss, but she kissed him with everything she had in her.

  And at last he kissed her back.

  He wrapped his arms about her and kissed her as though she were the only girl in the world and this was the last kiss in the world and all that was left in all the world was this kiss.

  Only this kiss, so sweet.

  …and wild.

  …and hot.

  …and devastating.

  Her knees buckled. Her mind went dark.

  The world shook and changed. Became unrecognizable.

  The taste of him poured into her and swept everything before it. She was lost, tumbling along like a twig in a torrent.

  She saw herself tumbling again, down to the ground, careless, laughing fool. Lost, lost, again.

  No.

  She couldn’t. Not again.

  She wrenched her mouth away. She planted her palms on his chest and pushed. He didn’t move but only regarded her through eyes narrowed to slits of molten gold. The big chest under her hands rose and fell, fast and hard.

  “You started it,” he said. His voice had dropped to a rumble. She felt it low in her belly.

  Her breath was short and she struggled to form words. “You started it,” she managed to say.

  “You didn’t stop it,” he said. “I was ready to, but you…” He trailed off. She watched a slow smile transform his face, making him more impossibly handsome than ever. “You know how to kiss. Well, well.”

  He was right on every count.

  She wanted to kick him for being right, and for what he’d done to her, so easily, oh, so easily.

  Ten years, and she was as great a fool as ever.

  She ought to kick herself.

  He shrugged and looked about him. His hat must have fallen off during the tussle. She watched him pick it up, brush off dirt and gravel with the back of his hand, and put it on, tipping it at a typically rakish angle.

  As though she needed the reminder. A rake. She knew he was a rake. She knew the consequences. She’d borne the consequences for ten long years.

  One kiss, and she’d surrendered.

  Another minute and he’d have had her on the ground, her skirts up and her legs spread, like all the rest of his strumpets.

  Yes, it was her own fault, but she couldn’t bear it: the knowing rake’s smile, the cool confidence—when she felt as though she, and the world she’d so carefully constructed over ten long years, had shattered to pieces.

  She snatched the hat from his head and struck him with it. She hit his upper arm, then his chest. Then she flung down his hat, kicked it, and stormed away.

  Darius remained where he was, waiting for his breathing to slow and his breeding organs to settle down.

  That kiss.

  He did not like to admit it, even to himself, but his legs were the slightest bit…wobbly.

  On account of a kiss. A mere kiss. Nothing more. He hadn’t put his mouth anywhere but on hers. He hadn’t put his hands on her breasts or between her legs. He hadn’t tried to unhook or unbutton or untie anything.

  He couldn’t. He’d had all he could do to keep up with her, with that kiss.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen, that kiss.

  He knew better.

  “Moron,” he said between his teeth. “Did you leave your brain in London?”

  He closed his eyes but opened them immediately again because the sight in his mind was too painful to contemplate. One insane act after another.

  He, a man of science, whom other men of science looked up to. He, who devoted himself to reason.

  Yet he’d panicked over her damaged dogcart, practically fainted with relief to find her unharmed, then whined to her about his father, of all things!

  “This is unacceptable,” he said. “This is…absurd.”

  He searched for his hat and found it eventually, under a shrub. He brushed off dirt and leaves. “Idiot,” he growled. “Numskull.”

  He shoved the hat onto his head. It was the celibacy, he tried to tell himself. A fortnight at least, perhaps as much as a month or even more since he’d last bedded a woman. He couldn’t remember when it was exactly, or who she was.

  Celibacy was the trouble.

  No, it wasn’t.

  The trouble was Lady Charlotte Hayward.

  The trouble was his inexperience with blue-blooded virgins. They were a species he did not understand and didn’t want to or need to understand. They were like…like an infectious fever. The only intelligent way to deal with them was to have nothing to do with them.

  “You know that,” he told himself. “You’ve always known that. Keep away. How difficult can it be?”

  By the time Charlotte reached the house, she had herself under complete control. She walked past the servants in the same calm and self-possessed way she usually did, and they did not betray by the smallest change of expression any reaction to her mangled coiffure and cap or the ragged hem of her dress trailing behind her.

  When Charlotte entered her bedchamber, Molly simply stared, her mouth open, while her wide brown gaze traveled from her mistress’s head down, then up, then down again.

  Before Molly could think of what to say, Lizzie came in. She, too, surveyed Charlotte more than once. “Did you have another accident?” she said.

  “I fell,” Charlotte said. “I caught my heel on the hem of my dress and tore it and tripped.”

  “Oh. I thought perhaps Belinda had stepped on you. Several times.” A pause, then, “I was told that Mr. Carsington was here.”

  “Oh, yes. He was.” Charlotte looked away from her stepmother’s too-keen gaze and addressed the maid: “I need a bath, Molly. The sooner the better.”

  “He’s downstairs, then?” Lizzie persisted.

  “No. He heard about the accident and came to inquire after us. Then he left. That is to say, he left after settling a dispute in the stables about treating Belinda’s wound.”

  Lizzie’s dark eyebrows went up. “A dispute? Is that what took you so long?”

  “I dared not leave,” Charlotte said, and that at least was the absolute truth. “Lizzie, Fewkes was horrible. Mr. Carsington said he was drunk. Thanks to Mr. Carsington, Fewkes lost the argument, but he was furious, and now I’m worried he’ll make the grooms or the horses suffer for it. Papa must be told as soon as he comes home.”

  As always, Lizzie understood what was important. “Of course, my love. But have your bath and leave it to me. I’ll tell your father.”

  She left then, and Molly went out to order Charlotte’s bath.

  Alone at last, Charlotte walked to the looking glass.

  It was worse, far worse, than she’d imagined, though she had painted a far from pretty picture in her mind.

  Her cap was filthy, some of the lace torn. Her face was as dirty as a London street urchin’s. Her hair hung down in clumps, with bits of hay stuck to it. One of her bodice hooks had
torn off, leaving a hole, and the ruffles were soiled and limp. Dirt and grease spotted bodice, sleeves, and skirt. The rows of flounces at the hem hung in tatters.

  It was too ridiculous. Even the sharp sting of shame could not withstand the ludicrous sight. She was a fool, yes, but…

  “Ye gods,” she whispered. “He kissed…that?” And then she began to laugh, helplessly.

  Sunday night 23 June

  When Colonel Morrell came home after a long evening at Eastham Hall, he found his manservant Kenning awaiting him as usual. The colonel’s faithful attendant was a small, wiry man of nearly forty with a head as round and hairless as a cannonball. He was not, in fact, completely bald. However, being perfectly neat and orderly, he could not abide straggling tufts of hair, and shaved it.

  It might be said that Kenning shaved his fellows mighty close as well, down to the minutest speck of information.

  Colonel Morrell gave the man his hat and gloves.

  “I hope you had an enjoyable evening, sir,” said Kenning.

  This was a good deal too much to hope, but his commander did not say so. He didn’t need to. Kenning had been with him since they were very young men. Their minds were as one. “His lordship’s gout is troubling him,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” said Kenning. Their minds being as one, he did not have to add that he was sorry because he thought his lordship’s gout did not trouble him nearly enough—to death, for instance.

  Colonel Morrell started up the stairs, his manservant following.

  “I heard that after church today, Mrs. Badgely was praising Mr. Carsington’s cure for her arthritis,” Kenning said.

  The colonel said nothing, merely absorbed this information as he usually did. Carsington was ingratiating himself with the neighborhood. Any reasonably intelligent man would ingratiate himself with Mrs. Badgely. She was disagreeable enough when she liked you.

  “Seems like he got a cure for everything,” Kenning said. “Including the trouble at Lithby Hall’s stables.”

  Colonel Morrell looked over his shoulder at the servant. “You’re not referring to the coachman?” he said.

  “Yes, sir. The one that took a fancy to the lady’s maid Molly, who sent him off with a flea in his ear.”

  “I recall very well,” said the colonel. “He’s been treating his wounded feelings with large doses of gin. He should have been sacked before they left London.”

  One would have thought the officious Mrs. Badgely would have called Lord Lithby’s attention to the problem. Since she hadn’t—or his lordship had ignored her as he usually did—the colonel would have to find a way to get rid of Fewkes before he killed the future Lady Eastham in a drunken accident.

  Bad enough she’d almost killed herself, driving on that abominable road of Carsington’s. Ladies had no business driving vehicles. They ought to be driven. But Lithby let his wife and daughter walk all over him.

  “Fewkes is gone now, sir,” Kenning said. “There was some wrangling at the stables Friday after the accident with the dogcart. Mr. Carsington stepped in. Fewkes didn’t like it and went off in a temper. Mr. Carsington told Lady Charlotte the man ought to be sacked and she told Lady Lithby and she told his lordship.”

  And now Carsington was the hero.

  It shouldn’t matter. He was merely a rake. Colonel Morrell had guessed as much, and his uncle had confirmed his suspicions. Everyone knew the average rake was interested in conquest, not marriage. A rake who did not want to get his head shot off might steal kisses or take certain liberties with a wellborn girl, but he’d do nothing that would force him to the altar. The average rake, then, ought not to be a worry, especially in Lady Charlotte’s case. She was remarkably astute about men.

  The colonel recalled what Lord Eastham had said: Them younger sons of Hargate’s have a knack for marrying fortunes.

  The wise officer never underestimates the enemy.

  Colonel Morrell had devoted much time and care to the challenge of winning Lady Charlotte. He wouldn’t lose her to a worthless libertine.

  He entered his bedroom. He thought the matter over as he undressed.

  As Kenning helped him into his dressing gown, the colonel said, “Fewkes was with them for a long time, I believe.”

  “More than twenty years,” said Kenning.

  “He’ll feel ill-used,” said the colonel. “He’ll want a sympathetic ear.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kenning. “And I’ve got two of ’em.”

  During his Monday morning meeting with his agent, Quested, Darius learned that Lady Lithby had hired plasterers, carpenters, plumbers, stonemasons, slaters, and the devil only knew who else.

  The devil knew, too, that it was necessary. The ornamental plasterwork in some places was crumbling, and on Sunday, a large section had fallen in his bedroom, narrowly missing Goodbody.

  Though the house had been sealed against intruding wildlife, someone had missed a leak in the kitchen scullery. Over the winter—or perhaps several winters—water had seeped in, rotting the floorboards in a corner of the room.

  The good news was, Beechwood had abundant timber and underwood that, according to Quested, would bring in a significant sum. Whether the profit would cover all of Lady Lithby’s “improvements” was another matter.

  But Darius could hardly tell her to stop. She had so far limited herself only to the most urgent repairs and refurbishments. It was up to him to find the funds.

  For the first time in his life.

  He’d had years of experience with country estates, at his father’s as well as his brother’s place in Derbyshire. But someone else always paid for Darius’s experiments and improvements. He’d never had to think about money.

  His ignorance about costs was perhaps the most humbling aspect of this devil’s bargain he’d made with his father.

  Not that Darius would ever admit it.

  He spent Tuesday and Wednesday searching the property for potential sources of income. This would have been easier could he have put Lady Charlotte completely out of his mind, but she plagued him, despite his staying far, far away from her.

  On Wednesday, he was riding to Altrincham to look over the local timber merchants when he met up with Colonel Morrell.

  They exchanged the usual civilities.

  “I was on my way to call upon you,” said the colonel. “I heard you had need of milk cows. I thought you would wish to know that Lattersley is selling his herd. It’s a good lot, a dozen in all. I should take them myself had I room or use for them.”

  This was the first Darius had heard of his needing milk cows. He would rather be hanged, however, than appear not to know anything this man knew.

  “A dozen?” said Darius. “Well, well.”

  “Not a moment too soon, I believe,” said Morrell with a thin smile. “Lady Charlotte is hard at work upon your dairy.”

  Darius could easily imagine what Lady Charlotte was hard at work doing to his dairy. Digging a viper pit, perhaps. Planting explosive devices.

  He was frantic to run to the dairy and make her stop whatever she was doing. He made himself look nonchalant, and said, “I’m much obliged to you for the information. I’ll send Purchase to see about those cows.”

  “A good man, your land steward,” said Morrell. “I was glad to see that your road improves daily.”

  Being a man of reason, Darius could not knock the colonel from his horse, jump down from his own, and pound the fellow senseless as he fantasized doing.

  No one—especially a dark and dashing war hero who was idling about waiting for his uncle to die and leave him a title and fortune—needed to tell Darius his road was a disgrace. A letter would come all too soon from Lord Hargate, who’d have more than enough to say on the subject.

  Since Morrell had said nothing overtly insulting, Darius had to answer calmly, “I wished to avoid any more accidents.”

  Morrell nodded wisely. “Naturally you would. Lady Charlotte was much distressed about the cob. But the wound is healing qu
ickly.”

  Had she confided her anxieties to Morrell? Had she wept over her horse with him? Had the great war hero comforted her? Not that Darius cared.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Darius said stiffly.

  “You’re a hero at the Lithby Hall stables, it seems,” said Morrell. “The coachman gave his notice before Lord Lithby could dismiss him. The rest of the stablemen are celebrating.” Another thin smile. “Rumor has it that Fewkes has been crossed in love. Men can be strangely unforgiving when that happens.”

  Was the fellow warning him off? Did he think Darius needed to be warned off or that the warning would set him all atremble?

  “I thought his trouble was spleen,” Darius said. “He could do with bleeding. And sobriety.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” said Morrell. “It is all servants’ gossip, at any rate. My valet Kenning is too talkative, I daresay, but he was my batman, and accustomed to using his eyes and ears. His information saved me a good deal of trouble on more than one occasion. But I keep you from your errand.”

  They took a rigidly polite leave of each other, and Darius rode on toward Altrincham for a while. Though he told himself not to let the obnoxious colonel make him uneasy, he could not shake off the image of Lady Charlotte doing mischief in his dairy.

  Never mind that the dairy was a ruin, its interior as gloomy as anything in Matthew Lewis’s The Monk or Mrs. Shelley’s Frankenstein.

  Darius waited until Morrell was out of sight before turning into a lane. There was more than one route back to Beechwood and no reason for Colonel Busybody to know Darius took it at a gallop.

  Cautiously Darius opened the dairy door. To his surprise, it opened smoothly and silently.

  The last time he’d looked in—shortly after he decided to move into Beechwood House—he’d promptly shut the sticky, creaking door and gone elsewhere. He would not require much in the way of milk, cream, butter, and cheese, he reasoned. He could easily buy these commodities. Many families, including great ones, did so. Lady Margaret must have bought hers, certainly, given the state of the dairy.

  What he’d found the first time he looked in was a dark, dank place, filled with broken furniture and other rubbish, and apparently untouched by human hands since sometime in the last century.