by Lynne Barron
“Er, no, my lord,” the man replied. “That is you appear to be quite alone.”
Henry lurched to sitting, his gaze sweeping over the rumpled bed. “Where is she?”
“Who, my lord?”
“Georgiana.”
“The lady who…er…stayed to dine with you last evening?”
“Who else?”
“One never knows,” Davenport replied, his lips twitching.
Bounding from the bed, Henry whipped his robe from the man’s extended arm and wrestled into it while moving across the room, dodging broken crockery, a nearly intact pheasant swimming in a stew of potatoes and gravy, and a knife that would surely have taken off two toes had he not hopped over it at the last possible moment.
Throwing open the door to the bathing room, he searched the dark interior.
“Bloody hell,” he bellowed, turning to face his shaking valet.
“My lord, if I might say—”
“Unless you are going to tell me the lady has removed to a guest chamber to bathe and dress, you’d be wise to keep silent.”
Davenport clamped his mouth closed.
Henry crossed his chamber and pulled the door open. “Critchley! Damn it man, where the hell are you?”
“My lord, is something awry?” Critchley stood just outside his chamber, a neatly stacked pile of clothing in his arms.
“Where is she?” he asked, eying the garments with relief.
“I believe Miss Buchanan departed during the night,” the butler replied, his feelings on the matter hidden beneath a mask of obeisance they both knew he could call forth and toss off at will.
Henry whipped off the uppermost garment, a yellow muslin dress dotted with pink blooms and bright green vines, and shook it in Critchley’s face. “Without her clothing?”
“It would appear so.” Damned if the man wasn’t smirking.
“And her servants?”
“She took them with her, of course.”
“Are you telling me Miss Buchanan wandered through the house to the servants’ quarters and out into the night dressed in one of my shirts and nothing else? And no one was the wiser? No one thought to stop her?”
“My apologies, my lord. I am afraid I am unable to comment upon Miss Buchanan’s mode of dress as I did not see her. And I wasn’t aware we were to watch the lady and put a halt to her departure,” the elderly man replied with an air of one sorely tried by his betters.
“Damn it, man,” Henry muttered, vexed without understanding the reason. How many times had he awaked to find a lady sprawled in the bed beside him only to wonder how in blazes he was to be rid of her?
“Might I speak, my lord?”
Henry whipped around at his valet’s timid question to find the man standing precisely where he’d left him, steaming cup still in hand.
“Are you intending to tell me something that might interest me at this precise moment?” he demanded. “Or simply implore me to drink my coffee and begin my morning toilette?”
“I had rather hoped I might do both, my lord.”
“Critchley, I will speak with you more on the matter after I’ve had my coffee.” Henry snatched Georgiana’s clothing form his arms, pulling the garments against his chest.
“I am all atwitter with anticipation.”
“Be gone,” Henry ordered, slamming the door in the servant’s face.
“If I might,” Davenport said from behind him, prompting Henry to turn to scowl at him.
His valet dropped his eyes to the clothing clutched against his chest and with a muttered curse Henry tossed the lot of it on the bed.
“I had the opportunity to converse with the lady’s…er…servants last evening over a game of cards,” Davenport said with equal parts trepidation and determination.
“And?”
“And her footman, the fair-haired one—”
“Brain.”
“Yes, so I gathered,” Davenport agreed. “Brain made mention of Miss Buchanan’s intention to return to London this morning.”
“Did he happen to mention where in the teeming city she resides?” Henry asked, torn between frustration and hope.
“Bedford Square.” Davenport smiled, showing off his crooked teeth.
“I’ll be damned,” he breathed, some foreign weight in his chest easing. “Well done, Davenport. Remind me to raise your wages. Anything else?”
“There was talk of the possibility of the lady’s having finally reached the end of what I gather has been a long and rather tedious journey. Mention was also made of a great mystery being solved and an eventual return to her native soil.”
“She intends to return to Scotland?” Good God, he’d never find her. There must be hundreds of Buchanans, thousands, tens of thousands, scattered across the land.
“We leave for London within the hour.”
“If I might, my lord—”
“Oh for bloody sake, what now?”
“I beg your pardon, but is your family not due to arrive shortly?”
“Hell.”
“Er…it might be wise to be here to greet them.”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, seeing a swift journey back to Town disappearing in a cloud of familial obligations, not the least of which was his duty to mourn his mother in proper fashion, never mind that he felt not the least bit mournful at her passing.
He knew he ought to be grief-stricken. Downhearted, at the very least.
He could not drum up the required hypocrisy to evince even that.
It hardly mattered as he doubted any member of his family, save Aunt Lucinda, would truly be mourning the woman who had manipulated, threatened and bullied them all for longer than he could remember.
Two hours later, Henry was proven right when his family arrived in a caravan of carriages and not one eye was wet but for Aunt Lucinda’s.
“Chased after the piece of muslin, did you?” Everett asked later that evening when the ladies had left the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, or whiskey and cheroots as the case may be.
“Leave off harassing Hastings,” his cousin Alice, Lady Piedmont ordered.
Alice had long ago adopted the habit of sneaking away from the ladies to join her father, brothers, uncles, and cousins for a cheroot and a brandy. Occasionally she even puffed on one of their cigars.
Tonight she’d stuck to her own slim, dark cheroots, a cloud of blue smoke swirling around her dark head and drifting out the window at her back.
“And lower your voice,” Easton added with a quick glance at the Earl of Somerton who sat at the far end of the long table engrossed in conversation with Lord Piedmont and Lord Baldwin, Everett’s father. Between the older set and the younger grouped around Henry at the head of the table sat various members of the Somerton, Baldwin, Morrissey, White, Singleton, Crofton and Statham families. All of whom had been unlucky enough to have been chosen to represent their respective families at the funeral of the Countess of Hastings.
“You’ll have the wrath of Uncle Robert coming down on Hastings’ head,” Easton continued. “We’ll likely all be called on the carpet in the backlash.”
“A fate to be avoided like the plague, to hear my lovely wife tell it,” Jack Bentley agreed.
“Do you intend to drag Olivia and the children north to Sedgefield on the morrow?” Alice asked. “Or will you allow your wife to linger in Town through the end of the season?”
“As if I call the shots,” Bentley replied with a chuckle.
“My sister runs circles around the man,” Henry agreed.
“And he quite enjoys it,” Alice replied before piercing Easton with her gray gaze. “And you? I suppose you’ll be spiriting Beatrice and the children away to Idyllwild soon.”
“Not this year,” he answered with a grin.
“Good God, never say your wife in increasing yet again,” Alice exclaimed. “Are two boys not enough for you?”
“Hush, Alice,” Bentley muttered and Henry wondered if Olivia was still laboring under the delusion tha
t her barren state bothered her husband, never mind that every member of their family knew the man loved her to distraction and was perfectly content with their combined three children.
“More likely he cannot get enough of his wife,” Everett said, adroitly changing the topic. Unfortunately the man was like a terrier with a rat when after a bit of juicy gossip. “Speaking of getting enough of the ladies, have you run through all of the available ladies of the beautiful, buxom variety and moved on to carrot-topped twigs?”
Henry fought down an unexpected surge of anger. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Hah, as if it were a coincidence that your carriage was seen on the road north with Miss Buchanan’s in hot pursuit,” his cousin replied with unmistakable glee, his green eyes shining.
“Miss Georgiana Buchanan?” Alice tossed her cheroot out the open window and rose to glide toward the empty seat beside Easton. “Surely you are not dallying with the lady, Hastings. She is hardly your sort.”
“Why is it everyone seems to think I have a sort?”
“Likely because you do,” Alice answered. “Big-breasted, plump-hipped, beautiful women with light heels, fluff for brains, and loose morals.”
“Alice, commenting on loose morals? Isn’t that a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?” Everett teased.
“I am selective in whom I take to my bed,” Alice replied airily, not the least deterred by the fact that her husband sat some thirty feet away. With her father.
“Are you saying that the ladies your cousin beds are not selective?” Bentley asked with a laugh. “I think I would take offense were I you, Hastings.”
“I am only saying that Hastings has a certain reputation,” she answered. “One that a number of ladies of my acquaintance swear is well-earned, though it boggles the mind. He might have his pick of the merry widows, dissatisfied wives, demimonde belles and courtesans. There is no reason for him to venture beyond his realm of comfort to choose anything less than the most beautiful women to share his bed.”
“And Miss Buchanan is most definitely not beautiful,” Everett finished in agreement.
“I am not saying that at all,” Alice purred, clearly winding up to whatever point she was making. “In fact, I think she is quite extraordinary. If a man were discerning enough to put aside traditional ideas of beauty and charm, he just might find himself in the presence of that rarest of creatures, a true original. Of course, he must be willing to look beyond her rather awkward social graces and the barbarian blood that runs in her veins.”
“Barbarian?” Everett repeated, no doubt smelling a scandal. “Surely she is not one of those Buchanans?”
“Who besides one of those Buchanans would simply appear in Town mid-season and begin attending every event to which she could gain entrance?” Alice replied in her customarily disdainful manner. “She has been present at nearly every wedding, christening and funeral in Mayfair this past year. And all without an invitation.”
“She sneaks into weddings?” Everett asked around a laugh. “And funerals?”
“One might think she’d purchased the seventh pew on the right of St. George’s Church so often can she be found there,” Alice continued. “It’s gotten so that her presence is expected, even anticipated. Why, just last week I heard Miss Julia Fairchild, now Mrs. Osborne, lamenting the lady’s absence at her own wedding. The silly girl was in a veritable tizzy over the manner in which Miss Buchanan had snubbed her, and in so public a fashion.”
“You’re having us on,” Everett accused.
“I most certainly am not,” Alice insisted. “The lady is seen everywhere. Why, she even attended my annual ball for the Widows and Orphans Fund last year.”
“She was there?” Henry asked in surprise. “How is it I did not see her?”
“Wasn’t that the night you took Lady Wimple up to the tower?” Everett asked. “And Mrs. Morris home with you later?”
“The tower?” Alice and Bentley repeated in unison before dissolving into laughter at some shared joke to which the rest of them were not privy.
Henry ducked his head to hide the heat racing over his cheeks. By God, did every member of his family know about each and every one of his dalliances?
As his cousins and his brother-by-marriage descended into a ribald conversation of the many nooks and crannies to be found at Somerton House, Henry considered the possibility that it was time he ceased hopping from one bed to the next and settled on one woman. Perhaps he ought to choose a wife and get on with producing the heir.
Dipping one finger beneath his cravat he tugged at the starched fabric that suddenly felt like a noose around his neck. Maybe he needn’t take a wife just yet, but might instead choose a new mistress from the bevy of ladies willing to share their beds without benefit of marriage. A true mistress this time, one attached to him by affection as well as his deep pockets and famous staying power.
Inwardly cringing, he admitted that his reputed stamina, along with his ego, had taken a mighty blow the night before.
Twice he’d rogered the lithesome Georgiana and twice he’d lost his vaunted control, rutting over her like a beast before coming gloriously hard while leaving the lady sighing and laughing and moaning as she chased her own release. And after she’d so generously taken him into her mouth.
No wonder he’d woken this morning to find that she’d flown the coop in the dead of night.
Henry would be damned if he would allow Georgiana to disappear from his life before he’d proven to her, and himself, that he was a man able to satisfy his woman. Repeatedly.
“When is your ball this year?” Henry asked, interrupting an examination of the risks and rewards of frolicking in a maze.
“Eight weeks hence,” Alice answered.
“Surely you intend to cancel the ball,” Easton said.
“Why should I?”
“Alice, we are a family in mourning.”
“And what would you have me tell the widows and orphans?” she demanded. “So sorry you’ve no husbands or parents to support you but there’ll be no help coming your way this year on account of the death of one countess?”
“You cannot host a ball eight weeks after your aunt passes on,” Easton argued.
“I can if I put it about Town that Aunt Hastings’ dying wish was that I not disappoint the widows and orphans,” she replied.
“Was it her dying wish?” Everett asked.
“Who is to say?” Alice asked. “It might have been. Besides, but for the theater, my charity ball is the only entertainment any of us shall see for the rest of the Season.”
“We cannot attend the theater for months yet,” Easton replied.
“Not for a comedy,” Alice agreed. “But I have it on the highest authority that it is perfectly proper to attend a drama, especially a tragedy such as King Lear, which just happens to be playing.”
“Whose authority?” Easton demanded.
“Has Miss Buchanan made a donation to the Widows and Orphans Fund this year?” Henry asked before an all-out battle of manners and morals could break out.
“A rather generous one,” Alice answered as four pairs of eyes swung in his direction and he fought not to fidget in his seat.
“Surely you don’t intend to have another go at the lady,” Everett said, clearly surprised.
“Honestly, Hastings, are two mistresses not enough for you?” Alice asked.
“He hasn’t kept two mistresses since Mrs. Fairley and Mrs. Sotheby nearly scratched each other’s eyes out last year,” Everett replied with a grin. “What an evening that was.”
“Did I not hear from Lady Beckwith just last week that you were supporting Dolly Lawry?” Alice persisted.
“Mrs. Lawry is last month’s news,” Everett replied, saving Henry the trouble. “She’s been pawned off on Lord Herbert.”
“I do not pawn off my mistresses.”
“You pawned Cybil Fairley off on Jasper Clive,” Easton argued.
“Why is it every time I turn around
someone is mentioning Mr. Clive?” Alice asked. “If they are not whispering of his penchant for whips and velvet cuffs, they are humming that silly song.”
“What song?” Henry asked, grateful for the change in topic.
“You pawned Josephine Amherst on my household,” Bentley added, unerringly bringing the topic right back around, damn the man.
“Josie was never my mistress.”
“A mere technicality.”
“So are you?” Everett demanded, leaning forward in anticipation.
“Am I what?” Henry asked, having lost track of the conversation.
“Intending to bed the beanpole again.”
“Miss Buchanan is not a beanpole,” Henry growled, rising to his feet, his chair scraping the floor behind him. “And I have not bedded the lady.”
He wouldn’t consider her well and truly bedded until he had her screaming out her release as she rode him. Hard and fast, by God.
“Pax!” Everett jumped to his feet with his hands raised in the air. “No need to wallop me. I was only asking. And now you’ve explained the fascination.”
It was then that Henry realized his hands were balled into fists at his sides, his chest heaving and his heart thundering, each beat echoing in his head.
“Sit down, Hastings,” Easton murmured.
With one final glare at his cousin, Henry lowered himself to sit, only to jump up again when Everett mumbled, “When you’ve had her the fascination will pass.”
“Will you never learn when to keep your mouth shut?” Easton demanded.
“What? I’m only saying that it appears Hastings has finally come up against a woman he might have to woo a bit.”
“Has he ever wooed a woman?” Bentley asked.
“Not that I recall,” Easton answered.
“My point precisely,” Everett crowed. “It’s a novel experience for him. Of course he’s fascinated. He’ll win her, too. And we’ll all know when it happens by the speed with which he loses interest in her charms, whatever they may be. And then all will be right in the world.”
“In whose world?” Bentley asked.
“Why, Hasting’s of course.”
“And yours, I’d wager.” Easton said.
“Well hell, who am I to carouse with if Hastings is fixated on one woman to the exclusion of all others?”