She drew the curtains back a little and slipped into the darkened space. The maid—possibly Fanny who was well known for conducting her duties with too much haste and not quite enough care—had piled the cushions on top of her book. As Tessa retrieved it, she also spied her favorite set of pencils lying on a far corner of the sill. Placing her knee on the seat, she reached farther forward, then jumped when she heard the door to her study click open.
"This one's unlocked."
"Oh, Lord Arlington, you are so wicked."
"Well, we are a perfectly matched pair then, aren't we, Lady Montagu?"
Lord Arlington and Lady Montagu? Tessa's breath hitched, and she froze, her gloved hand still outstretched, a surge of incredulity and outrage completely paralyzing her. What in God's name—
The door closed, and a burst of feminine giggling ensued. Then the rustling of fabric and soft sucking sounds… Surely they're not kissing! Tessa put her hands to her flaming cheeks. She was such a henwit. Of course they were kissing. It was a tryst.
In my studio!
She dropped onto the window seat behind the cover of the curtain. Obviously, she should announce her presence and put an end to this… this desecration of her most private place, her sanctum. But as other, more intimate sounds of the couple's congress reached her ears—strange pants and moans—the idea of witnessing what they were doing suddenly seemed too mortifying to bear.
She closed her eyes—ridiculous, really, considering all she could see from her hiding place was a swathe of dark pink damask and a sliver of the room in the narrow gap between the curtains. Say something. This, what they are doing, is thoroughly disgraceful. You have every right to put a halt—"
"Please, sit down, my lord."
Fabric rustled again, and Lord Arlington's rich, deep laugh spilled forth. "Why, Lady Montagu, when you said you wanted my considered opinion, it appears you really meant it."
Tessa clenched her hands into fists, gathering her courage to say something. Whatever they were doing, it must stop. Now.
But what were they doing? A deep, masculine groan penetrated the silence, and Tessa's cheeks burned. Was Lord Arlington in pain? Never in her life had she heard anything so… so primal. Morbid curiosity compelled her to take a quick peek.
And she couldn't suppress a gasp. Lord Arlington sat on her settee, his back facing her, both his arms outstretched along the back of the chair. His head was tipped backward, his light brown hair thoroughly tousled, his eyes closed. Lady Montagu was nowhere to be seen, but there were muffled sounds of… No, she didn't want to think about those odd sounds.
Whatever Lady Montagu was doing to Lord Arlington, he was… gripped. Tessa could think of no other way to describe what she witnessed. And how on earth was she supposed to interrupt now?
This is wrong, so wrong. Depraved. Look away, Tessa.
But it seemed she couldn't. A strange warm ache, like a quickening pulse, began to throb in her lower belly. Her cheeks burned, and her heart galloped. Her breath was so short she felt as if she had just run up the stairs. She squirmed on her seat and bit her lip to stifle a whimper.
This feeling inside her, she'd never, ever felt it before. She wanted… something she couldn't, no, wouldn't, put a name to.
Oh, Tessa. This is wicked. You are wicked. As wicked as Lord Arlington.
Just then, Lord Arlington gasped, and his body bucked and arched as if he were in the throes of an apoplectic seizure. Even through the fabric of his evening coat, she could see the sizeable muscles in his upper arms bunch and his knuckles grew white as his hands clenched the top of the chair. He looked for all the world like a pagan being sacrificed to the gods of all things wicked and lustful.
Lady Montagu, who appeared to have been on the floor, raised her head, and Tessa pulled back from the gap. Fear squeezed the air from her lungs. If they discovered her now… That she had been watching… that…
She clutched the window seat, her palms sweaty within her silk gloves, and willed herself to perfect stillness. If only her heart would stop beating so madly… It thundered in her ears. Surely they would hear it.
Lord Arlington spoke, his words slightly slurred as if he was foxed or sleepy, or both. "Cordelia, I'm speechless. We must cross paths more often."
Lady Montagu laughed softly. "Well, I will be in town again after Twelfth Night…"
"Wonderful. I shall call on you. You still reside in Half Moon Street?"
"Yes. I look forward to receiving you. Until then—" Tessa heard them exchange another kiss. "Good night, my lord."
"Please, m'dear, call me Jasper."
Another laugh. "Good night then, Jasper."
The door opened then closed, and Tessa sagged into the cushions at her back. Thank God that was over. Lord Arlington—Jasper—would leave and then she would lock the door.
And tomorrow she would tell Christopher exactly what she thought of his so-called friend. Rakehell was too polite a term to describe a thorough reprobate like him. Aunt Beatrice had been right. He was a devil.
A soft snore penetrated the silence.
Oh, no. Tessa ground her teeth together in frustration. It seemed Lord Arlington wouldn't be leaving her studio after all.
Well, she certainly wasn't going to stay.
She quietly and carefully rose to her feet then cursed under her breath when she realized she wore only stockings on her feet; she'd left her matching cerise slippers on the Aubusson hearthrug by the very settee where Lord Arlington rested. He and Lady Montagu must have been so caught up in—well, whatever they'd been doing—they hadn't noticed them.
You don't need them, Tessa. Just sneak away.
But what if someone did catch sight of her traipsing about Penrose House sans shoes? She had to make her way back to the main staircase to reach the stairs leading to the third floor, and the servants' stairs were at the other end of the hallway. Either way, she had to traverse the main landing in full view of the hall leading through to the ballroom, and there would be guests about, of that there was no doubt. She glanced down and scowled at her feet. Given the hem of her new silk gown barely skimmed below her ankles, her fashion faux pas would be clear to see. And she refused to cause a stir. She could never do that to Emma on her special night.
There was nothing for it. She was going to have to retrieve her slippers.
Taking a deep breath, Tessa slipped between the curtains and tiptoed toward the hearthrug. Lord Arlington had stopped snoring, but when Tessa chanced a glance at his face—no she wouldn't look more closely to see if he was as handsome as she suspected—it was clear he was still asleep. Permitting herself a faint sigh of relief, she rounded the settee. Her slippers lay exactly where she had discarded them… right beside Lord Arlington's very long and very muscular, outstretched legs. Desperately trying to ignore the fact his black silk evening breeches and white silk stockings seemed to be molded quite indecently to every hard curve of his thighs and calves, she bent down toward her slippers.
"I wondered who those belonged to."
Tessa squealed and jumped backwards as Lord Arlington sat up straight and yawned. He ran a hand down his much too handsome face, and despite the fact he still looked half asleep, his perfectly sculpted mouth tipped into a wolfish smile. "Good evening, m'dear," he drawled. "How do you do?"
* * *
The decidedly attractive, dark-haired young lady before him gaped as if he'd grown two heads and had then asked her to dance an Irish jig or fly to the moon. Good God, he'd only asked how she was.
"Lord Arlington. I don't…" She shook her head and pursed her luscious, cherry-red lips together as if she'd just tasted a lemon. "It is very late, and I don't think an exchange of pleasantries is warranted—"
"Wait just a moment." Jasper frowned and surged to his feet. "You know me?"
The girl blushed prettily. "No. Other than your name, I do not know you. And furthermore, I do not wish to know you." She crossed her arms across her chest, and he couldn't fail to notice how her creamy
bosom swelled above the crimson silk of her bodice. "You shouldn't be here. I'm sure Lord Trevilian would not condone… You really should be downstairs."
Jasper grinned. The girl's discomfiture was… appealing. A breath of fresh air. The devil inside him couldn't resist the urge to tease her a little more to see if he could make her blush grow deeper. "Oh, no, sweetheart. Why would I want to be downstairs when someone as delightfully pretty as you, is right here?"
The girl frowned. "You're foxed," she accused, her dark eyes flashing.
"Only a little," he conceded. Lord, he must have had more brandy than he'd thought; he prided himself on how well he could hold his drink, but if this young woman could clearly see it… He risked taking a step closer to study her lovely countenance. A heart-shaped face framed by glossy dark curls, large brown eyes, and a wide, lush mouth. A completely kissable mouth. "Tell me your name, sweet thing." She looked… familiar somehow. He frowned as he tried to place her. "I'm sorry. Have we met before?"
"No, we have not." She scowled. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" She began to reach for her slippers again.
On an impulse, Jasper swooped down and retrieved her shoes, then held them behind his back. The girl's ire grated and tantalized him at the same time. Cad that he was, he couldn't resist teasing her a bit more. Besides that, he really wanted to know who she was. "Tsk, tsk, not so fast. Tell me your name, and you may have your slippers back."
She lifted her chin and glared at him. "Lord Arlington, I do not have the patience to play childish games with you. Give me back my slippers this instant."
An altogether horrible thought suddenly intruded into Jasper's alcohol-addled brain. "Please do not tell me—" He ran his hand through his hair and swallowed. "You were here, the whole time when I…" He wouldn't mention Lady Montagu's name; not that it would make much difference if the girl had been secreted somewhere in the room. He was sure he'd used the baroness's name a number of times when they'd…
However, the bright red blush spreading across the girl's ivory skin, from her cheeks all the way down to the neckline of her equally red dress, was all the confirmation he needed that his dreadful theory was correct. He glanced about the room. Paintings were stacked against the wall, a partially-completed portrait stood upon an easel, and the scent of turpentine and paint hung in the air. Oh, God, no. The oldest Penrose sister, whom he'd never met before, was the artist, not Miss Penrose, the Younger. And what a clodpoll he was not to have noticed the girl's family resemblance to Emma, and indeed, Trevilian himself. "Miss Penrose—" he began.
"Please, I don't wish to discuss… whatever occurred in this room." To her credit, Miss Penrose—Lord, he didn't even know her Christian name—held his gaze. She clearly wasn't a shrinking violet. "Now, if you would just give me my shoes…" She held out her hand.
Jasper's stomach dropped to the floor. She was going to tell Trevilian; there were no two ways about it. And his friend would have his guts for garters. He had to take action, somehow persuade Miss Penrose, the Elder, not to divulge his… indiscretion. But how to gain the upper hand?
He narrowed his gaze. "Why didn't you announce you were here, rather than eavesdrop, Miss Penrose? The lady I was with and I, both thought this room was vacant."
Her dark eyes fairly gleamed with anger. "How dare you suggest it is I who have behaved improperly. When my brother hears—"
"You won't tell your brother."
"Of course I will." She held out one gloved hand again. "I want my shoes, Lord Arlington."
"We cannot always have what we want, Miss Penrose, and you won't tell your brother about what has occurred in this room, because then you would have to tell him about this."
Before he could stop himself, and before she could even utter another sound, he dropped her shoes, gathered her close, and kissed her.
As he'd expected, Miss Penrose immediately stiffened in his arms and pushed frantically at his chest. Kept her lips pressed tightly together and whimpered, no doubt with outrage rather than passion. But he held on tight, his arms wrapped around her slender back and quivering shoulders, one hand at her nape, holding her still as his mouth ravished hers. When he swept the tip of his tongue along the closed seam of her lips, she gasped. Absolute scoundrel that he was, he took advantage of the opportunity and slipped inside to taste her. Sweeter than honey, softer than velvet, the warm interior of her mouth was utterly divine.
Then, without warning, the quality of the kiss changed. Miss Penrose wound her hands about his neck and pressed all her delicious curves against him. Her lips grew pliant; luscious and satiny, they slid in concert with his. The tentative flicker of her tongue over his bottom lip triggered a deep groan in his throat, and hot, potent lust began to pound through his veins straight to his groin. He raised a hand and cupped one of her breasts, testing its firmness and weight, relishing the fact she pushed herself into his palm.
What are you doing, man? Faint alarm bells began to clang somewhere at the back of his brain. She's Trevilian's sister. You need to stop—
A woman's shriek pierced the air. "Tessa! What in God's name?"
Miss Penrose—Tessa—ripped her mouth from his. Her eyes as round as saucers, she darted a glance over his shoulder toward the door. "Aunt Beatrice," she gasped. "Lady Salter. Oh, no…"
Oh, no, was an understatement. Beatrice, Lady Cardew, stood in the open doorway, her mouth a wide 'o' of surprise. Christopher's aunt. And Tessa's. God's teeth. Jasper reluctantly dropped his hold on Miss Penrose, and turned to face the shocked dowager countess and her equally stunned female companion.
"Aunt Beatrice. Please, I can explain. Lord Arlington—"
"Yes, yes indeed, there will be explanations, Tessa." Lady Cardew fixed a cold, blue stare on Jasper. "You. Lord Arlington. You will be held to account for compromising my niece in such a salacious manner. When my nephew hears about this, I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't want to hang, draw, and quarter you. But if you're lucky, he may give you an opportunity to do the honorable thing."
Oh, God. Ensnared in the parson's mousetrap by my own arrogance and drunken stupidity. Jasper drew an unsteady breath. He glanced at Miss Penrose—Tessa. What had possessed him to pounce on her in such a manner? Trevilian would never forgive him. Perhaps the Outer Hebrides would be nice this time of year…
Tessa looked as perturbed as he felt, perhaps even more so. Her face was as white as one of her blank canvases, and she clutched her gloved hands together, wringing them. "Please Aunt Beatrice," she pleaded. "This isn't what it looks like."
"No? I'm not a gull, my dear." She turned to Lady Salter. "What is your verdict, my friend? You saw as much as I."
The middle-aged woman arched a heavy brow. "Compromised. Caught red-handed, both of you. Utterly disgraceful."
Judging by the rapacious glint in Lady Salter's eyes and the way she bent slightly forward to peer intently at his crotch through a gilt-framed lorgnette, Jasper suspected the noblewoman was enjoying every minute of this unfortunate incident.
"Eh, Lord Arlington." Lady Salter's ample chin wobbled as she jerked her head back up to eye level. "I would suggest you adjust your breeches before you leave this room. One can almost see your, er… unmentionables."
Horror gripping his gut, Jasper glanced downwards. Sure enough, the fall front of his evening breeches was not fully buttoned. An uncharacteristic flood of heat scalded his face, and he strode over to the window seat and slipped behind the curtains. The relatively spacious alcove was probably where Tessa had been hiding when he'd first burst into the room with Lady Montagu. His attire once again set to rights, he emerged, only to find the ladies—all of them—and Tessa's dashed red slippers, had disappeared. And he'd been locked in.
Bloody hell. Jasper retreated to the fireside and threw himself onto the settee. What he wouldn't give for another brandy right now; actually, a whole decanter of brandy right now. Suddenly resigned to the fact he might not be long for this world, he tucked a cushion beneath his head, stretched out his legs, and c
losed his eyes.
If he couldn't be drunk when Armageddon struck, at least he would be well-rested.
Chapter Three
Half an hour later…
"I won't marry him. Lord Arlington is a… a rogue. I don't know what you see in him. How could you invite a man like that here? Tonight, of all nights." Tessa paced back and forth across the plush Turkish rug in her brother's study, clenching and unclenching her gloved hands. She was so furious, she felt like throwing things, smashing things. Hot tears stung her eyes, and she dashed them away with her wrist. She refused to cry. Aside from that, she doubted her implacable brother would be swayed by tears.
Leaning on the edge of his large oak desk, arms crossed across his chest, Christopher did indeed look ruthless—as ruthless as their father had always been. His deep, blue eyes were ice cool as he regarded her. "According to Aunt Beatrice and Lady Salter, it doesn't sound as if you minded Lord Arlington's roguish behavior, dear sister."
Shame washed through Tessa, with. And a good deal of confusion. The anger boiling around inside her suddenly dissipated, and she collapsed onto the leather wingback chair in front of her brother. She still didn't quite understand how she'd been so overwhelmed by Lord Arlington's kiss.
My first kiss.
He'd kissed her in an attempt to silence her, but instead of resisting him—and she'd tried very hard to resist him at first—she'd been swept away by a tide of desire. She closed her eyes, and the memory of that devastating kiss filled her head yet again. Made her lips tingle and her body ache in ways that it shouldn't. The man had somehow contaminated her with his own wantonness.
She couldn't marry him.
She met her brother's gaze. "You don't understand, Christopher. If you would just let me try to explain the nature of the circumstance I was thrust into, most unwillingly."
Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection Page 2