Secrets of a Gentleman Escort

by Bronwyn Scott

  It was a beauty that went beyond his physique. It was there in his laugh, the dance of his eyes, the way those eyes would lower just before he kissed her, and it had been infectious.

  She’d felt alive, too. In his arms, she’d been vivid and real, living out loud. He saw her in an entirely different light than the men she was used to and she’d thrilled to his interpretation. She found it freeing actually. He had words for her that she didn’t have for herself. Annorah ran over the phrases in her mind like the beads of a rosary: her hair was wild honey; she was a rebel. He’d called her beautiful in the most decadent way possible. I think your natural state would be quite lovely. She’d been called beautiful before, by less honest men who saw only her fortune or by more shallow men who saw only the pretty tailoring of the latest fashions.

  The Annorah he saw would hike up her skirts and fish in rivers, would later take off those skirts altogether and swim nearly nude with a man. And—oh, yes—the Annorah he saw would indeed give herself over to the wicked, intimate pleasures they’d explored on the picnic blanket. Even now, her body quickened at the memory.

  The woman he saw was who she used to be before she’d chosen exile over excitement, disappearing over disappointment. She’d liked that woman once. She’d almost forgotten her. It had been good to discover her again today. The whole day had been about discovering, about living.

  Annorah pushed up in the tub, dislodging the bubbles. If today had been about living, what had the last several years been about? Not living? The disappearance of the other Annorah was proof it had been. The past five years had changed her and perhaps not for the better.

  After the last disaster of a marriage proposal, she’d barricaded herself away in the country ostensibly so she could live life on her own terms. But she’d long harboured the suspicion that her choice to retreat was about something more. That it was her attempt to protect herself from her own fatal flaw: choosing the wrong man. It had happened both times a gentleman had come up to scratch. First with a viscount’s young heir and then more awfully with her aunt and uncle’s neighbour, Bartholomew Redding. In between there’d been countless young swains who had tried their luck, but none had left her more than lukewarm for their affections. They’d not been a threat.

  Only in hindsight had she been able to see the similarities between the two that had mattered. Both suitors had been wild in their own ways; willing to flaunt convention, willing to use people for their own ends. The young heir had not been clever, merely mean. What might have initially looked like sharp wit was a thin veil for remarks that bore the stamp of cutting cruelty. She’d met him early in her come-out, her own skills of discernment not fully honed.

  He’d been visiting, which had been a nice way of saying he was on a repairing lease until he was received back into his father’s good graces after some messy business with debts in town. He’d wooed her most thoroughly, someone having given him wind of her fortune. She must have looked like a miracle to him. She might have capitulated to him when the offer came, too; he was handsome and witty, albeit often at other people’s expense, except for a note at the eleventh hour from her uncle’s sister in town offering full disclosure of the man’s true character. It hadn’t bothered her aunt and uncle unduly, but it had bothered her. She had declined the offer, much to their chagrin.

  It was a pattern that would be repeated over the years until Bartholomew Redding had finally succeeded in driving her out of her aunt and uncle’s home and out of society. If this was the nature of man, she would find a way to live without it. He’d been the worst. He had good looks, a certain charm and he’d been comfortable. He’d not roused her young passions like the viscount’s heir, perhaps, but she’d felt at ease with him; they knew the same people, the same lifestyle. He was a neighbour and not too old to make a good husband. Thirty-one, perhaps. But it had been a ruse. He’d been no more above compromising her for her fortune than anyone else. She’d not trusted the others, but she’d trusted him and that had made his betrayal all that more hurtful when it came.

  Nicholas wasn’t either man— She had to stop herself there. The other suitors had been the wrong men. But that didn’t make Nicholas D’Arcy the right man. He was supposed to be the right man. It was his job to be the right man. He had to be accountable. A thousand pounds said so.

  She had to stop her thoughts again. She didn’t want to think of Nicholas as a chameleon changing colours to fit his surroundings, to be what any woman wanted him to be, even if it might be true. She didn’t want to remember this day as an elaborate play enacted on a stage where Nicholas had pretended to like to fish, had pretended to want to kiss her, to pleasure her, or where Nicholas hadn’t meant a single word of the rosary she’d strung together. She needed it to be real. She needed him to simply be hers, nothing more.

  Annorah understood that she’d invited Nicholas D’Arcy not so much because she craved carnal knowledge of a man, but because she wanted to live again, one last time to be the woman she wanted to be and not what the world had made her. Sex was merely a symptom.

  The tantalising smell of cooking food wafted up from the kitchens and through her open window, restoring her optimism. She smiled. It had been an incredible day. Supper was still to come and the night after that.

  Lily entered, carrying a pile of thick towels and a box. Annorah sat up in the tub, her curiosity piqued. It seemed an odd thing for Lily to bring with her. Lily set down the towels and approached the tub, bringing the box.

  ‘This is for you, miss.’ Her eyes were wide with excitement. A package was something out of the ordinary when it came by post, wrapped in brown paper. When it came in a clean, stiff white box, the kind dressmakers used, and tied prettily with yards of pink silk ribbon, the package was immediately elevated to the extraordinary. ‘I think it’s from London.’ Lily was nearly breathless with excitement.

  ‘For me?’ Annorah couldn’t recall having ordered anything from the village, let alone London, since her last glorious splurge. The prospect of a present was far too exciting to pretend it wasn’t. She could no more feign indifference over the arrival than Lily could. She let Lily wrap her in a towel and they set about studying the box together.

  The lid was embossed in large, swirly, gold lettering that read: Madame La Tour’s Salon for Women. Then in smaller gold lettering the address was given: 619 Bond Street, London. Lily gave a little squeal as Annorah read the lid out loud. ‘The box is too pretty to open.’ Lily sighed.

  Annorah had to agree, but curiosity wouldn’t let her stare too much longer. She untied the enormous length of pink-satin ribbon and made a gift of it to Lily, who couldn’t believe her good fortune. Inside the box was a layer of crisp tissue paper, there to protect the delicate item beneath. Carefully, Annorah folded back the tissue to reveal the garment inside.

  ‘Oh, miss!’ Lily gasped as Annorah lifted it out of the box. It was two garments really. The more substantial garment, although that wasn’t saying much—both were delicately made—was a white-silk nightgown unlike anything she’d ever seen. There were no sleeves, just two white straps. The heart-shaped bodice was covered in a beautiful overlay of Venetian lace before the gown fell away in gentle folds of silk. Nipped at the waist, the fabric would flare out again to fall gently over the curve of the hips. It would fit exquisitely. The other garment was a sheer robe meant to be worn over the gown with lace-trimmed short sleeves.

  The woman who wore this would be riveting—a most prurient thought, which was quickly followed by another: to be riveting, one had to be seen by another. Then it struck her, that woman would be her and the man who would see her would be Nicholas.

  ‘There’s a card, miss.’ The awe in Lily’s voice was unmistakable.

  Annorah’s fingers trembled as she opened the small card, although by now she knew who it was from. Only one man she knew would dare such a gift. He was quite possibly the only man who could pull it off witho
ut the gift seeming lewd.

  The note read simply, ‘For tonight. Yours, Nicholas.’

  Hers. The very thing she’d just wished for.

  ‘It’s from Mr D’Arcy,’ Annorah said quietly. There’d be no way around not confessing that to Lily at this point.

  ‘It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.’ Lily touched the fabric reverently. ‘That’s fine silk. What a pity it’s just for sleeping. I’d want to wear it everywhere so everyone could see me.’ Lily paused, her thoughts catching up to her words. ‘He’s not really a librarian is he, miss?’

  ‘No. He’s not.’

  Lily had the good sense to not ask anything more. But her idea was tempting. Maybe, Annorah thought, she should wear the peignoir set to dinner. Perhaps that was even what Nicholas intended. But this gown was not for eating, it was for other things. It would be a tragedy to spill anything on it. Annorah gave the gown a final caress and set it aside, laying it out on the bed for later.

  Later. The very prospect of later sent a rush of warm heat through her. If later was anything like this afternoon, it bore repeating.

  ‘Would you like the oyster gown?’ Lily held up the dress she usually wore for dinners. It was pretty enough, but it was plain and that would not do. Annorah smiled to herself. She knew exactly what she wanted; a dress that would appeal to the whimsy of a summer evening, something softly feminine, yet with a hint of allure and the provocative. ‘I want one of the new dresses. The peach chiffon, I think, Lily.’

  When she’d bought it, she’d been unable to come up with a single occasion in the country it would be appropriate for, mostly because there was no call for such a gown at Hartshaven. The neckline was cut low and tight and trimmed in tiny seed pearls that made it far too sophisticated for the village assemblies or the occasional dinner at the squire’s. Yet with that sophistication there was the whimsy she sought in the fullness of the skirts that made her feel like a fairy princess. Such a feeling would not go amiss tonight.

  Annorah fastened a thin strand of pearls about her neck and sat still while she let Lily put her hair up. ‘It’s a new fashion I found in one the magazines.’ Lily stuck in the final pin and stepped back. ‘Do you like it?’

  Annorah turned her head left, then right, to catch all the angles. She did like it. Two soft braids were drawn over her ears into a bun that rode low at the back of her neck. She looked younger—not that thirty-two was old. But perhaps looking older had been a casualty of her exile, too. Maybe she’d inadvertently let her appearance falter just a bit. It would have been easy to do with no one to see her except the servants and the villagers. It would have been a simple armour to don to keep potential suitors at bay.

  Annorah dabbed perfume at her pulse points, a light floral scent that complimented the mood of her gown. The woman in the mirror was ready.

  * * *

  So was dinner. So ready in fact that Nicholas was not waiting for her in the drawing room when she arrived. It took a moment to pick up his trail. Candlelight glimmered from the next room and another flame flickered just beyond it. Ah, she had it now. A little trill of excitement fluttered through her as she followed the candlelit path leading through the informal dining room they’d used last night to the terrace, which was now strangely empty sans table. The French doors were open and past them Nicholas stood beside the newly relocated table.

  Like her, he had dressed for the evening with the utmost care in dark evening clothes. Not much of the fisherman remained in the gentleman who stood before her, but it was hard to mourn the loss for long when she was faced with this debonair male in his place.

  ‘I thought we could continue the tradition of serving ourselves.’ Nicholas held out her chair.

  Privacy. More time to be with this intriguing man who could cast a line as well as she, who’d swum in the swimming hole and given her so much more than just a set of experiences today.

  Nicholas reached for the champagne and she thought, This is heaven. Why hadn’t she eaten like this before: outside, under the stars, a single candle on the table covered with a glass chimney? It was a simple matter to move the table. But she knew why. Meals had ceased to be an occasion. She raised her glass to sip, feeling Nicholas’s eyes on her, hot and piercing over the rim of his own flute.

  ‘What is it?’ She touched a self-conscious hand to her hair. Perhaps a pin had come loose.

  ‘Nothing.’ Nicholas smiled. ‘I was just admiring the lovely woman across from me. The peach becomes you.’

  ‘Country living becomes you,’ she dared. Annorah gestured to the slight red cast on the bridge of his nose.

  ‘That’s not the only place that saw a bit of sun.’ He winked naughtily.

  Annorah laughed. ‘Are you always this audacious? Do you make a habit of saying whatever comes to mind?’

  Nicholas leaned forwards. ‘Yes, absolutely. I don’t believe in mincing words when something needs saying.’

  Annorah toyed with the stem of her glass and shot him a coy look. She felt bold tonight. Why not ask the things that were on her mind? ‘You don’t lie, you don’t mince words. I know a lot about what you don’t do. Why don’t you tell me about something you do?’

  ‘Everything, anything.’ He gave her a sinful smile and a seductive stare, his eyes lingering on her lips to make his innuendo plain. She shook her head, unwilling to settle for the distraction his wordplay offered. Without thinking, she leaned forwards and covered his hands with hers, a gesture she would have not dared yesterday.

  ‘No, really, Nicholas, I want to know.’

  Dodge, deflect and repeat for as long as necessary. That was the usual recipe for handling such probes. He was normally adept at such parries. But Annorah was persistent. Of course she’d want to know. She was that sort of woman; the rare sort whose beauty wasn’t limited to the outside. She was the sort who genuinely cared for others. He’d heard it in her voice last night when she spoke of her family, her cousins, her grandfather. She was a social creature, not made for isolation, which made her situation here all the more intriguing and at the same time incongruous.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid knowing will ruin the illusion?’ He took her in, her features soft in the candlelight, her hair a halo of dark gold tonight. She was both ethereal and approachable, not an ice-cold winter beauty, but the warm beauty of summer. She was the sort who should have children clinging to her skirts, all of them laughing. She would be good at playing.

  Something tightened in his gut: an ache, a longing. He’d once thought of himself that way, too—a man who wanted a lot of children to toss in the air. He’d not allowed himself to think of that for a long time now. It had been one of the dreams he’d set aside.

  Her thumbs ran along the sides of his hands, a smile curving on her oh-so-kissable lips. ‘Absolutely not. Why would it? Why would a man who tells no lies be worried about illusion?’ This last was said quietly and with a hint of challenge.

  Nicholas knew an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. He knew what not to tell her: that he’d only come to the country because he’d been escaping the wrath of an angry husband, who might or might not know he’d slept with the man’s wife; that he was notorious in certain circles for his ability to make a woman scream with pleasure.

  But Annorah had already made it plain she wasn’t interested in nots. She was hunting for truths and that’s where the fantasy became tricky, as he’d known it would. How did one build the intimacy without exposing oneself? Perhaps he would let her lead.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ He gave her a sincere smile. She did not want flirting and innuendo. Women tended to ask the same questions, have the same intrigues about him, after all. It should be fairly safe. He could almost predict what she would ask.

  Annorah leaned back, releasing his hands, and he most unusually felt the loss of her touch. He reached for his glass and drank. ‘All right,
then.’ She smiled mischievously, getting into the spirit of the conversation. ‘I can ask you anything I want?’ The smile lit her eyes and transformed her face into a livelier version of its softer, gentler self. ‘How is it that you’re such a good fly fisher?’

  The champagne nearly came out his mouth. He swallowed and coughed, literally choking on his surprise. He’d not been expecting that. He’d been expecting: How did you get into this line of work? But her question had nothing to do with sex.

  Annorah swiftly came over and pounded him on the back, concerned. ‘Are you well?’

  Nicholas wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘I’m fine. I just took too big of a sip.’

  ‘Gulp,’ she corrected. ‘You took a gulp. People don’t choke on sips.’

  He laughed. ‘All right, gulp.’

  Annorah settled back in her chair. She leaned forwards in expectation, waiting for his fly-fishing answer, the low cut of her en coeur bodice putting her bosom on enviable display. Did she know? Nicholas felt desire quicken. She had beautiful shoulders and the peach chiffon showcased them as well as it did the gentle thrust and slope of her breasts.

  ‘Fly fishing?’ she prompted when he’d hesitated too long, thinking of a lure of a different sort.

  ‘Well, I was born in Mere. I grew up fishing on the Stour River. It came naturally.’

  ‘You must have liked growing up there a great deal. You’re smiling.’

  ‘Oh, I did,’ he answered without faltering. ‘My brother and I would fish every afternoon after lessons in the summer. Sometimes my father would have to send one of the servants to bring us home. On very rare occasions, we’d be allowed to camp overnight, though.’ It was his turn tonight, to spin stories of his youth. He had not meant to, but she drew them out of him one by one: the trees they’d climbed, the trails they’d hiked, the ponies they’d ridden as young boys and the horses they’d graduated to.