Not even the disruptive sounds of Michelle and two upstairs maids bustling about her closet in quiet conversation, pulling open drawers, gathering up various articles of clothing and packing trunks for travel could disturb the serenity of her bath. After all, she could not really blame them for being flustered. She had set her entire household into a flurry of activity, never mind their complete astonishment had dropped their jaws when she announced just before dinner her intention to travel up to London the following day and that several of the servants would be required to travel up with her in the second carriage; the house in Hanover Square was woefully understaffed. And she would be pleased if her travel plans remained within Crecy Hall. The Duke would be informed, not by her servants, by her, when she deemed it appropriate for him to know. She smiled into the bubbles. Her son would know precisely two hours after she had left Crecy Hall and not before, when he received her letter informing him of the fact.
“Mme la duchesse, I am very sorry but there is a difficulty,” Michelle apologized with a short curtsey, holding wide the towel as the Duchess stepped out of her bath. “In fact, there are two difficulties,” she admitted as she quickly wrapped the towel about her mistress then turned away to pick up Antonia’s nightshift.
“Two difficulties? With the travel arrangements?”
Antonia tossed aside the towel and allowed Michelle to help her wriggle into the flimsy nightshift.
“No, Mme la duchesse,” Michelle explained, offering the Duchess one stocking and then its twin and requisite garters. “A servant he has arrived from the big house with his trunk claiming to be M’sieur Strang’s valet but I know for a fact he is—”
“Yes! Yes! Lawrence Montbrail,” Antonia said, shrugging into the silk embroidered dressing gown Michelle held wide. She sat at her dressing table to remove the many pins holding up her curls. “He is here now? He was to be here this morning... No matter. You sent him to M’sieur Strang’s rooms?”
“I did.”
“And they are now acquainted and pleased with each other?”
Michelle set her mouth in a thin line of disapproval. “Very pleased.”
Antonia eyed her maid’s reflection in the looking glass as she brushed her hair. “Good. But this it is a difficulty? Pour quoi? Or is the valet two difficulties? You will explain this to me, Michelle.”
Michelle took the brush from the Duchess and set to brushing her hair. “If Lawrence Montbrail is indeed M’sieur Strang’s valet then why, once they were acquainted, did M’sieur Strang send him away again?”
“Send him away? But did you not say he was pleased with Lawrence?”
“Yes, Mme la duchesse. But he, M’sieur Strang, sent Lawrence Montbrail to spend the night upstairs with the footmen, and not to stay in the little room off the Blue bedchamber reserved for a gentleman’s valet.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that there was possibly any number of reasons why Jonathon had sent his new valet to spend the night in the sleeping quarters allocated to the footmen, customs on the subcontinent being one of them, but she kept her thoughts to herself and asked casually, “And this other difficulty?”
“Two of the footmen have been assisting M’sieur Strang rearrange the furniture in his bedchamber.”
“And that is a difficulty?”
It was Michelle’s turn to look at Antonia’s reflection.
“Matthews he says that the furniture in the little room reserved for M’sieur Strang’s valet it has all been moved into the Blue bedchamber and that the mattress and coverings on the bed have been removed from the four poster in the Blue bedchamber and moved into the little room.”
Antonia blinked. She was disbelieving. “I do not understand. He has stripped his valet’s room and is sleeping in there, on a mattress on the floor, in preference to sleeping in the Blue bedchamber?”
“Yes, Mme la duchesse.”
“Incroyable.”
“Yes, Mme la duchesse, it is, and Matthews is beside himself as to what can be done about it. It is very irregular for a guest to be sleeping in a servant’s room and on the floor! He, M’sieur Strang, also requested many more tapers than is necessary for that room.”
“Tapers?” Antonia took the silver backed brush from Michelle and tossed it amongst the clutter on the dressing table. “How many more than is necessary?”
“He asked for twenty—”
“Twenty candles!?”
“—but said ten would suffice because he could cut them up himself.”
“Mon Dieu. What is the impossible man up to? Using the candles for warmth?” Antonia muttered aloud to herself, up off her dressing stool. Slipping her stockinged feet into embroidered damask mules she picked up a taper in its holder and left her rooms, Michelle following, and at the top of the oak staircase in a pool of shared candlelight found her butler in animated conversation with two of the footmen; all three fell silent on Antonia’s approach.
“Do you not have arrangements to finalize before tomorrow’s journey?” the Duchess asked and waited while Matthews shooed the two footmen away, telling them to return to loading trunks onto the wagon that would be following the two carriages up to London. “Michelle she told me about the candles and—other concerns.”
“Mme la duchesse, I am very worried lest M’sieur Strang burn the house down,” the butler replied and fell in step behind the Duchess as she went on ahead across the landing and down the passageway to the guest wing; a rather odd name, reflected Matthews, given the house had never had guests in the three years it had been occupied by the Duchess and was not likely to again if the one and only guest set fire to the place with his use of so many tapers in one room. When his mistress stopped at the door to the Blue bedchamber he asked diffidently, “Would Mme la duchesse like me to rouse M’sieur Strang?”
“No. I will. Here,” Antonia said and thrust the candlestick at him. “If he has so many tapers alight inside, I will not need this. You may go. And you, Michelle.”
“I will wait here for you, Mme la duchesse,” her maid said firmly, a glance exchanged with the butler.
Antonia saw the glance and chose to ignore it.
“Both of you go and finish whatever it is needs finishing so me I can leave early tomorrow morning. Bonne nuit.”
She slipped into the Blue bedchamber before either servant could protest and found herself in complete darkness. Light, however, was coming from under the door in the far corner of the room, which she reasoned must be the valet’s room where Jonathon had, for reasons only known to him, decided to spend the night.
What she discovered when she opened the door was surprising and she knew that once she crossed the threshold there was no turning back.
It was as if the stars had fallen from the sky and now littered the floorboards. Twinkling points of light defined the edges of the small rectangular space and two sides of a mattress that had been made up with sheets, coverlet and down pillows, its head pushed up against the wallpaper and the foot facing the door. Small candles also lined the narrow carved mantle of a fireplace where a single burning log radiated warmth. A washbasin and jug on a wooden stand occupied a corner, the only piece of furniture in the room, and directly opposite candles dotted the sill of a mullioned window, their little flames flickering in a tiny draft.
This servant’s room was unique because it not only had a window but a window seat, and thus the privilege given the servant proclaimed the high regard in which the occupant of the Blue bedchamber was held by their host. And the occupant of the Blue bedchamber was perched on the window seat, bare legs crossed at the ankles with hands thrust in the pockets of a yellow silk banyan that was loosely tied about his waist and gaped at the throat.
Antonia had an instant of déjà vu. But she was not the eighteen-year-old virgin full of naïve optimism and brash self-confidence. Somehow being young and ignorant had made it that much easier to tumble into bed with Monseigneur. She felt anything but confident tumbling into bed with Jonathon Strang. So many reasons wh
y she should not clouded her mind and yet she asked herself what was the harm in making love with this handsome virile man who wanted to make love to her? She enjoyed making love very much. But this was not her husband and she had never made love where her feelings were not confidently engaged. Yet it was almost six years since she had made love—another lifetime. She reminded herself that she no longer had a husband, that she was a widow and that meant she could do as she pleased with no harm done to anyone. So why not just enjoy the experience for what it was: a brief torrid gratification for the body? Men satisfied themselves this way; many women did too. But it was not in her nature; feelings were everything to her, and that scared her most of all.
Jonathon remained seated, watching and waiting. When she finally closed the door over he visibly relaxed but did not move, reasoning she would come to him in her own good time. He followed her with his eyes as she moved about the small space in the orange glow of the myriad of small candles he had carefully positioned to make the room more intimate and welcoming. And when she finally did come over to him he did not stand, he did not remove his hands from the pockets of his banyan; he merely smiled at her and continued to wait. He waited for her to make the first move, reasoning again that if he did he might ruin the experience for both of them because his overwhelming desire was to strip her out of her diaphanous nightclothes and tumble with her on the mattress, giving free reign to his hands, his tongue and his vital organ and wanting, above all else, for her to be enjoying him.
Antonia smiled into his brown eyes. She saw in his eyes his thoughts and what he had no need to voice. She stepped out of her mules and let slip the dressing gown from her shoulders to pool at her stockinged feet. And when he shifted slightly and leaned forward to kiss her, she let him. They were both tentative and gentle with each other and then more insistent as they enjoyed a long lingering kiss. He would have taken her in his arms but she stayed him with a hand to his chest and he let his hands fall away, long fingers hard gripping the edge of the window seat when she tugged at the silk sash of his banyan. The knot undone, the banyan fell open to reveal he was naked and aroused.
She met his gaze with a knowing smile and he smiled back, unselfconscious. He went to kiss her again and again she stayed him with a hand to his bare chest. But this time she moved into him and his long legs uncrossed at the ankles and parted to allow her to draw closer and then folded around her to hold her firm. She pressed her lips to his stubbled jaw, drinking in the masculine scent of him, of freshly scrubbed skin and the tang of lime and sandalwood cologne. She kissed his throat, the kisses light and feathery as they progressed down to his chest to the hard plane of his stomach while her hands slid the silk banyan from his square shoulders and along the contoured muscle of his arms, the silk bunching at his strong wrists and here her fingers held fast, his hands captive in the folds of silk.
When he lifted his buttocks off the window seat, to free his hands from the tangle of silk to allow the banyan to fall to the floor, she would not let go of his covered wrists and so he stilled and settled again, waiting, her warm breath on his naked flesh making his heart race, his breathing short and his arousal unbearable.
She looked at him with a sly smile. “You must wait. I have unwrapped my gift and now I want to enjoy him.”
She slid to her knees and he was lost.
Three days later the Dowager Duchess of Roxton arrived at the Roxton mansion in Hanover Square, sending the small staff of servants into a further frenzy of activity. Her Grace had been expected the day before and so covers were whisked off furniture, carpets beaten clean, mattresses overturned and beds made up; sweeps were sent scurrying up and down disused chimneys and fires lit in ornate fireplaces; crystal, wood and silver were polished to a high sheen, and the larder stocked with enough foodstuffs to feed a small army.
All this activity and yet the housekeeper had no clear idea of what was happening for the mansion had sat idle and neglected for years and then the Duke’s man of business in the city arrived with a bronzed giant of a gentleman to inspect the house; the housekeeper informed that the stranger was the new leaseholder. No sooner was this visit over with than the Duke’s younger brother Lord Henri-Antoine Hesham and his boon companion Sir John (Jack) Cavendish came to stay. And if the carryings on of these two young noblemen wasn’t enough to try the patience of the most loyal servant then a wagon of crates belonging to the new leaseholder had arrived and required unloading and storage. And then the Dowager Duchess’s note was delivered announcing her imminent arrival.
Michelle, and every servant at Crecy Hall, knew what, or more precisely who, had caused the delay. Twice the carriages and wagon were hitched, the horses of the liveried outriders saddled ready to be off, and twice the horses were returned to the stables, the carriages remaining empty, the wagon with its enormous pile of trunks and boxes secured under tarpaulin and ropes left waiting, and the saddles removed from the horses belonging to the outriders.
Finally the Duchess and her lover, for what else was Jonathon Strang now he and the Duchess had spent two nights together in the small servant bedroom off the Blue bedchamber, had emerged because another note arrived from the Duke, the servant who brought it saying the matter required an immediate response. Michelle bravely slid the note under the bedchamber door and within the hour the Duchess was reading and then tearing up the Duke’s note while in her bath. An hour after that the convoy of carriages and wagons was on its way to London, Michelle not needing to speculate on the contents of the Duke’s note to his mother when Antonia said to Jonathon in the carriage,
“I do not see at all what business it is of his who I have to stay at my own house!”
Jonathon squeezed her stockinged foot which was resting on his knee, Antonia reclining on cushions along the length of one velvet padded bench in a froth of fine India cotton striped petticoats, shoes kicked off and with Jonathon sprawled out in the corner; Michelle, who was drifting in and out of sleep with the movement of the carriage, diagonally opposite, the two whippets curled up beside her. Conscious of the maid, Jonathon said in Italian,
“He is a concerned son. Concerned sons think they know what is best for their mothers.” He smiled and pinched her toe playfully. “When we’re married he won’t be able to demand my removal, from Crecy Hall or any other place we care to reside.”
Antonia chuckled, thinking him in jest and, following his lead, replied in Italian, knowing Michelle, a native French speaker knew enough English, but no Italian so would be unable to follow their private conversation; asleep or no. “We make love five—”
“—six.”
“—six times in two days, and you think I will marry you? You do have romantic notions!”
“Is that such a bad thing?’
“What? To be married to you or to have romantic notions?” Antonia teased.
Jonathon shrugged. “Either or both.”
Antonia pondered her response with a dimple. “I think we need to make love many more times before I can give you an answer.”
“What? Is it my stamina or my technique you consider the aberration?”
She shrugged and pretended to be disconsolate. “How can I tell you if we have only made love six times?”
He gave a shout of laughter at her pout and when he squeezed her stockinged foot a little too hard she scrambled up to playfully rap his velvet sleeve with the closed sticks of her fan. He caught her wrist and pulled her to him. “If the maid wasn’t here I’d prove to you that neither my stamina nor my technique are aberrations, divine creature.”
Antonia held his gaze, a frisson of desire making her shudder, curiously light headed and wondering at this new sensation. But it wasn’t new it was just that she had not felt this way in such a very long time that she had forgotten what it was to be happy.
“And I would let you because I enjoy making love with you very much,” she said softly, leaning in to kiss him.
But he pulled back, brown eyes searching her beautiful face, his smile l
ess assured but voice firm with sincerity. “Then marry me and we can make love into our dotage.”
Antonia hesitated, and realizing he was in earnest sat up, gaze firmly fixed on his handsome face. She blinked. “But I am married to Monseigneur...”
Jonathon smiled crookedly. “Were married...”
She looked away. “I—I have never given thought to marrying anyone else, ever.”
“Sweetheart, you never gave thought to making love with anyone else but Monseigneur either but here we are, you and I, lovers.
“That is different.”
“In what way?”
Antonia shrugged and suddenly flushed, flicked open her gold leaf painted fan to cool her throat and breasts, and said quietly, “Marriage is complicated; this is not.”
He smiled thinly. “Yes, marriage is complicated and that is why I want to marry you.” When Antonia looked up at him, head to one side he provided further explanation. “To say I am delighted our bodily appetites are well matched would not be doing justice to our love making but—and you can call me selfish—I want more from you than mere physical gratification. I love you. I want to go to bed with you openly, via the bedchamber door, as your husband, without any backstairs stealth. I want to make love to you as your husband; to wake up with my wife in my arms, each and every morning. Is that too much to ask?”
To his surprise and delight she shook her head, but her words caused him to swallow hard.
“What you ask is what any man would who is in love but... Me, I do not know how I feel—How my heart feels. I know how my body feels; it wants you very much.” She put out her stockinged toes, needing his touch, and when his large hand closed over the bridge of her foot she smiled tremulously. “I have never wanted any other man but Monseigneur until you...”
“And you married M’sieur le Duc d’Roxton.”
Antonia held his gaze. “Our marriage it was fated.”
Jonathon did not blink. “And if I tell you I believe our marriage it is also fated?”
Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) Page 33