Alicia reached beneath her mattress, where she’d tucked the gloves earlier—when Maude was busy clearing away the mess.
She frowned as her hand sought blindly for the soft leather, finding nothing.
Had she only imagined hiding them—what if—
But, no—there they were.
Alicia heaved a sigh and brought them to her face, her motions hesitant, as if she were doing something shameful.
She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes to focus all her attention on drawing his essence into her lungs. But all she smelled was leather.
She lowered the gloves, letting them slide over her cheek, her chin, her neck, before lowering them over her chest and down to her stomach, which was quivering with anticipation, as if she were lowering not just his gloves, but his hands.
Alicia opened her eyes and expelled the breath that was burning her lungs, her entire being now focused on the items on her belly.
After a long moment’s hesitation, she fumbled in the darkness, under the covers, and then slid her hands into them, smiling at how huge they were.
She ran her hands up her arms, shivering foolishly at the sensation, which surely was no different than it usually was.
And yet …
“Alicia you fool,” she whispered.
Images resolved themselves in the velvety blackness above her head: Gormley, his torso naked. His arms, bigger around than her waist, or so it seemed.
His own waist: narrow, taut, and corded, flaring out to shoulders that could have modeled for Atlas.
He was pale, not like the men Alicia usually saw naked, aristocrats who took the time to bask in the sunshine at their country homes, playing like carefree otters in the rivers and lakes on their lands.
A nightmarish image of David—her son-in-law—flickered through her brain, his body sleek and browned after a month spent at The Willows.
Her throat convulsed and her eyes flew open.
No! she screamed, thankfully inside her head.
“No,” she whispered fiercely.
There was no place for her stepson in this fantasy—or anywhere else in her life.
Alicia had worked hard to root and scrape and pull every memory of David from her brain. It had not been easy, his handsome face— loathsome to her—had clung like a stubborn weed between cobbles. But she’d done it. Or at least she’d believed she had.
She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the other image. Him. Gormley, his powerful arms shielding her, protecting her, hurting those who would hurt her.
Her lips curved; yes, his body, pale, strong, and laid out exactly where she was right now.
Alicia realized she’d been flexing her hips, her thighs, her private muscles as she imagined him. She was wet, tight, needing. This sensation was not unique.
No, this was the nagging, driving, relentless urge that had given her the strength to stamp out her nightmarish memories of her marriage to the earl and take control of her life—her body.
This persistent, aching need was why she’d decided to take a man like Byerly as her lover, not that he’d ever done anything about assuaging the desire between her thighs—something she’d needed to see to after their trysts.
Still, Byerly was hardly unique in his inability to bring her to climax. Alicia had never experienced sexual satisfaction with another.
She’d been too young with Horace, and too scared of doing something wrong. And later, when she might have enjoyed his kind attentions and gentle lovemaking, he’d been too ill to give them.
And her second husband—the earl?
Alicia shivered. No.
It was likely there was something wrong with her. Why else did she have these unnatural urges? Urges that only she could satisfy.
She’d never met another woman who was driven by such lusts, at least none who would admit to it.
As ever, her body’s demands filled her with irritation, anger, and finally resignation. The feeling would not go away—not unless she addressed the problem.
So, she sighed and pulled up the expensive lawn of her nightgown, the fabric whispering over her skin like ghostly fingers. Her body vibrated with expectation as the material drifted up her thighs, over her mound, and finally her belly.
She spread her knees and reached down, only to realize she still wore the oversized gloves—his gloves. Her hesitation was momentary, pushed aside by her anger. Was it more wanton to pleasure herself with his glove on her hand? Wasn’t her soul condemned to hell merely for thinking about what she was about to do?
Alicia snorted; as if her soul hadn’t been condemned to hell decades ago.
She let her knees fall open and skimmed the glove over her mound, shuddering at the anonymous feeling of cool leather grazing her hot skin. Her breathing became ragged and she spread wider, stroking herself harder.
If she was going to hell, she might as well enjoy the journey.
.
Chapter Eight
It was barely after dawn when a rap on his door startled Joss awake.
Miss Finch stormed into his room without waiting for permission, bearing a tray of food.
Joss didn’t own a nightshirt so he pulled his bedding higher, scooting up against the smooth pine headboard, and sitting upright.
“This wasn’t my idea; her ladyship sent me,” she announced flatly.
Joss hardly needed her to tell him that.
Instead of bringing the tray to the bed she set it on his small table and fixed her hostile gaze on him.
“I need to check your wound before you eat.” She marched to the head of the bed and Joss leaned forward.
Unlike last night, her fingers were light and gentle as they skimmed his injury. “Not too much swelling, no weeping, not too hot or red.” She dropped her hands to his pillow and shoved it up behind him. “Sit back.”
Joss did so.
She gave a rude snort. “A man of few words, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Where’s your coat?”
He gestured to his clothes cupboard. He’d tried to rid the fine wool of some of the blood, but the small bowl of wash water had become as red as a slaughterhouse floor.
She eyed it. “Tried to clean it, did you. Well, I’ll be able to mend it so you’ll hardly notice.” She looked up from the torn bloody garment. “The shirt, on the other hand, won’t be good for anything but patches, but I’ll see what I can do with the waistcoat.” She shook her head and Joss knew she was thinking back to her mistress, who’d insisted on cutting off his garments, impatient to get him stitched.
It was an unusual toff who would think a servant’s skin more important than bespoke clothing.
Maude put aside the coat and brought the tray.
He let her set it on his lap, not bothering to conceal his morning erection. It wasn’t his job to hide himself if a woman came uninvited into his room. Not that she appeared to notice or care.
“Thank you,” he said.
She ignored him. “Her ladyship says to remind you that you are to rest.” She rolled her eyes. “Just do as she ordered. Somebody will bring you a midday meal and your tea and I’ll bring your dinner and check your back again. Do you need anything else?”
“I’m not to leave my room?”
“You’re not to leave your bed for two days,” she amended. “Unless it is necessary, of course. Do you need anything else,” she repeated.
“Aye, a pitcher of wash water.”
Her eyes flickered slightly, whether in surprise at his tone or his request, he could not have said. She made a hrumphing sound and left without answering.
Joss looked down at his tray. Fresh scones, whipped butter, strawberry jam—his favorite—two slabs of ham, a small crock of coddle eggs, toast, and a steaming pot of tea with cream. He grinned; it was a far nicer breakfast than he’d be eating in the servants’ quarters. Perhaps staying in bed wouldn’t be so hard, after all.
∞∞∞
Alicia dithered about what to do for five whole days.
> She dreaded facing Gormley again after the dreams she’d been having about him. Not to mention the things she’d been doing while dreaming about him.
The dreams didn’t just come at night, but also assaulted her throughout the day. Insidious, dangerous, erotic dreams that refused to go away.
She could not forget the image of his naked torso stretched across her bed.
Nor could she forget the way he’d rescued her, taking charge of the chaotic situation quickly, calmly, and masterfully.
Alicia was accustomed to rescuing herself—or going un-rescued, as had been the case with her last husband and his rotten son.
The feeling of putting oneself into another’s hands was . . . well, she didn’t know quite what it was, exactly, but she burned to find out more about her intriguing servant.
A debate raged inside her head for five days.
On one side was that part of her that recoiled from the mere idea of conducting an affair with a servant.
On the other—and far more vocal—side, was the deep physical attraction she felt for this strong, self-contained, and quietly intelligent man.
While it was perfectly acceptable for male aristocrats to chase their chambermaids around their bedchambers, people would sit up and take notice if an upstart American countess bedded her groom.
Alicia had worked her entire adult life to distance herself from her hardscrabble beginnings; she simply could not allow her feelings—her physical needs—to jeopardize everything she’d struggled so hard to achieve.
Or so she told herself.
But as hard as she tried to control her thoughts, her mind kept returning over and over, like an annoying homing pigeon, to the memory of how gentle and safe his arms had felt when they’d held her. How could somebody so powerful be so gentle?
Quit lyin’ to yourself, Allie—it ain’t thoughts of his gentleness that make your quim wet and hot, her aunt taunted with a raucous laugh.
Alicia knew it wasn’t really her Aunt Giddy’s voice speaking in her head—not that her aunt would have hesitated to chastise her for her earthy wants if she were still alive. Aunt Giddy had firmly believed that all women’s problems originated between their thighs.
Keep your purse shut tight, young Allie, nothin’ good can come of you openin’ it up for some man.
You’d think Alicia would have taken that advice to heart by now, but her mental debate about Gormley was still raging five days after the Byerly incident.
And then, quite suddenly, the lustful half of her mind—more like three-quarters, if she were honest—came up with an argument that tipped the scales in lust’s favor.
The weather had been cold—dreadfully cold—and Alicia still had Gormley’s gloves.
She had no idea whether a servant would have two sets of gloves. What if he didn’t? Was he suffering because of her thoughtlessness?
Summoning him to her rooms seemed rather callous given the fact that she had stolen the gloves and hidden them.
And she could hardly send Maude to return them without having to tolerate a raft of impertinent questions.
Besides, shouldn’t she thank him for what he’d done?
Send the gloves along with a note, Aunt Giddy barked.
Alicia ignored the suggestion.
It was only proper—and decent—that she thank him in person.
Her heart thudded with anticipation.
Yes, she should thank him. And she could do it that very evening.
She’d planned to use her own carriage and John Coachman to take her to the wretched masquerade ball her friend Connie had talked her into attending.
Instead, she would have Gormley attend her, even though it wasn’t his normal duty to escort her to ton functions.
Connie had sent over several costumes for Alicia to choose from and one was Cleopatra.
It had taken Alicia hours upon hours to finish reading that blasted play. She’d cried her eyes out when she reached the end, greatly admiring the willful, clever, and much-maligned ancient queen.
The costume lacked originality—there were likely to be a dozen Cleopatras at the ball—but it would be amusing to see Gormley’s reaction.
Oh, Allie.
She refused to allow her aunt to spoil things.
Besides, the more she thought about it, the more sense it made to have Gormley fetch a hackney to take her.
The last thing she needed was for her carriage to be spotted outside Lord Pinkney’s house during a masquerade.
Alicia shivered; not wanting to think about how her son-in-law would respond to such information.
She shoved David from her mind, turning to more pleasant thoughts.
She would use Gormley—just the two of them. That would be far better, she told herself. Far better.
∞∞∞
Joss had just removed his cravat when there was a knock on his door.
Now who the devil could that be?
Not her ladyship because he’d been told he wouldn’t be needed tonight as the countess was going to a ball with friends.
Joss gritted his teeth and said a silent prayer: Please, don’t let this be Annie.
But when he opened the door, he found Miss Finch outside, her sharp gaze flickering to his open shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat.
“She changed her mind, so you’ll be escorting her. Fetch a hackney.”
Joss nodded, but she’d already turned and left.
He splashed some water on his face before taking a fresh neckcloth from his cupboard.
As he tied it, Joss studied his face in the mirror. He looked . . . hostile. And he was feeling hostile, too.
If she wanted the anonymity of a hackney rather than her carriage it meant she would be going to meet some lover rather than going to a ball.
He scowled at his reflection. Surely she would not be going to meet Byerly?
No, that was impossible.
Even if it wasn’t Byerly, Joss wasn’t sure he could stomach waiting for her while she gave herself to yet another man who didn’t deserve her.
Unlike you, of course.
No, Joss didn’t ever expect her to even notice him—or so he told himself—but he sure as hell didn’t want to wait while she engaged in bedsport with somebody else.
That’s why she hired you, fool.
Dammit, he knew that. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Take yourself in hand, Joss.
Yes, he’d better.
He fixed a blank look on his face—his servant expression—and went to secure a hackney.
Once he’d done that, he went to the entry hall, prepared to wait. But she was already there.
Joss’s jaw dropped and an embarrassing noise came out of his mouth. She was swathed head-to-toe in a cloak of lustrous dark fur and her eyes were lined with kohl.
And she wore a serpent-shaped crown on her smooth blond hair.
She cut him her customary, cool look. “Good evening, Gormley.”
“Er, my lady.”
She moved toward the door and he made haste to open it. Her heavy cloak glistened black as sin in the low light, the red eyes of the serpent winking.
He helped her inside the hack and waited until she was comfortably settled.
“Where shall I tell him to take you, my lady?”
“Lord Pinkney’s house on Grosvenor Square.”
Joss’s head jerked up at the unknown address. She wasn’t looking at him, but down at her hands.
She wore black lambskin opera gloves, covering her bare arms up past the elbow. The butter soft leather would be nowhere as soft as her skin. He knew that, now, after touching her that night . . . in her bed.
She cleared her throat and Joss realized he’d been staring and turned to give the waiting driver the address.
When he moved to shut the door and take his place on the rumble seat, she said, “In here, Gormley.”
So, he climbed into the carriage and shut the door.
They rode in silence for a few moments.
/>
“I am going to a masquerade ball.”
That made Joss smile. “I gathered as much, my lady.”
“Can you guess who I am?”
“Cleopatra?”
“I suppose that was rather an easy question for a man who reads Shakespeare. Tell me, Gormley, which of the Bard’s descriptions fits me best? Lustful gipsy? Wrangling queen?” She hesitated. “Whore?”
Joss’s breathing hitched at hearing the vulgar word on her tongue. “I was thinking an enchantress who has made Antony ‘the noble ruin of her magic.’”
She laughed. “Bravo, Gormley, bravo.” She was still chuckling when she extended one hand toward him.
Joss looked down. “My gloves.” He’d believed they’d been lost that night. “Thank you, my lady.”
“You must have been cold. I’m sorry I did not think to return them sooner.”
He smiled at her concern and pulled them on. “I hardly noticed, my lady.”
When he looked up, he saw she was staring at her hands, adjusting the seams on her already straight gloves. Her fingers were long, delicate, and unspeakably sensual encased in tight leather.
And then there was her gown.
Her fur cloak had fallen open, exposing a white sleeveless affair that was cinched tight with a gold girdle at her waist.
She wore no undergarments and the hard, dark circles of her nipples thrust against the silk.
Joss wrenched his eyes away and looked up at her beautiful face.
And stared.
Her lips were parted, her nostrils flared, and her chest rose and fell in shallow jerks beneath the whisper-thin silk.
And the expression in her darkened eyes …
Joss shook himself. No, he had to be wrong.
But he knew he wasn’t. After all, it was a look he knew all too well, although he’d not seen it in a few years.
He wanted to laugh. And then jump out of the moving hackney.
Christ. It was happening again.
∞∞∞
What are you doing? What are you doing?
It seemed the voice in her head had run out of any other words. Over and over the same thought went round, a chant, almost.
Indeed, what was she doing?
She looked up from her hands to find his eyes on her. He was looking at her. Not over her shoulder, not at her feet. But at her.
Joss and The Countess (The Seducers Book 2) Page 8