A Wicked Gentleman

by Jane Feather

  David seemed to have come to the same conclusion. “Ah, just so,” he said. “Yes…yes.” He buried his nose and his confusion in his wine goblet.

  “Lord Bonham’s business is his own, after all,” Cornelia said, taking a sip from her own wineglass. “What do you think of the claret, Sir Nicholas?”

  “Oh, excellent,” he said, glad to be on solid ground once more. He held up his glass to the window and the thin ray of sunlight set ruby lights glinting. “Lovely color…good body,” he observed appreciatively.

  “I wonder what effect Napoleon’s Continental System will have on the wine trade,” Cornelia said, moving to the chaise. It was time to turn the subject firmly away from Harry Bonham. When she was alone she could consider the implications of what she’d just heard…or rather hadn’t heard. “What do you think, Lord Forster?”

  David’s confusion seemed to deepen. “Well, as to that, ma’am…not much for politics, m’self. Not too sure, really.”

  “It can only have a deleterious effect,” Nick said gravely, coming to his friend’s rescue. “With the French blockading the ports, all trade with Europe is bound to be seriously affected.”

  “Yes, and it won’t just be wine,” Aurelia chimed in. “Nor just imports. Our own products will have no outside markets either.”

  As other visitors arrived, the conversation continued to hold general interest, and Cornelia, try as she would, could only concentrate with half her mind. The other half would not let go of the conviction that Harry was an out-and-out liar.

  He was most definitely not responsible for a clutch of motherless nephews and nieces.

  But why, then, had he been so insistent on buying Liv’s house?

  Chapter 20

  I’M GOING TO HAVE A BATH,” Cornelia announced with decision after supper that evening. “I want to wash my hair and just soak in front of the fire in my chamber.”

  “That sounds so appealing,” Aurelia said. “I’m tired of sponge baths. They’re neither one thing nor the other, and you never feel really clean all over. Your turn tonight, Nell, mine tomorrow.”

  “Agreed.” Cornelia stood up from the table. “I’ll go to the kitchen and see how much help I can rustle up with the water.”

  “There’s Hester, and the new boot boy,” Livia suggested. “I don’t suppose Lester is still here. I think he goes home at night…wherever home is.”

  “He was here last night,” Aurelia said. “I went down to the kitchen to heat some milk for Franny, and he was sitting by the range with his feet on the fender, reading the Morning Post.”

  “Well, let’s hope he’s here tonight,” Cornelia said, going to the door. “For some reason I have absolute faith in that man’s ability to achieve miracles, even one as difficult as getting enough hot water upstairs to fill that copper tub.”

  And Lester was indeed sitting by the range, a tankard of ale at his elbow, his feet on the fender, and the Post in his hands. He looked surprised as Cornelia entered the kitchen. “My lady? You should have rung.”

  “We all know this household doesn’t run along customary lines, Lester,” Cornelia said, looking around. “Are you all alone?”

  “Mr. Morecombe and the ladies have gone to their own quarters. Hester and that young Jemmy are havin’ a bit of supper in the pantry, ma’am,” Lester said. “Hester’ll come to the dining room to clear the table presently. If there’s something you want done now, I can do it.”

  “Well, as it happens, there is,” Cornelia said. “I wish to have a bath in my chamber, Lester. Do you think there’s enough hot water on the range?”

  “Plenty to be goin’ on with, my lady,” he said, setting aside his newspaper. “And it won’t take more than half an hour to heat up another cauldron.” He gestured to the one that already steamed gently over the fire.

  Soon after Cornelia returned to her chamber, Hester arrived with the copper tub which she set on thick sheets before the fire. After the maid encouraged the coals to a full blaze, she said, “I’ve drawn the curtains against the draft, m’lady.”

  Cornelia glanced towards the window where heavy crimson velvet curtains hung. “Thank you, Hester.”

  The maid scurried away when she finished her chores and Cornelia went to the window, sliding behind the velvet to look out at the dark garden. Where was he?

  She felt a prickle of apprehension. Harry was no ordinary London beau. Oh, you could be fooled into thinking he was…but there was steel in him. Was he doing something dangerous? Was he hurt?

  A tap at the door brought her out from behind the curtains just as Lester entered with two steaming jugs. He poured the water into the tub, nothing in his expression indicating the sympathy he felt. He’d seen the way she’d darted out from behind the curtains. He had no idea when the viscount would emerge from his attic office where he’d been confined for three days deciphering a problematic Russian code, and even if he did know, he could not confide in the lady.

  “Would you wish Hester to attend you, m’lady?”

  “No, thank you. Just bring up enough water,” she said, opening a small cedar box on the dresser. It contained cheesecloth pouches of dried lavender and rosemary, a small vial of orange flower water, and a bar of verbena-scented soap. She might not have a lover tonight, but she could at least luxuriate in another form of sensuality.

  Two more trips ensured that the bath was filled and three further jugs stood in the hearth, keeping warm by the fire. Cornelia was at last alone. She dropped the pouches into the water where the aromatic herbs would steep slowly. The orange flower water she would use when she rinsed her hair.

  She stripped off her clothes, suddenly impatient, suddenly angry. He had no right to disappear without a word. Not if nothing dreadful had happened to cause his absence. Did he count her as nothing in his life?

  And why did he lie? Why that ridiculous story about motherless children? Why the interest in this house in the first place? Oh, it would be nice to think he’d seen her by accident, fallen in love…no lust…with her, and come up with such a scheme as an entrée. But the solicitor’s letter with the offer had come to Livia in Ringwood. Long before Viscount Bonham had set eyes on the woman he’d first thought to be a scullery maid.

  Cornelia stepped into the bath and slid down into the water, drawing up her knees to brace the soles of her feet against the far edge, splashing the water over her breasts and shoulders. She hated puzzles, but even more she detested being made game of. And it seemed to her now that Harry had been playing with her even before he had met her.

  Disillusion swamped her as dirty and greasy as old dishwater, and she reached for the verbena soap.

  Ten minutes later Harry stood in the garden looking up at the house. He knew Cornelia’s window simply by position, but it was a black square tonight. The window closed, the curtains drawn tight. He couldn’t possibly shin up the drainpipe and hope to wake her when she was presumably sleeping like the dead.

  She might have been looking out for him, he thought with a touch of resentment. Hadn’t she missed him? But he knew that wasn’t reasonable, and if he wasn’t as exhausted as he was, he would never have been so irrational. But he wanted her. Now.

  Lester was in the house. But so too, presumably, was Morecombe of the fearsome blunderbuss, not to mention the taciturn twins. He seemed to remember Lester saying something about other servants now, as well.

  He moved, stealthy as a hunting cat, through the garden, keeping against the house wall until he reached the steps that led down to the back door to the servants’ basement. He could see a line of light along the base of the door at the bottom of the dark stone steps. Someone was still up in the kitchen, and he had to hope it would be Lester. The man, as instructed during Harry’s absence, would certainly be on the alert for anything untoward during the hours of the night.

  Harry cupped his hands to his mouth and blew gently. The unmistakable call of a brown owl sounded in the quiet. He waited for two beats, and then repeated the call. If Lester was close
enough to hear, he would recognize the viscount’s call sign.

  After a few minutes of straining his ears into the darkness and hearing nothing, Harry repeated the sequence. And this time, within a minute he heard the scraping of bolts in the darkness below, and the kitchen door swung open.

  Lester glanced quickly around, then closed the door at his back and climbed up the steps to the garden. “Anything wrong, m’lord?” He spoke in an undertone.

  “Yes, damn you,” Harry said impatiently but in the same undertone. “Lady Dagenham’s window is closed and dark.”

  Lester suppressed a grin. “Her ladyship’s taking a bath, sir. In her chamber in front of the fire.”

  Harry did not suppress his own grin. “Oh, is she now? Well, get me in. Lester.”

  “Aye, sir. The other ladies have gone up to bed, so I’ll open up the library window. You can say as how you found it on the latch and managed to slip in.”

  “What about those wretched dogs?”

  “They’re up with Lady Livia. Of course, if they hear you in the corridor, they’ll set up their bloody racket again…and they don’t miss nothing,” he added somewhat gloomily. “They can hear an earwig crawl.”

  Harry considered for a minute, then said decisively, “We’ll use the cry wolf ruse.”

  Lester nodded his comprehension. “Give me a couple of minutes to get to the library window, sir, then you can stay in there while I go upstairs and set the dogs off. Lady Dagenham’s door is the third down the corridor on the left.”

  He disappeared back down into the shadows of the basement area. Light flooded from the kitchen for an instant, then it was black again.

  Harry crept back around the garden, clinging again to the wall of the house until he reached the library window immediately below Cornelia’s. He heard the slight scrape from within as Lester fiddled with the latch, then the window came up.

  Harry jumped onto the sill and slid through into the dark room, landing soundlessly on the rug. Lester nodded, lowering the window as quietly as he could, then slipped away towards the hall door at the far side of the room.

  Harry crept to the door and stood behind it against the wall, listening. Within minutes the frantic yapping sounded. Doors opened above and he could hear voices. Livia’s he recognized, then Lester’s deeper tones. Harry couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he would be giving a reason for his presence upstairs, one that would ensure no one would take any notice of the dogs if they started up again.

  Doors closed again, and the yapping continued although more muffled.

  Harry slipped from the library and darted for the stairs. He was up them in seconds, seeking the shadows of the upstairs landing and the passage leading off it.

  Lester was waiting for him and as soon as he saw him he coughed loudly. The dogs began their racket once more, but this time no doors were opened, and Livia’s somewhat exasperated voice could be heard telling them to be quiet, it was only Lester.

  Harry raised a hand to Lester in silent salute and flitted along the corridor, past Livia’s door, and paused outside Cornelia’s. He laid a hand on the handle and turned it quietly. The door swung open, and he darted in, closing it gently at his back.

  “Well, now, if that’s not the most enticing sight,” he murmured, standing with his back to the door, gazing at the vision in front of him.

  Cornelia sat bolt upright in the bath and stared at him in astonishment. “How on earth did you get in? Did you set the dogs off?”

  “Well, that’s not much of a welcome,” he said, reaching behind him to turn the key in the lock.

  “How did you get in?” she repeated, watching almost warily as he crossed the chamber to the fire.

  “A window downstairs was unlocked. I was able to pry it open,” he said. “And one of your servants set the dogs off, and I was able to slip in here under cover of their noise.”

  Cornelia was not sure she believed this. It was all too pat. “Where have you been?”

  He leaned over the tub and kissed her mouth. “So many questions, Nell. I’m here now.” He moved his lips to her damp forehead and licked the moisture from her eyebrows. “You taste wonderful. And your hair smells delicious.”

  “Which is more than I can say for you, sir,” she retorted, the words at odds with the languid sensuality of her voice and the deep blue pools of her eyes that seemed to engulf him. “You don’t look as if you’ve slept for a week, or bathed in as long.”

  “Probably because it’s true,” he said, straightening. “But I can remedy one at least of those failings.” He began to throw off his clothes.

  “You can’t get in here,” she protested. “There’s not enough room.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he responded, sitting on the end of the bed to deal with his boots and stockings. “That’s better.” Naked he stood up. “Now, shift your backside, ma’am.”

  Cornelia made a laughing protest, but she hitched herself up against one side of the bath, and he stepped in opposite her. Water slurped over the rim and onto the thick sheet as he slid down, pushing his feet beneath her bottom as he slipped farther beneath the water.

  “Look what a mess you’re making on the floor,” she objected even as she shifted against his feet, adding to the deluge. His toes were moving wickedly in places where no toes should be, and her objections faded into a soft whimper of pleasure.

  Harry smiled, leaning forward to catch the damp fullness of her breasts in the palms of his hands. He played with her nipples, watching her face. “Ah, but I’ve missed you, love.”

  “I’ve been here,” she said, touching her tongue to her lips as her nipples peaked hard against his caressing finger. “Where were you?” But there was no sting now to the question, and she lost all interest in an answer, at least for the moment.

  Harry moved his hands to her waist and pulled her body over his, his head falling back against the rim of the tub. Cornelia wriggled herself astride him, heedless now of the water slopping onto the sodden sheets. She knelt up, lifting herself to guide him within her.

  Harry groaned and held himself still. “Don’t move, sweetheart, right now I have as little control as a pubescent boy.”

  Cornelia smiled, enjoying her moment of power. She knew she could tip him over the edge with the tiniest movement. She could feel the pulse of his penis deep within her. She leaned forward and kissed him, her loins shifting against his belly. It was enough.

  Her own pleasure this time came purely from his, from the knowledge of this amazing female power. She sat back on her heels and looked down the length of his body. He seemed thinner, and the lines of fatigue were deeply etched around his black-shadowed eyes.

  “What have you been doing to yourself?” she asked, running her hands across his chest as she kissed his eyes. “You’re worn to the bone, my love.”

  For an answer, he put his hands at her waist and eased her away from him. “Is there any more hot water? This is getting chilly.”

  Cornelia accepted that for the moment she was going to get no answers. “There’s one more jug. I used the other spares to rinse my hair.” She stood up and stepped out of the bath in a shower of drops. A towel was warming on the rack in front of the fire, and she wrapped herself up swiftly, conscious of the cold air on her wet skin. She picked up the remaining jug and poured the contents over his head.

  Harry had not been expecting it and spluttered in indignant surprise as it cascaded over him.

  “You might as well wash your hair while you’re about it,” she said, tossing him the soap that was on the floor beside the bath.

  He took the advice and Cornelia dried herself before wrapping herself up in her thick nightrobe. She sat on the chest at the foot of the bed and watched his ablutions. Questions ran riot in her head, but she knew she had to tread carefully. She felt she ought to have the right to ask her questions, and yet she knew instinctively that Harry had not conferred that right upon her. But she was going to ask them anyway.

  “Towel,” he d
emanded, standing up, clicking his fingers in mock command.

  “At your service, sir,” she said, running another long, appreciative look along his body. He was a very fine specimen of a man, she decided. Long and lean, muscular without being obviously so, his strength was implied rather than displayed. His slim waist and hips, the length of powerful but equally slim thighs, were those of an athlete.

  “Nell, I’m freezing,” he said plaintively. “I’m delighted to offer you such a vision of masculine beauty, but the part of my anatomy that should most concern you is shriveling with cold.”

  Cornelia laughed. “Oh, we can’t have that,” she said, fetching another warmed towel from the rack. She tossed it around his shoulders before going to rummage in the armoire. “I have another nightrobe somewhere in here. It may be a bit moth-eaten, but it’ll serve…ah, yes, here it is.” Triumphantly, she flourished a velvet robe. She picked a little doubtfully at the rather tatty lace. “It’ll probably be a bit short on you.”

  “I should think that’s the least of its problems,” Harry said, regarding the garment with disfavor. “If you don’t mind, I’ll settle for a dry towel.”

  “Oh, very well.” Cornelia took another towel from the linen press and handed it to him.

  He wrapped it securely around his waist and surveyed the general disarray in front of the fire. “I think, if I take up those soaked sheets and put them in the tub, I can move the whole thing into a corner, and it’ll be a little less messy in here.”

  “You can blame yourself for the mess,” Cornelia said. “If you hadn’t insisted on sharing my bath…”

  “Ah, but wasn’t the sharing pleasant?” he said, catching her hand and pulling her swiftly towards him so that she was held tight against his bare chest. He pushed up her chin, running a fingertip over her mouth, his lively green eyes flashing like fireflies as he smiled down at her.