by VJ Dunraven
A frown creased his brow when he saw a group of plump matrons entering the manor in full finery complete with silver topped canes. Some elderly gentlemen hobbled behind them, tapping their own elegant walking sticks on the pavement.
Christ. How could he endure this for the next two weeks? He cast a backward glance. They were the last in line. Surely, the chit his mother picked could not be one of those people who have just arrived.
He suddenly felt uncertain. What—pray tell—was his mama thinking? Did she send him here to match him with some older chit on the shelf—or worst—a damn widow? Allayne cringed at the thought. Dear God, if he were to leg-shackle himself to some lady who was a worm away from the grave or had murdered her husband in his sleep, then he'd rather be a bachelor all his life or enter the monastery and become a monk.
Allayne rubbed his temple with his fingers, feeling the onset of a headache. How could he avoid this impending fiasco that would waste his time for the next fourteen days? He was in Bath, for goodness sake, one of the most beautiful cities in England! How could he get away from this disaster of a match—and enjoy his stay?
The carriage lurched forward as the conveyance ahead of them emptied its passengers and moved on.
Allayne began to squirm in his seat, panicked. The entire fortnight stretched out like a prison sentence before him. What to do ... what to do...
His eyes met Andy's, his valet, who was sitting across from him. He studied his height, his size, the modest, but impeccable manner of dressing that he had proudly maintained throughout his years of service.
"Sir?" Andy raised questioning brows.
A measured, mutinous smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. Ah, but could he do it? Could he actually get away with—damnation! Why the hell not?
"Andy," Allayne’s grin widened by the second. "Take off your clothes!"
~
Inside the Earl of Weston's luxurious equipage, Lady Alexandra and her maid, Anna, craned their necks to view the occupants of the last carriage before them, who finally opened the door after much delay. Alexandra knew she was late herself—a deliberate maneuver on her part. She wanted to get a glimpse of everyone, most especially this son of a viscount from God knew where, whom her father had arranged for her to meet.
Well, there truly was nothing wrong with trying to get an advantage. She merely wanted to see if he was decent—or acceptable to a degree, so she could prepare herself to bear with him for fourteen days. And who could blame her? After all the unpleasant encounters her father had put her through with his so-called matchmaking expertise, she had become wiser—and more astute.
A gentleman disembarked from the carriage. He was not too old—perhaps two and forty. Clearly, this must be the viscount's son.
He was dressed in a fine dark blue coat, his waistcoat embroidered in an intricate royal blue and emerald green pattern. A perfectly bow-tied cravat on a Grafton collar adorned his throat. However, in spite of his expensive clothes, he was on the short and thin side. His breeches hung loosely about his legs and his coat seemed too wide for his shoulders. His tailor must need new spectacles—for the clothes he made were evidently almost two sizes larger.
"Is that the viscount's heir?" Anna peeked through the window curtains.
"I suppose so," Alexandra sighed as she watched him hesitate by the entrance to the manor. His brown hair was neatly cropped and he has a kind face that looked pleasant enough. But oh, Lord, he seemed so timid that even from where she sat, she could see the uncertainty in his eyes.
"Oh my," Anna whispered next to her and Alexandra peered over her head to see who she was gaping at.
Another man had descended from the carriage and from the looks of him; he appeared to be the gentleman's valet. He was dressed in somber tones—a black coat over a plain gray waistcoat. He carried a valise.
Alexandra stared at the man. He was tall—very tall. At the moment, his back was turned to them and she could see the wide breadth of his shoulders straining against his coat. The sleeves could barely contain his muscled arms—easily visible from where they were. His unbound hair cascaded over his shoulders in thick waves and layers.
A shaft of sunlight filtered through the trees and touched his locks. Honey blond, the color crossed Alexandra's thoughts as effortlessly as the breath she took. What a rare shade—neither a flaxen nor a light brown.
The man walked with distinctive self-assurance towards the entrance where his master stood. His black breeches clung almost obscenely to his long, muscular legs. But before he climbed up the short flight of steps, he paused and turned. His eyes went directly towards the window where Alexandra was peeking.
Alexandra met his gaze. He has the most stunning eyes she had ever seen. Even from a few yards away, she could see the fan of his long lashes, curling upwards almost effeminately, crowning eyes of the most vivid green.
Her gaze lowered to his form.
Holy Lord Almighty, the man is an Olympian—a fallen angel encased in exceedingly tight breeches—with all the glory of his manhood impressed like a trophy for all to see.
Alexandra broke out in cold sweat.
Dear God, she prayed, if only you had sent a man like that a long time ago, I would have dragged him myself to the altar without a qualm, and multiplied like the plague to fill the very ends of the earth. Instead, her shoulders slumped; I am stuck with—with—
She cast a forlorn glance at the valet's master, both of them now standing on the stair landing. If not for the manner of dressing, one would be more inclined to believe that the viscount's son was more akin to be the valet, and the valet would most definitely be mistaken as the viscount's heir.
Lucky Anna. She would at least get to meet the angel and dine with him in the servants' wing. Meanwhile, she would be sitting in the drawing room, having tea and trying her best to be charming to skinny Mr. Timid.
She took another look at the delicious man and wondered what it would be like to have someone as beautiful as that, lying next to her in bed, kissing her and making love to her—doing all those wonderful things she'd read in novels which her papa said did not matter.
"Money, my dear, matters," her papa always, said. "When you have plenty of it, affection will follow."
She believed him then, but now, she found it hard to swallow. She simply could not picture herself marrying any of those wealthy aberrations her papa recommended and living in blissful luxury ever after.
What she wanted was romance—with a real man.
She gazed longingly at the fallen angel on the doorstep, who turned to follow his employer.
Yes. Like that one.
The carriage heaved forward as the viscount's conveyance moved out of the way.
Botheration. Alexandra twisted her hands in her lap and glanced at Anna, who was still gaping after the valet like a pug with her tongue hanging out. Oh, how she wished she were in her shoes right now....
The carriage lumbered to a halt.
A footman approached the door.
Alexandra quickly locked the door latch.
"Milady?" Anna swung her head towards her in bewilderment.
"Anna," she grinned, barely able to conceal the bubble of excitement building in her belly. "Take your clothes off—now."
Chapter 3
The Valet
"Andy," Allayne whispered to his valet as they ascended the steps to the Countess' manor. "Another carriage had arrived after us. Let us dawdle in the receiving room so I can get a good look at the occupants. Who knows, that might be the Earl's daughter."
"Yes, Sir," Andy darted his eyes at the thinning crowd in the reception line, his Adam's apple going up and down.
"Now, don’t be anxious," Allayne said, under his breath. "Remember, you're The Honourable Allayne Carlyle, and I am Andy, your valet. Pray don't slip and call me Sir."
"Yes, Sir," Andy blanched at Allayne's reproachful glare. "I mean, yes, Andy."
"Now introduce yourself to the Countess Dowager as such," Allayne urged him towar
ds the end of the queue of eager guests. "Look her in the eye and keep your chin up. And stop fidgeting for Christ's sake!"
"Oh, Lord, Sir—I-I mean Andy—" Andy grimaced, "I think this is a bad idea."
"Balderdash!" Allayne nudged him forward as their turn came up. "What is so hard about pretending you're me? You have known me for over ten years. It's child's play, if anything."
Andy pulled out a handkerchief—one embroidered with Allayne's initials and wiped his brow. "Oh Lord," he reddened. "I'm sorry Sir—Andy, I didn't mean to use your handkerchief."
"Good God, man!" Allayne muttered a curse. "Stop apologizing! You may use everything I have—except for my razor and my drawers—understood?"
"Yes Si—"
Allayne flicked his chin in warning, darting his eyes past him to indicate the presence of the Countess.
Andy colored to an unpalatable shade of green.
Allayne squeezed his eyes shut and drew a deep breath. Dear God, please don’t let the fool dump his breakfast on the Countess' titanic bosom—
"You must be Mister Allayne Carlyle," the countess offered her hand to Andy in greeting.
Andy stared at the older woman's hand, took it, and opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Allayne had a very serious inclination to throttle the silly man. Where did all his training as a valet go? Andy knew exactly what protocol called for, yet here he stood, frozen like a damn opera singer in the throes of stage fright.
Allayne inserted himself partway between Andy and the Countess, and then bowed. "My lady, I beg your forgiveness in behalf of Mister Carlyle. He had been practicing the aria and lost his voice. Nevertheless, he would like to express his utmost delight in meeting you and is looking forward to your enchanting company."
Allayne cast a speaking glance at Andy who promptly bowed over the countess' hand and nodded his head vigorously.
The countess did not appear to notice their exchange and seemed rather flattered by Allayne's buttery tongue. "But of course. What a wonderful surprise to know that Mister Carlyle can sing. Perhaps he can indulge us with a concerto when he recovers. I gather you are here to accompany him?" She regarded him with an interested gaze.
"I am merely his valet, my lady. Mister Andrew—" Allayne lost his train of thought for a second. What the hell was Andy's last name anyway? Ah, but there's no time to cerebrate. "Huntington."
"Huntington?" The countess' finely lined brows arched.
Blast. Allayne concealed his discomfiture. Of all the surnames in England, why did he use Huntington—the first thing that materialized in his brain—and not some common name like Smith or White? Huntington was hardly fit for a valet when the name connotes an ancient legacy dating back to the Norman Conquest—not to mention the fact that it commands recognition in the upper echelons of society.
"Yes, my lady," he inclined his head and tipped the corners of his mouth just enough for the elusive dimples on his cheeks to show. They have served him well—used sparingly as secret weapons to charm the ladies into forgetting everything else. "Andrew Huntington, at your service."
"I'm sure I will be pleased to summon your services," the countess assessed him up and down with a meaningful smile, her gaze lingering at the bulge between his legs.
Christ. Allayne swallowed the expletive gurgling in his throat. He had always thought that men were the only ones capable of leering at the opposite sex. Obviously, he was mistaken. His new position as a mere servant naturally made him more susceptible to blatant innuendos of a carnal nature.
A sudden urge to clamp his legs and cover himself brewed at the back of his mind. Damnation—the woman must be older than his mother!
He made a quick bow and elbowed Andy to proceed to the drawing room where the other guests awaited their hostess. God help him, but the overly tight breeches rubbed him the wrong way. He had to forego his drawers just to squeeze himself in Andy's damned breeches. Now, his docile rod had risen partly like a cat, purring against the friction of the fabric in his crotch.
Allayne gritted his teeth and brushed the wayward direction of his thoughts as they strolled into the drawing room. He must remember to have the local tailor sent to his rooms at once so he could order breeches of the correct size—or he would end up walking around with a half-baked erection, hounded by a gaggle of randy matrons.
"Go and introduce yourself to the other guests," he whispered to Andy, as they positioned themselves near the fireplace mantle.
"Me?" Andy literally cowered in fear.
"Yes, you—you idiot!" Allayne rasped, surveying the roomful of elderly guests lounging on the sofas and every available chair. "It's highly peculiar for a servant—that's me, to socialize in exalted company."
"Oh, no, Sir, please don’t leave me here—besides you told the countess I couldn't speak," Andy looked dreadfully induced to cry.
Allayne rolled his eyes heavenward and inwardly reproached himself for his actions. He did make it known that poor Mr. Allayne Carlyle was bereft of speech.
"Very well," he grudgingly gave in, "but tomorrow, you are going to make a miraculous recovery. Either that or you can continue to be a pantomime—which is ill advised to pursue, especially without me."
"A-and where will you be, Sir?" Andy sputtered, genuinely petrified.
"I shall be about town searching for more stimulating amusements," Allayne grinned at the prospect. Bath was beginning to sound not too bad at all. "After you," he gestured for Andy to precede him.
Andy swept a worried glance about the room.
But before the two of them could begin circulating, the countess entered, accompanied by the last arrival and her maid.
Allayne followed the trio with his eyes as the countess introduced the lady to her guests. Indubitably, judging from her age which must be somewhere between three and thirty or five and thirty, she must be the Earl of Weston's daughter.
Splendid. Allayne twisted his lips in disgust. His mother had matched him with a spinster older than himself.
He frowned at the ill-fitting, overly long gown she wore—though it evidently exuded fine quality. She had brown hair, gathered in a simple bun that reminded him of a stern governess. She wore spectacles and walked a little too closely to her maid.
Allayne thanked the Gods above. The caper he pulled must be the smartest thing he'd done. He did not have an ounce of regret—especially now that he saw the Earl's daughter was indeed not the sort of lady he preferred.
He straightened as the countess approached where they stood.
"Mister Carlyle, may I present Lady Alexandra Davenport?" The countess drew the lady before Andy.
Andy did a semblance of a bow and then both stared wordlessly with a look of ambiguity at each other.
The lady's maid immediately resuscitated the awkward gap in conversation. "Mister Carlyle, I beg your forgiveness in behalf of Lady Alexandra Davenport," her speech was surprisingly cultured and composed. "She had been indisposed and had regretfully, in the interim, lost her voice. Nevertheless, she would like to express her paramount pleasure in finally making your acquaintance."
Allayne raised a bemused brow. Oho! Is this some kind of a jest? What a queer coincidence!
He peered curiously at the maid who was a little taller than average. Her dress was a few inches shorter than where the hem should be and her face was partly hidden by a plain cap with a wide brim.
"Please—it is of no consequence, Lady Alexandra," Allayne addressed the lady, but his eyes remained on the maid. "Mister Carlyle likewise finds himself in a similar predicament. Allow me to express his earnest entrancement in meeting you at last."
The maid raised her chin.
Their eyes collided.
Allayne suppressed his astonishment. Good Lord—the girl has the face of a mythical goddess—the nymph Daphne freed from the sanctum of a laurel tree.
She has the most expressive large brown eyes he had ever seen; framed with dark lashes so thick they would never need blacking. A sprinkling of faint
freckles made her small, straight nose more endearing—giving him the irrational urge to plant a kiss on its tip. And her mouth—Good God—so pink and full, it made him imagine how it would feel like, engulfing his rigid—
Allayne shook himself and raised the valise he was carrying to conceal the rapidly growing bulge in his crotch. What the fuck was he thinking?
Fucking the maid, the little voice in his head whispered. That's how low you've sunk in the hierarchy of humanity.
Allayne puckered his brows, a mixture of self-reproach and self-indulgence battling in his brain.
The countess said something to Andy and he glanced at them, at Andy's fine clothes, and then his own. A slow, wicked smile curved on his lips. He was a valet—a servant, not a viscount's son—at least for the next two weeks.
His gaze settled on the maid.
Oh, no-no-no, the pesky little voice's protest echoed in the back of his temporarily illogical mind.
Oh, yes-yes-yes, Allayne tipped the corners of his mouth to unleash his dimples—his secret weapons, at the poor unsuspecting maid—and turned a deaf ear to the further dictates of his irksome conscience.
Chapter 4
The Maid
Alexandra couldn't stop staring at the companion of the viscount's son. My-oh-my, he was even more handsome up close and taller than she had originally thought.
She herself was not of average height. She stood at eye-level, if not taller than most men. Indeed, at the time of her London Season, she had always felt like a lamppost in a sea of petite debutantes. Yet, in spite of that fact, the top of her head barely reached his chin.
What a novelty—and a relief! She did not have to slouch or fix her hair flat to lessen her tallness. For the first time, she felt utterly at ease with herself—not some lumbering, ungainly, lanky pile of absurdity trying to appear inconspicuous. Finally, here was a man she could look up to—literally.