by VJ Dunraven
Alexandra sighed with a twinge of regret. The days flew by so fast and her stay was coming to an end. She would surely miss them—and she didn't even want to think about how she would fare, when the time came to part with Andrew.
"Eat up, me lass," Cook's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Ye needs mor' flesh in yer bones."
She gladly finished the last of her breakfast and looked up from her empty plate. "Thank you, Cook. That was delicious!"
"I agree," Andrew piped in from his seat across from her, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"Tomarrow'll make ye som' kippers. Ye like 'em kippers, don't ye, laddie?" Cook grinned dotingly at Andrew.
"How did you guess my favorite?" Andrew rose from the table and bestowed Cook a wink and a dimpled smile, making the older woman simper like a debutante.
"Och, don't ye flirt wit' me in front o' yer girl now, laddie. Off ye go. Mister Botocks is waitin' fer ye to 'elp 'im polish t'e silver." Cook waved him away, and then motioned to the scullery maids to clear the table. "'An' as fer ye, lassie," she turned to Alexandra, "Mabel needs yer 'elp hangin' t'e laundry."
"Right." Alexandra hurriedly stood up.
Andrew rounded the table to pull back her chair for her. "I'll see you later." He snuck a quick kiss on her cheek and blew another one at Cook before he headed up the stairs to help Mr. Botocks.
Cook shook her head with a grin. "Me tells ye, lassie, ye ought to lock t'at 'ansome swain in yer bedchamber an' ne'er let 'im out of yer sight."
Alexandra chuckled. It did not take long for the servants to notice their fondness for each other and assume they were sweethearts.
She made her way to the servants' door that opened into the side yard where Mabel was hanging linens on clotheslines. Behind her, the laundry maids lined up several more of the large bins containing wet linens.
"Come 'an 'elp me wit' t'is one," Mabel heaved a large quilted counterpane over the clothesline and had her pull the opposite end while she secured it with clothespins. They did this repeatedly for the next three hours, until they finished all the laundered beddings and everything hung in neat rows, fluttering merrily in the breeze.
Alexandra wiped the sweat off her brow. She'd never worked so hard in her life and her hands felt raw. If her papa found out that she'd been working, garbed in Anna's clothes and an old apron, he would wring her neck—before plunging himself, head-first, into an early grave.
Nevertheless, a sense of self-accomplishment made her smile as they made their way back to the house. For the first time in her life, she felt useful and productive. Most of all, she had gained a newfound respect for the servants of the household.
Everyone was seated for lunch at the servants' dining area when Alexandra and Mabel finally came in. Andrew was in a discussion with Mr. Botocks and Cook was directing the scullery maids on which dishes to serve.
"Take your seats so we can eat," Mr. Botocks glanced at them. "The countess' guests will soon be off to the theater and will not return until after midnight. Except for the footmen and maids who took their time off yesterday, the rest of you can go take the rest of the day off as soon as you finish your chores. Today is the last day of the fair. If any of you would like to come with us, you are most certainly welcome. However, we must return at half past ten. We have a busy day tomorrow. The countess' house party has come to an end and her guests will be departing right after luncheon."
A bubble of excitement circulated around the table. She caught Andrew staring at her over the steaming bowl of soup Cook had ladled in front of him. Her cheeks tingled. Really—she would never get used to those vivid green eyes, furtively flirting with her every chance he could get.
"Miss Banana," Mr. Botocks interrupted her cogitation. "Is the kind Lady Alexandra Davenport still amenable to lending us her coach?"
"Yes—yes she is," Alexandra nodded to the delight of everyone.
"Well, then. I believe we have enough room to transport us in style to the fair," Mr. Botocks said with satisfaction. "Andrew, please thank Mister Carlyle for his generosity in lending us his coach too."
"I shall," Andrew, replied, between bites of the chocolate crepe Cook had set aside for him.
Lunch ended quickly, with the servants hurrying to finish their duties. Alexandra made her way to her bedchamber, after Mabel assured her that the laundry was finished for the day.
"Anna," Andrew caught her hand as she climbed up the stairs. "Wear something warm. I'll see you in two hours."
She nodded, feeling the heat rising up her cheeks as he brought her fingers to his lips.
What was wrong with her? Alexandra thought in irritation as she ran the rest of the way up the steps. Why couldn't she keep herself from acting like a complete moon-eyed ninny around him?
It must be the closeness they'd shared together the last few days.
After that ludicrously ill-fated assignation, which—thank goodness for Mr. Botocks' terse reminder to keep the incident mum—Andrew never brought up the subject again. To her surprise, however, she had been disappointed by his reticence—and shocked at how much she had wanted to give up her virtue to a mere valet—a man a world away beneath her. She had secretly hoped he would ask her again, but he simply invited her to stroll with him around the lush grounds of the estate every day after their chores or sit with him in the gazebo, where they would chat and read books for hours.
Both excursions, allowed her to get to know him better. Their time together brimmed with lively conversation. She had never met a man so intelligent and well read; he could challenge any scholar and put many of the Lords in Parliament to shame.
His fastidiousness not only with his person, but also in everything around him, likewise fascinated her. He would scold her for putting her book face down on the table to hold the page she was reading in place, telling her it would ruin the spine, or give her an exasperated glare as he cleaned her fingers with a towel, for tracking greasy fingerprints on the leather binding while she read and ate.
Perhaps as a valet, he was used to keeping everything in impeccable shape, she reflected. She recalled how he would shake the cushions on the bench in the gazebo before allowing her to sit down, or how he would wipe the silverware with his linen napkin before he used them—even if they were in an expensive establishment.
His neatness certainly was an unusual trait in a man, but it did not bother her one bit. She was all too familiar with the lazy aristocrats—women included, who rarely bathed, drowning their stink in expensive perfume and never giving a fig about taking care of what they owned. Andrew, in her opinion, was a far superior human being. He smelled as wonderful as freshly laundered linen and was so clean he fairly sparkled like a newly minted coin. Everything about him reminded her of springtime and sunshine—from his glossy honey-colored hair and bright green eyes, to his dazzling be-dimpled smile.
Alexandra's heart cartwheeled in her chest at the mere thought of him. Good God, she sighed as she entered her bedchamber and threw herself on the bed. Why couldn't she stop thinking of the man? Moreover, these last few days, she had started missing him—for no reason at all—especially at night when the whole house was quiet. She would hug her pillow in place of him, imagining him lying beside her, kissing her, making love to her.
Dear God, she abruptly sat up. How long had they known each other? Thirteen days?
Thirteen days.
Of pure bliss, companionship, and laughter. Of heated debates, meaningful discussions, and sweet reconciliation thereafter. A fortnight of sharing a deeper kind of friendship and closeness, something she had never experienced with another.
The realization struck her, with the precision of an arrow hitting its target.
Thirteen days—that was all it had taken.
For her to slip and slide into unexplored sentimentality. For her to do the very things she had repeatedly reminded herself not to ever do—get carried away, lose her head, and enmesh herself in something utterly convoluted. For her to succumb to the inevitable—the fate sh
e had feared the most—relinquishing her heart to an angel with a charming smile and pretty eyes.
Thirteen, short days.
She had fallen in love.
~
They arrived at the fair later that afternoon with throngs of people wanting to catch the last day of revelry. Alexandra and Andrew went with the servants for a few hours, watching acrobats demonstrate their skills on the sidewalk and haggling with the myriad of vendors plying their wares.
Andrew bought her a lovely silver comb for her hair, but it was so expensive, she began to protest. Without a qualm, the shameless man shushed her with a kiss in front everyone—ignoring the ribbing from Mabel and Cook, and the upbraiding look from Mr. Botocks. Then, when suppertime came, he made excuses for the two of them to meet the group by the entrance at ten o'clock for the ride home.
He took her to a fine establishment for dinner and after they had eaten, they strolled to the great curved structure called The Crescent, a stunning series of thirty three-story houses built wall to wall in the Ionic style. The result was a stunning edifice characterized by fluted columns and scroll-like ornaments on its façade.
Alexandra wondered what they were doing there. Notable people of great wealth and rank owned the private residences. A few of them were old family friends she had visited with her father over the years.
Briefly, she became concerned that someone might recognize her, but she quickly shrugged it off. Most of the apartments would be closed at this time of year, with the families staying in London for the season.
Andrew led her to one of the gleaming doors and produced a key tucked neatly inside a secret notch carved artfully on top of the doorframe.
"W-what are you doing?" she asked in apprehension, glancing from side to side as he opened the door.
"Come."
She hesitated, fearful of getting caught trespassing onto someone's property, but Andrew simply took her hand and drew her inside.
"This house belongs to Mister Carlyle's childhood friend, the Duke of Grandstone," he said as they stepped into the opulent foyer. "The Duke opens it for a few days once a year and let his close friends use it whenever they visit Bath."
At her reluctance to proceed any further, his fingers tightened around hers. "Don't worry—no one is here. The Duke and his family are in Cornwall."
Alexandra conceded and followed him inside. He showed her the spacious drawing room where the duke entertained his guests and gave her a quick tour of the rest of the richly appointed home. Finally, when he had run out of rooms to show her, he kissed her hand and asked if she minded staying in the house with him until it was time to depart.
"Not at all," she replied, happy to oblige and put her sore feet up, before she realized what he was truly asking of her.
"Oh, you meant..." She felt the warm flush bloom in her cheeks. The butterflies in her belly must have fluttered all at once, because she suddenly felt her gut turn inside out.
He did not reply. For what seemed like forever, he just looked at her.
She gulped. The intensity of his gaze revealed everything—the urgency, the daunting savagery, and potency of his desire.
Her entire body, all the way to the tips of her toes began to tremble. A mixture of fear and elation chased through her mind. Fear—at the naked ruthlessness of the hunger evident in his eyes; elation—at the power she had over him for being the object of his passion.
The knowledge produced a contrasting wave of incertitude that swayed her self-confidence. Could she manage him—a man so virile, his sexuality surrounded him like an aura—and slake his exigent need, his fervid lust—more than once tonight?
She suppressed the mounting panic in her belly and lowered her lashes.
His gaze did not falter. She'd never seen him so grave—yet so earnest. He kept his silence, unsmiling as he riveted her in a disconcerting stare. His expression spoke for itself. She knew—he was waiting for her to decide if she would have him, or if she would change her mind and decline.
God help her—she would not. She would never refuse him. Ever. This time her resolve was stronger. She wanted him. Loved him. She was sure of that now. Nothing in the whole universe—not even herself—could stop her from being with him. No matter what came out of it, she had no wish to dwell on the consequences. She would not be one of those women who lived with regret, agonizing over the constant nagging in one's heart, wondering—what could have been. What should have been—what if?
No—not her. Not tonight.
She bravely lifted her eyes and returned his gaze with a look that spoke volumes of how she felt about him. Her speech had deserted her, but she did not care—there were simply no amount of words sufficient to justify how alarmingly in love she was with him.
He blinked, his gorgeous eyes softening. The tension left his face and he relaxed his shoulders. His adorable dimples appeared on his cheeks. She reached out and gently dipped a forefinger in one.
He caught her wrist and brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips firmly on her rapidly beating pulse. Then, without another word, he led her to a bedchamber done in blue and gold.
~
Allayne watched Anna as he lit the fragrant logs in the fireplace. She moved about the palatial suite, touching a pillow, running a finger over the back of a chair, glancing at the gilt-painted ceiling, before finally peering out the window at the scenery below.
He went to her and stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
"It's so beautiful," she said breathlessly, admiring the view. The street lamps below illuminated the magnificent building as evening rolled in, casting the architectural masterpiece in a golden glow interspersed with mysterious shadows.
"U-hum," he murmured, planting a kiss on her shoulder.
He spared not a fleeting look at the vista outside. She was his idea of what was beautiful—he need not focus his attention anywhere else.
"D-do you always do that?" Her voice gained a slight tremor as he grazed his lips along her shoulder to the side of her neck.
"Do what?" He nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear.
"Talk in monosyllables or in single words. I noticed you do that often," she tilted her head to one side, giving him better access.
"U-hum." He nipped her earlobe lightly.
"Andrew," she said his name with a gasp.
"Hmm?" He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled its scent.
"Y-you're doing it again," she said in a strangled tone, sighing as he began to pluck the pins in her hair with his teeth, letting them drop on the carpeted floor.
"U-hum." He watched in fascination as the heavy mass of dark hair fell all the way down to her hips.
"Andrew," she uttered a little more sternly, glancing over her shoulder at him.
He chuckled. Her attempt to distract him with insignificant conversation only made it more evident how nervous she was. "Single words, monosyllables—doesn't mean I'm not interested." He slid his hands upwards from her waist and cupped her breasts.
She literally jumped, flinging restraining hands over his.
"Relax." He acquiesced, releasing the delicious mounds he longed to suckle, turning her slowly by the shoulders to face him. "You, my love—talk too much."
"I—I don't know what do," she said, sheepishly. For all her outward mettle, he could tell—this was a subject where she truly was inexperienced. She was excited—no doubt—but she was also a bit embarrassed and afraid.
He tilted her chin and looked into her eyes. "Trust me."
~
Alexandra recognized the mastery hidden beneath his angelic countenance. The underlying devilishness she had always sensed about him had resurfaced, and somehow, it made him more desirable—more irresistible. She drew a shaky breath, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. "I trust you," she whispered, consigning her fate in the hands of Lucifer.
Then, he was kissing her, probing her mouth with his tongue, urging her to surrender herself to his care.
And she did.
Welcomed the intrusion, drowned herself in his insistent caresses, accepted his masterful persuasion. He tasted of strawberries and wine, sweet yet intoxicating, forbidden yet temptingly divine.
He swooped her in his arms and sat her on the edge of the massive bed. Before she could even utter a single word of protest, he'd swiftly disposed of her stockings and shoes, and was now halfway down the buttons at the back of her gown. In the next minute, he'd divested her of her dress and corset, followed by her chemise and drawers.
Alexandra fought the hysteria rolling in her tummy. He was a man of few words and he certainly did not dawdle. She covered her breasts with her hands and squeezed her thighs tightly together, embarrassed to the roots of her hair as he dropped to his knees on the carpet, inspecting what he had unclothed.
"Open," he said in a low growl, placing his hands on her knees and pushing her legs apart.
Alexandra shuddered. He uttered a single word—and it was a command. What had happened to her Andrew with the laughing eyes and sweet be-dimpled smile? Who was this wild, snarling, lusty, domineering man? She clamped her thighs tighter.
"Anna," the admonition in his eyes sent shivers down her spine.
She swallowed. What should she say to him? Please Sir, I'm the oldest virgin in England, —can you please slow down?
"Open," he repeated in a voice that sounded more ominous than before.
Alexandra gnawed on her bottom lip. He had made his intentions as clear as a summer day—he would not be denied. She eased the tension in her thighs.
He parted her legs and plastered his eyes at the thatch of dark curls no man had ever gazed upon.
She gritted her teeth in embarrassment and averted her face. Surely, he would be done in a minute and they could get on with their business.
But apparently, that was not what he had in mind. Because the next thing she knew, he had hoisted her feet on the edge of the bed, and she was reclining on her elbows with her knees up, spread-eagled before him.
"Andrew!" She tried to cover herself with one hand, beyond mortified at the indecency of her position.