Gambled Away: A Historical Romance Anthology

by Rose Lerner

  She flushed, hoping he hadn’t noticed, and made herself keep talking. “A lot of soldiers wrote home about Portugal during the war. Everyone was talking all over town about the awful food, the garlic, the sardines...it made me dreadfully homesick. When we went to the beach, my father would buy us sardinhas assadas and pieces of torrão de Alicante.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A sweet made of almonds and egg whites. I buy it in the East End sometimes, but either they don’t make it the same, or I’ve forgotten what it really tasted like.” She looked at him. “What do they eat in Yorkshire? Other than Yorkshire pudding.”

  He laughed that distinctive, endearing laugh. “I admit I do love Yorkshire pudding. At home it’s often a first or last course, not a remove like in the south. Our nurse used to smother it with jam and powdered sugar. I wish I had some right now.”

  Beads of water still shimmered in his navel and collected in the hollows of his chest, the dip at the center of his ribcage. “And around Whitsuntide, the dairy-man always tithed leftover curds for cheese tarts, another Yorkshire delicacy. When one was baking you could smell rosewater and clove-pepper—that’s what we call allspice up there—all over the house. I used to beg to eat it as it came out of the oven puffed up like a cloud, but with the wisdom of age I can see it would be runny and burn my mouth...”

  Eventually the sun dried them, and their clothes. Her shift billowed slightly as if to blow away every time a breeze came across the lake and ran through the grass, but neither of them made any move to dress. Somehow over an hour passed, only in describing food and sharing the food that was in their basket. They talked on while he painted the lake twice more (moving on to favorite holidays, fables, and performers at Astley’s Amphitheater; amusing family squabbles; and other equally vital topics).

  Words poured out of them as they finally dressed, walked back to the house, and ate dinner. Maggie was conscious that they were being rude and ignoring the rest of the party, and that Lord Throckmorton looked more unhappy every time Simon laughed, despite the other guests’ efforts to cheer him—but she couldn’t stop talking. After dinner they escaped upstairs without port or tea and talked on their bed about nothing of consequence until nearly two in the morning, exclaiming with delight at every point of agreement or coincidence, and with almost equal delight when disagreement offered an opportunity for debate.

  It was that particular species of conversation that was colored through and through by showing off, by knowing the other person thought you pretty and witty and generally splendid, and loving that he thought it because he was the best thing you’d ever seen. The kind of conversation that made you feel slightly foxed. Discovering they’d both watched the sham naval battle on the Serpentine when the Tsar was in London felt like...fate.

  It was, Maggie admitted to herself, the kind of conversation you had with someone when you were about to fall in love and you just couldn’t wait for it to happen.

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  Simon had come to Throckmorton to work. He’d brought Maggie here so he could work. And now for the third day in a row he was accomplishing nothing, because he would rather be talking to her than doing anything else on earth. He bubbled over with things to say to her.

  He sat dutifully at a library table with his books spread around him, and he’d been staring at the same illustrated plate of archways for the last twenty minutes.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way. Well, he could remember the last time he hadn’t been able to concentrate on work—that happened all the time. But this happiness...

  No, he did remember: Clement, years ago. Deep down, he’d been afraid he’d never feel this way again. That at five-and-twenty, he’d had his chance at a great love and ruined it. But that was foolish, wasn’t it? He was only five-and-twenty, and England was full of people.

  Just now, England seemed very full of Maggie, in the best way possible.

  He looked up—raised his eyes the merest fraction—and there she was, curled up on a sofa and frowning slightly over her letter. That dip of her brow in profile was a lovely thing. He copied it in miniature with his pencil, on his fourth try satisfied that he had done it justice. And then he was drawing her. The graceful line of her profile, the curve of her ear, the upsweep of her hair disappearing under a smooth bandeau with a few ringlets tumbling over, the slope of her neck and shoulders. He supposed by her loose posture that she wore her short stays today.

  Easy familiarity with another person’s underthings was an intimacy he hadn’t had in a long time. Yes, his thwarted arousal at being surrounded by her scent and linens was annoying, but he had missed sharing quarters with someone other than a valet.

  As he mused, his hand added the surrounding architecture without conscious direction: bas-relief wooden columns, delicate gilt ironwork on the spiral staircases and the balustrades of the second story of bookshelves, the portrait of Clement’s grandmother that hung between the windows.

  It was a neat little drawing, but his favorite thing in it was still that first curve of her eyebrow.

  “Do you think white plaster or red brick would look better reflected in the lake?” he asked, more to start a conversation than because the question preoccupied him overmuch at the moment.

  She glanced up, mouth working pensively. “I think red brick would look best at noon,” she said at last, “but white would show more at all hours of the day.”

  “Then we’re of one mind.” He was inordinately pleased by their agreement, and by the aptness of her observation. “I—”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said apologetically, “but I want to finish this letter to my mother, and my spelling in Portuguese isn’t good enough to allow for distractions.”

  Her tone was conciliatory, her smile charming, but his heart sank. Every part of him sank; the high ceiling appeared suddenly further away. “Turnabout is fair play,” he said, striving to sound unaffected and wishing he’d kept silent instead. “You’ve been distracting me all morning.”

  She was flattered by the admission, at least. She ducked her head and bit her lip to hide her smile. “Have I really? I’m sorry, I know you brought me so you could do more work, not less. Here, I’ll remove us both from the path of temptation.” And gathering her things from the sofa just on the other side of his writing desk, she took herself to another at the far end of the library.

  Simon tried to decide if the sun had actually gone behind a cloud, or if it was his imagination.

  I’m sure he was telling himself you really wanted an excuse to enjoy yourself, she had said of Clement. It turned out that Clement was right. Simon had been working for three years now, but not...not steadily. He waited too long between commissions, he neglected his studies.

  His father had warned him, gently, when Simon told him he meant to design follies. Of course some of your school friends will be idle all their lives, but honorable labor does not demean a gentleman. I know it’s difficult. I envied your uncle James when we were children, because he would inherit everything. But I think I got the best of it in the end.

  The implication that this wasn’t real, honorable labor had made him furious at the time, but maybe he had chosen this profession because he had thought it would be easy, something he could do in his spare time. What if he didn’t have the staying power to make a real success of it? He did resent that Clement would never have to work, and he did. He had nothing in the bank and he could not ask his father or Clement for a loan.

  What does your mother think of your profession? he longed to ask Maggie, but she had made it clear that conversation was unwelcome.

  Every ruin he put his pencil to was dull and lifeless. He spread old sketches out on the table, searching for inspiration, but there was a buzzing in his head and all he could think was, Have I had my last good idea?

  At length Maggie approached him, perching on the edge of the writing table. Her skirts tucked themselves under her arse and then cascaded downward lik
e a waterfall or maybe a sonnet. The desire to hook his arm round her waist and drag her in overwhelmed him. He could bury his face in her bosom and block out everything else.

  She reached out and pulled his sketch toward her. “Oh, what a lovely drawing of the library. Look, you’ve put me in it! May I send it to my mother?”

  He agreed, though he’d wanted to keep it.

  She smiled and tucked it into her letter before preparing to seal it. “I’ll ask Lord Throckmorton to frank them after dinner. I’m sorry I was rude earlier. Which of these designs are you considering?”

  None of them. He barely kept from stuffing them all under a book to hide them from her view.

  He didn’t like how much he wanted to abandon his pencil and sit on the sofa and show off his books to her. He didn’t like, either, that he had been waiting anxiously for her to deign to speak to him. “I haven’t accomplished as much as I was hoping to this morning. You needn’t wait about for me all day, if you’d rather join the others and enjoy yourself.” She hadn’t said a word about her frustrated desire, but he remembered she’d asked permission to disport herself with the other guests.

  Once again, everyone would be having fun but him.

  She drew back a little, looking disappointed. “Are you sure? You said you wanted me to keep you from being hounded from your work.”

  He smiled, determined for her not to see even a shadow of his resentment. “I’m sure. Maybe you can even find Clement in time for your letters to make today’s post.”

  “All right. I like this one, by the way.” She pushed one of his sketches toward him, and hopped off the table.

  The drawing was an elevation of the ruined transept of Roche Abbey, near Maltby in Yorkshire. Now that the door had shut behind her, his brain sharpened. He disliked the proportions of it: a soaring ground floor where the chapel must have been, a squat center story crammed with blind arched windows (Clement had said that must be where Robin Hood and Little John hid when they came to hear Mass), and the whole topped with mid-sized round arches, out of place above their pointed brethren.

  But there was something about how the wall zigged and zagged brokenly along, flat from the front but attracting the eye with its protrusions from the side. What if he evened out the stories and made all the windows of a size? Sky through an empty arched window was always arresting. A plain double lancet arch topped with a quatrefoil, perhaps...He flipped through Carter’s Ancient Architecture to a plate on windows and, taking a new sheet of paper, began hastily to sketch.

  * * *

  Maggie shut the library door quietly behind her, trying not to feel disappointed. After all, she’d told him to hush when she wanted to concentrate; it was his prerogative to do the same. She ought to take this opportunity to slake her lust, which was growing tiresomely, with one of the other guests. They were probably outdoors, enjoying the sun. She headed upstairs to put on her boots.

  On the stairs, she met...she tried to think of their names. The skinny one talked a lot and had a saint in his name, and his father had met his mother in India, and the heavyset one talked very little...Sir Joseph? “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said at last, with a smile. “Have you been enjoying the party?”

  They looked at one another and laughed in a way that made Maggie think maybe they had been enjoying each other. The idea was not without appeal—and they were the only members of the party other than Miss O’Leary that hadn’t done anything to annoy her yet. “Throckmorton is an excellent host,” Mr. Saint said. “Where’s Radcliffe-Gould?”

  “Oh, he’s working,” she said, not specifying where so as not to give them the idea of going there. “I wasn’t of much use to him at the moment,” she added flirtatiously.

  “Beauty must always be useful to an artist,” Mr. Saint said promptly. Sir Whatsit made a noise of agreement and smiled shyly at her.

  It was a lovely compliment, and they both had very nice smiles. Why be subtle? “Might I be of use to you gentlemen?”

  Mr. Saint’s eyes lit up.

  * * *

  Of course the tip of Simon’s pencil snapped on his second page of windows. Reaching for his penknife, he remembered he had left it in yesterday’s pantaloons. He dug through the library table drawers, but the only knife was hopelessly dull. He’d have to go upstairs and fetch his own.

  Moans and small cries became audible as he approached the stairs, growing in volume as he started up them. He hastened his steps, preparing to avert his eyes and feign not to hear any lewd remarks addressed to himself.

  The woman made a small, sobbing noise of protest. Was that—Maggie? That hadn’t taken long.

  Even though Simon had known this was a possibility when he’d told her to go and enjoy herself with the others, he hadn’t expected to see it. He weighed the added inconvenience and awkwardness of going back down and taking the servants’ stair.

  It wasn’t worth it—and he wanted to see. He decided to brush past with a quick nod, but in the event the entire landing was blocked by Maggie and not one but two men.

  Sir Geoff was quietly but intently rogering Maggie, on her hands and knees before him. St. Aubyn was trying to get at her breasts, and experiencing difficulties with her bodice. “Pick her up,” he told Sir Geoff, who wrapped one powerful arm around Maggie’s ribcage and hefted her so she knelt upright. She moaned as his other hand disappeared beneath her skirts.

  “Oh, good morning, Radcliffe-Gould,” St. Aubyn said, hands pausing on Maggie’s bosom.

  She hadn’t realized it was him. Her head whipped toward him, and their eyes met. Simon could not pretend now that the longing he saw in them was for him to save her—or that he wanted to. He was hard as stone.

  And he had seen her put on her dress this morning. “There’s a drawstring below the ruffle at her neck.” He came forward, trying to recall the time in his life when this sort of thing had been commonplace to him.

  Only it never had been. He had always been acting a part, trying to seem confident and as if the three pairs of eyes on him didn’t feel like a million.

  He liked that, though. It was the only circumstance in which he did like being watched: it heightened everything, made it hotter and tinglier and more undeniable. He flipped up Maggie’s ruffle and undid the small tie, as he’d wanted to that morning. She gasped, breasts lifting toward him.

  He untied the drawstring at her waist, too. Her bodice gaped open to reveal her stays. He kept his voice steady, hoping they couldn’t tell how his pulse was racing. “And these are tied off at the bottom.” He slipped his fingers beneath her petticoat, pricking himself on a pin when Sir Geoff thrust into her. Maggie’s mouth fell open.

  Oh God. He wanted sex so badly. He wanted her so badly.

  He could unbutton his breeches and slip himself into her mouth. No one would stop him, least of all her. He found the slip-knot in her stay-laces, and tugged it free. The corset relaxed, and she drew in a deep breath. Simon, in contrast, couldn’t get enough air.

  Naked hope was blazoned across Maggie’s face; it hurt. She wanted him to touch her breasts. He could hear Sir Geoff’s groin slapping against hers, splendidly obscene.

  He should go and fetch his penknife. Instead he worked her stays loose until he could push her shift down, baring her bosom. Brown nipples, soft skin, crescent shadows beneath. He wanted to paint them for posterity. He wanted to build them a monument. Instead he cupped them with spread hands, their weight resting seductively on his fingertips. Her nipples pebbled, catching in the join of his index and middle fingers. He squeezed lightly. She strained toward him, face alight, but Sir Geoff’s grip pinioned her arms. She was helpless to demand anything from Simon but what he chose to give her. Power flooded him, terribly welcome after his anxious morning.

  St. Aubyn pressed against Simon’s back, cupping his cock. Oh. Oh, he wanted that too. St. Aubyn’s mouth was warm on his neck, and he wanted to sink into this moment until there was nothing but pleasure, until the whole world was yes. He wanted Sir Geoff to fuck
him with his cock still wet from Maggie’s cunt.

  “I shouldn’t stay.” He dropped her breasts, relishing the cavalier cruelty of it as much as the way the globes jiggled before finding equilibrium. She liked it too; her expression bespoke nearly ecstatic frustration. “All yours, St. Aubyn.” He stepped courteously past and went up the stairs without looking back.

  Once in his room, he frigged himself quickly and efficiently before taking his penknife and returning down the servants’ stair.

  But back in the library, he couldn’t recapture his concentration on his windows. Of course he couldn’t.

  Why did he like being cruel to her? He remembered—vividly—how he had thought of forcing himself on her in the lake yesterday. How much he had wanted to own her for a fortnight.

  He’d had these thoughts before. He’d tried not to think them, and tried to forget them. Yet he could recall a few weeks at Oxford when every time he frigged himself he imagined fucking Clement while Clement struggled to get away.

  It was something wrong in him, something crooked and spiteful. When he liked someone, he resented them too, for their dominion over him. He had been angry with Maggie this morning, just because he wanted to talk to her. And yet he craved that very subjection, except when he wanted to inflict it on others.

  He’d hated how helpless Clement could make him feel—except in bed, where he’d loved it. Where a teasing edge in Clement’s voice made him wild for more. Where he’d done whatever Clement asked.

  Where he had been determined to win at last, and possess Clement for good and all. He put his face in his hands. He was a cringing, vengeful worm.

  He’d told Maggie he wasn’t looking for fun because he wanted to settle down. How was he supposed to settle down? Who would want to settle down with him? He was a messy child trying to pass himself off as a grown man. His parents had been parents already at his age. How would he manage with a child? When would he be able to afford one? He couldn’t even afford a wife.