Jane Feather

by Engagement at Beaufort Hall

  But this was not a subject to be broached in her bedroom that night. She would have to bite her tongue, however tempting it might be.

  The sisters left their brother and Harry to the port and cigars as soon as dinner was finished. “We’ll say good night, Harry,” Esther said as she got up from the table. “We’re both quite tired.”

  “Of course.” Harry bowed his head in a gracious farewell. “I hope we didn’t intrude upon you tonight?”

  “Not in the least,” Imogen said. “Your company is always a pleasure. Good night, Duncan.”

  Duncan wished his sisters a good night and they left the dining room. “Come to my room for a chat and a nightcap?” Imogen suggested as they headed for the stairs.

  “Yes to both.” Esther followed her up. “I’ll join you in half an hour.”

  Imogen rang for Daisy when she went into her bedroom and, when the maid appeared, asked her to bring up coffee and brandy. “Miss Esther will be joining me, Daisy.” She sat at the dresser to unpin her hair.

  Half an hour later, Esther came in through the connecting door. Imogen was in her dressing gown, her hair loose and well brushed. A tray of coffee and a decanter of brandy were on the dresser.

  “What is the matter with Duncan?” Imogen asked directly as she poured coffee, added a liberal dollop of brandy, and brought the cup over to her sister, who was sitting by the fire.

  “Is anything the matter with him?” Esther took the cup with a nod of thanks. “He’s always been a bit withdrawn—old-fashioned, if you like.”

  “Yes, but it’s ridiculous for him to object to our mentioning the Moulin Rouge or the Place Pigalle at a family dinner table. Harry didn’t seem to think it out of place.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Esther agreed. “But does it matter?”

  Imogen sat down with her own doctored coffee. “No, I don’t suppose it does. But it seems to me that Duncan is missing out on so much with this strange prudishness. He’s only twenty-one—he should be living it up on the town. Exploring all sorts of debauchery, or if not that, at least flirting with young women. He’s a considerable catch on the marriage mart, but he shows absolutely no interest in pursuing any of the possibilities.”

  “Perhaps he keeps his secrets to himself,” Esther commented. “We keep ours, after all. Maybe he has a mistress, maybe several. Maybe he dabbles in the offerings in Covent Garden. Who are we to know?”

  Imogen nodded. “You’re right, of course.” She sipped her coffee and then, unable to let go of the subject completely, said, “Secret mistresses or not, have you noticed how he seems to spend all his time with Harry these days?”

  “Well, they do share lodgings,” Esther reminded her. “And he brought other friends down to Beaufort Hall the other week.”

  “Mmm.” Imogen nodded. “True enough.” She put aside any further thoughts of her brother, instead saying casually, “Don’t be alarmed if you hear voices or anything from in here later tonight.”

  Her sister looked puzzled for a moment and then her expression cleared. “You’re expecting Casanova?”

  “He tells me to,” Imogen said with a somewhat complacent smile.

  “He’s climbing the ivy?” Esther inquired with a raised eyebrow.

  “I don’t think it’ll bear his weight,” her sister responded. “I’ll make sure the side door’s unlocked after the servants have gone to bed.”

  “So he will definitely be here for breakfast.” Esther laughed softly. “Did you tell Mrs. Windsor to have kedgeree on the sideboard?” She knew the preferences of her on-again, off-again brother-in-law all too well.

  “I asked Sharpton to pass it on,” Imogen said. “He didn’t bat an eyelid.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t, would he? He’s far too well versed in his role. He’ll make whatever assumptions he chooses to make, and he’ll probably share them with Mrs. Dalton, but no one else will know anything.”

  “Except, of course, that everyone belowstairs will know everything,” Imogen declared. “Even if Charles hides in the bathroom when Daisy comes in in the morning, she’ll know perfectly well that I haven’t spent the night alone.”

  Esther didn’t dispute this. “Charles isn’t wasting any time, is he?”

  “He’s never been one to let the grass grow,” her sister replied with a wry smile. “But I won’t be hurried this time, Essie.”

  “Were you hurried before?” Her sister got up to fetch the coffeepot and decanter. “You were engaged for a while.”

  Imogen sighed. “I love Charles, make no mistake, Essie. But he’s such a force, an almost overwhelming force. He seems able to roll over any misgivings I might have.”

  “And you do have misgivings?” Esther refilled their cups.

  Imogen shrugged. “I don’t know. When I’m with him, he just sweeps me away, but a marriage can’t live on lust . . . passion . . . alone, can it?” She sounded almost wistful.

  “No, I would say not,” Esther stated firmly. “But you feel more than lust for Charles. You just said you loved him—and he certainly loves you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Esther laughed. “Because of the way he looks at you, my dear. Even when you’re off on one of your rampages about some social injustice or other, even when he’s quarreling with you, he still adores you. There’s always a certain light in his eyes when he looks at you, even when he’s furious.”

  “Anger is just the other side of the passion coin,” Imogen said. But she was warmed by Esther’s words nevertheless. She sipped her doctored coffee and turned the topic into a different channel. “I wish I knew why he was acting on behalf of the Warwick boor. He’s such a revolting specimen of humankind, Essie, I can’t understand why Charles would give him houseroom, even less defend him in a court of law.”

  “Money?” suggested Esther, peering critically at her fingernails. “Charles does work for a living.”

  “I know that.” Imogen leaned back in her chair, sipping her coffee. “And I shouldn’t get exercised about the cases he takes. But there’s something about this one that doesn’t smell right.”

  “So ask him when you next see him,” Esther suggested.

  Not tonight, Imogen thought. She was determined that tonight there would be no bones of contention. She’d bring it up in the morning, over breakfast. She set down her cup. “I’d better not have any more of that. It’ll send me to sleep.”

  “And that would never do,” Esther agreed with a grin. She got up. “I’ll leave you to your preparations. Don’t forget the side door.”

  “As if I would.” Imogen blew her sister a kiss as Esther slipped out through the connecting bathroom.

  Chapter 15

  Imogen glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Zoe snored in front of the fire. It was one o’clock and her own eyes were heavy. If she went to bed, she would fall asleep. She picked up her book and started to reread The Ballad of Reading Gaol, hoping it would distract her sufficiently.

  She awoke with a start, Charles’s mouth on hers. Her eyes fluttered open and he raised his head. “Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She reached up to put her arms around his neck, pull his head down to hers. “Go on with what you were doing.”

  “As you command, ma’am.” He kissed her mouth again, then moved his lips to her eyelids, closing them with a light, butterfly of a kiss before turning his attention to her ears, always an exquisitely sensitive spot for Imogen. She wriggled beneath the hot, teasing caress as his tongue probed the delicate shell of her ear, his teeth nibbling and tugging at her earlobe, until, now fully awake in every cell, she murmured a plea for mercy, trying to twist her head away from the intimately wicked exploration. Laughing, he held her head still for another few seconds, then took pity and released his hold, straightening up.

  She looked up at him as he stood smiling down at her, his narrowed eyes like liquid velvet as desire glowed deep within their depths. “You’ve been to the opera,” she observed, taking
in the black velvet opera cloak swinging open from his shoulders to reveal the crimson silk lining. Charles wore his clothes well, and the flamboyance of the cloak gave him a dashing air that always made her pulse quicken.

  “Don Giovanni,” he said, dropping to one knee beside her chair. “I didn’t mean to be so late. You must be tired after the journey.” He traced the curve of her cheek with a lazy fingertip, his eyes caressing her.

  “Not too tired for you,” she said, moving languidly beneath that visual caress. “Never too tired for you.” It always amazed her how he could arouse her just with his eyes and the slightest brush of his fingers.

  He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the pulse in the hollow of her throat as he slipped a hand inside her dressing gown to cup her breast, feeling the nipple harden against the fine lace of her nightgown. “I want you so much,” he murmured, deftly unbuttoning the front of her nightgown, opening it to reveal her breasts. He kissed them in turn, his tongue grazing the hard nipples as they rose to his touch. He slipped the dressing gown from her shoulders and then opened her nightgown further, slipping his hands up to clasp the rounded tops of her arms.

  “I haven’t seen your body for such a long time.” He leaned back, letting his gaze drift over her bared breasts, his hands still cupping the points of her shoulders. “Stand up and let me see you properly.” He lifted her to her feet with his hands under her arms and lifted the dressing gown away from her. The tiny pearl buttons at the bodice of her nightgown were already unfastened, and he put his hands at her hips, sliding the lacy material up to her waist and then with one swift movement lifting it over her head.

  The garment fell onto the chair behind her and she stood naked in the firelight, feeling the warmth of the flames at her back. She shifted her feet to steady herself, holding still for his long, desirous scrutiny. It was the most erotic sensation, to be standing naked in front of a man still fully dressed, his black and scarlet cloak flowing from his shoulders, the formality of his evening dress accentuating the feeling. As if she was his to buy, to do with as he wished. Her entire body seemed acutely sensitized, her skin flushing with her own arousal, a liquid weakness in her loins.

  “Oh, it was worth waiting for,” Charles stated, and there was a hint of masculine triumph in his gaze now as he twirled a finger. Obediently she turned around slowly, standing with her back to him, feeling the fire’s warmth now on her belly and thighs. She felt his hands move down her back, a finger tracing the valley of her spine before he spread his flat palms across her backside. Her muscles twitched inadvertently against his hands, and he laughed softly, his lips pressing into the nape of her neck before his tongue trailed knowingly upward in a moist caress. It was another of her most sensitive spots, and she rose involuntary onto her tiptoes as desire coursed through her.

  She could feel the folds of his cloak brushing against her thighs, the fine wool of his black worsted evening trousers silky against her bare legs. “This isn’t fair,” she whispered as his hands slipped around her to caress her belly, his fingers reaching down to the cleft of her thighs.

  “Oh, I think it’s perfectly fair.” He kissed her nape again and felt the little tremor of arousal go through her. Imogen was always ready to play, always ready for any variation on a theme, and he knew she was prepared to play this sensual little game to its conclusion. He turned her back to face him, holding her arms as he kissed her ear again so that she wriggled in his hold, a soft moan escaping her. “Shhh,” he admonished, pressing a finger against her lips. “No sound.”

  Imogen closed her eyes, concentrating on absorbing the sensation, the erotic waves that were sweeping through her belly. He turned her slightly, moving her towards the bed, and she fell back onto the damask coverlet, her body white and gleaming in the low light of the candle on the night table. He stood beside the bed, once again letting his gaze drift languidly over her. Then he bent and matter-of-factly parted her thighs, spreading them wide on the bed.

  The feeling of exposure, the sense of absolute vulnerability, was building to a climax deep within her belly. Her breathing quickened, her skin seemed flushed all over, and when he put his hand over the damp mound of her sex, cupping it firmly, her hips jumped on the bed.

  “All in good time,” Charles said softly, his fingers playing in the tangle of curls at the apex of her thighs, one flat palm moving across her inner thighs, playing a delicate tune as his fingers grew ever closer to the erect point of flesh in the damp cleft of her body.

  It wasn’t possible to be more aroused, Imogen thought, her gray eyes holding his dark gaze, but he continued to caress, to finger her sex, until he bent and placed his mouth where his hand had been and the touch of his cool breath on her hot and exquisitely sensitized body, the nibble of teeth, the pull of his lips on the erect nub of flesh, sent her over the edge, her body bucking on the bed. She heard herself cry out, her arms flung wide above her head, only her hips moving involuntarily as the orgasmic wave broke and slowly receded.

  Charles kept his hand where it was until she lay still at last. He could still feel her body’s core pulsing against his hand, but the dreamy look in her half-closed eyes, the relaxation of her limbs, told him he had done his work well.

  “The opera cloak,” Imogen said weakly when she had recovered sufficient breath to speak. “You should wear it more often, Charles.”

  He laughed and threw off the garment, tossing it to join her nightgown on the fireside chair. “Adds something, does it?”

  “Oh, yes . . . it adds a very great deal. It’s rather Faustian.” She rolled onto her side, hitching herself onto one elbow. “Are you going to take the rest of your clothes off?”

  “If that would please you, ma’am,” he returned with mock gravity. He held his arms wide. “I am at your disposal.”

  Laughing, Imogen got off the bed. She was still a little weak-kneed, but more than ready to play some more. She went behind him to lift off his frock coat. It fitted so snugly to his shoulders that it took several tugs. She untied his white tie and went to the front to unbutton his silk waistcoat, and then the stiffly starched white shirt. He was naked beneath the shirt, and as she pushed it off his shoulders, she became aroused again by the well-remembered sight of his broad chest, the little hard points of his nipples, the line of dark hair running down the center of his chest, disappearing into his trousers. The bulge of his penis was all too obvious, and she nipped her bottom lip between her teeth as she unbuttoned the front of his trousers, pushing them off his hips.

  “I think my shoes are something of an obstacle,” he suggested.

  “Damn,” she muttered. “Sit down.”

  Obligingly, he sat on the edge of the bed so that she could kneel and unlace his shoes. She threw them aside and pulled his trousers over his ankles.

  “Socks?” he suggested.

  “I was getting to them. Socks are the least alluring part of anyone’s attire,” she retorted, unfastening the suspenders and rolling his socks down, yanking them off his feet before sending the elastic garters to which the suspenders had been attached on a voyage of their own to the far side of the room. “Stand up, please.”

  Charles got to his feet and Imogen unfastened his woolen drawers, pushing them down his hips. Helpfully Charles stepped out of them and then stood naked before her, his hands resting on his hips, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Satisfactory, madam?”

  “Eminently,” Imogen responded, putting her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his lean nakedness. “So now what?”

  Daisy looked up at the clock in the kitchen the next morning. It was already past eight o’clock. “Miss Imogen not up yet, Daisy?” Mr. Sharpton came into the kitchen, smoothing down his frock coat.

  “No, Mr. Sharpton, not yet. Should I go up with the tea tray anyway?”

  “I don’t think so, Daisy.” The butler exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Mrs. Dalton, who was counting china in the dresser. “Side door was unlocked this morning,” he said with a meaningful
nod.

  “Was it now?” the housekeeper asked rhetorically. “Well, let’s hope things’ll settle down around here then.”

  “Settle down?” Daisy sounded as confused as she was. What did unlocked side doors and things settling down have to do with each other? “What needs to settle down?”

  “Never you mind, Daisy. Just get on with your work,” Sharpton said repressively. “Miss Imogen will ring when she’s ready. Don’t you have a garment to iron or something while you’re waiting?”

  “Aye,” the housekeeper said. “Idle hands make the devil’s work, young Daisy. I can soon find you something to do in the linen cupboard.”

  “I daresay she’s having a lie-in after the train yesterday.” Mrs. Windsor spoke from the black-leaded range, where she was stirring the fragrant contents of an iron skillet.

  “But Miss Esther’s up already, ma’am. Martha took her tea up half an hour ago. And hot water for the bathroom. Besides,” Daisy added, “Miss Imogen never has a lie-in.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” the butler declared, adjusting his tie. “How’s the kedgeree then, Mrs. Windsor?”

  The cook looked up from her stirring. “Ready when they are—although, I don’t know, such goings-on in a respectable household.” This last was sotto voce, not intended for the ears of parlormaids and the like.

  Mr. Sharpton didn’t deign to respond. He had his own opinions, and he kept them between himself and Mrs. Dalton. “Eh, Alfie . . . there’s six pairs of boots need blacking in the back scullery. Should have been done hours ago.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sharpton.” Alfie swallowed the last crust of bread and dripping he’d managed to wheedle from Mrs. Windsor and reached for his apron on the peg by the scullery door. “Won’t be a jiff wiv ’em.”

  “Just make sure they get more than your usual spit an’ polish,” the butler instructed. A bell jangled in the panel above the door and he looked up at the board. “That’s Miss Imogen now,” he declared. “Run along with her tea tray, Daisy.”