by Mia Gabriel
“You must not hesitate, Mrs. Hart,” said Lord Savage, his voice deep and confidential. “The viscountess’s house parties are most extraordinary. You will not be disappointed.”
I turned to face him. “Will you be a member of the party at Wrenton, Lord Savage?”
He held my gaze for a long moment—long enough to tantalize me. I understood, and so did he.
“If you will be there, Mrs. Hart,” he said at last, “then nothing would keep me away.”
Kismet, I thought, certain he was thinking the same.
Kismet.
TWO
“Seems as if I just had everything unpacked and settled into these tiny rooms, ma’am, and out come the trunks once again,” said Hamlin, my lady’s maid. “You’ve scarce been here in London a week, and now you’re off again.”
“Oh, hush, Hamlin.” Unperturbed, I stood in middle of my dressing room, staring off through the window without really seeing the view. I’d taken the best available suite of rooms overlooking the river here at the Savoy, but as lavish as the suite was, the space was still much smaller than my mansion in New York.
Even with Hamlin overseeing my wardrobe, the dressing room was nearly overflowing with silk, lace, plumes, and embroidered fine linen. Perhaps for once the maid did have reason to complain.
“I told you I’ll only be taking two trunks with me,” I said, almost apologetically. “Even you can muster the energy for that.”
Hamlin grumbled wordlessly, letting her disapproval simmer as she gathered up armfuls of lace-trimmed petticoats. The maid had been with me since I’d first been a bride, and Hamlin’s loyalty over the years had earned her a certain right to speak plainly.
Not that I could have stopped Hamlin from offering her opinions even if I’d tried. The maid was a stout, prickly Bostonian with stringent notions of right and wrong, especially where her mistress was concerned. Hamlin was as watchful as a mother hawk, and her protectiveness had only increased since Arthur Hart had died.
“Two trunks, ma’am, only two trunks!” she repeated dolefully, shaking her head. “How are you to make do for a week in the country with only two trunks?”
“I shall manage,” I said. “A great deal of clothing can be packed into two trunks.”
“Not your clothing, ma’am, not at all,” Hamlin said. “You’ll need clothes for riding and clothes for shooting, ma’am, dresses for breakfast, luncheon, tea, and dinner, and I’m sure there’ll be at least one grand ball. You won’t be able to repeat a thing, either, or have those grand titled folk think worse of you. But I ask you, ma’am, how am I to put all that into two trunks?”
I smiled serenely. “Lady Carleigh was quite specific, Hamlin. It will be a small party of guests at Wrenton Manor, and she wishes everything to be informal and easy, without the usual constant parade of changes. Two trunks should be entirely sufficient for the dresses we discussed earlier.”
“As you wish, ma’am,” Hamlin muttered, making it clear that it wasn’t what she wished at all. “But from what I’ve been hearing, ma’am, things might be more easy at this particular house than you might be expecting.”
I turned to the maid, curious. I’d encountered a few raised eyebrows among my own London acquaintances when I mentioned that I’d accepted Lady Carleigh’s invitation, but they’d all been too discreet to elaborate. “What exactly have you heard, Hamlin?”
“That this Wrenton Manor’s called Wanton Manor on account of all the shenanigans that happen there, ma’am,” Hamlin said, briskly rolling my silk stockings into tidy balls. “That having a noble title before your name’s no guarantee of decency, if you understand me, ma’am. You can be sure I’ll see that your bedroom door is locked each night, ma’am, to keep out the lechers and other rude gentlemen that prowl those halls.”
“‘Wanton Manor’?” I laughed, even as I thought of one rude gentleman in particular. “Oh, my, that is rich!”
“It’s the truth, ma’am,” Hamlin said with gloomy certainty. “Everyone here says so. It’s a wicked, sinful place.”
“Well, then,” I said, “I promise you I shall be on my guard at all times.”
I found Hamlin’s gossip more exciting than cautionary, for servants often knew far more of their masters’ habits than most realized. If the servants here at the Savoy said that the goings-on at Wrenton were wicked and sinful, then wicked and sinful they must be—and I could scarcely wait.
“I doubt I’ll be in any true peril, surrounded by ladies and gentlemen,” I continued. “And it’s not as if I’m a fresh young debutante.”
“A good thing you aren’t, ma’am,” Hamlin said darkly. “From what I’ve heard, an unmarried young lady would sooner spend a night in the stalls at Covent Garden than accept an invitation to Wrenton Manor.”
I raised my brows with disbelief. “Really, Hamlin. Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not, ma’am, not by half,” Hamlin declared, shaking her head. “They say the king himself has been a guest, all the way back when he was Prince of Wales, and he didn’t bring the princess with him, neither. Actresses and other strumpets, that’s his taste, low women eager for any sort of royal debauch, ma’am.”
“His majesty has long been a friend to Lord and Lady Carleigh, Hamlin, so I’m not surprised that he has been their guest,” I said, ignoring Hamlin’s more salacious comments. “I’m certain her ladyship is an excellent hostess, one who addresses her guests’ every comfort and need.”
“I’ll be the one looking after you and your good name, ma’am.” Hamlin shook her fist to ward off imaginary libertines. “It won’t be the first time I’ll keep a cudgel by my bed, just in case.”
“I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Hamlin,” I said, “but I’m certain it’s not necessary.”
I paused, knowing that what I’d say next would not be well received.
“Besides, you shall not be accompanying me to Wrenton,” I continued quickly, deciding speed was best. “Lady Carleigh has advised us to leave our own servants at home, and rely on her staff to attend us while we are her guests.”
Hamlin gasped, stricken, her open hand pressed to her bosom.
“Not take me, ma’am!” she exclaimed. “Why—why, I have always attended you, ma’am! It’s not proper for a lady of your station to travel alone, not at all. How can this Lady Carleigh expect you to—”
“Hamlin, that is enough,” I said firmly. “You will remain here at the Savoy, while I will be making the journey to Wrenton by train, unaccompanied, the way hundreds of other women do every day without incident.”
“But they’re not you, ma’am,” Hamlin insisted. “Not you.”
“Hamlin, I am perfectly capable of— Yes?”
“These arrived for you, Mrs. Hart.” One of my other servants appeared in the doorway, holding an enormous crystal vase of roses.
“How lovely!” I exclaimed, grateful for the interruption.
I leaned over the vase, breathing deeply of the flowers’ fragrance. The roses were as lush as velvet, and so deep a red as to be almost black. Tucked among the stems was an envelope, and with my heart racing with anticipation, I slipped my finger under the flap to open it.
The roses could have been sent by any number of people—friends, acquaintances, even the hotel itself—but I dared to hope they’d be from one gentleman in particular.
Ever since the night of Lady Carleigh’s ball, I’d played my dance with Lord Savage over and over in my head, wishing I’d been more witty, more charming, less shocked by all he’d said and done. I thought of myself as a lady who was always composed and in control, and yet in the course of a single dance he had ruffled me, unsettled me, rattled me in ways I’d never expected.
I couldn’t recall another man who had radiated power and confidence in such a sexual manner, and I’d been drawn to him so completely that I almost felt as if I’d had no choice in the matter. He’d called it kismet, or fate, and though I’d tried to dismiss his words as the sort of pretty emptiness that me
n say while dancing, with him it had sounded like the purest truth. I scarcely knew him, and yet I felt as if we’d known each other forever.
When he’d guessed—for it had to have been a guess—that I was not a woman with scores of friends, I’d been stunned by his accuracy. A renegade, that’s what he’d called me. If I were honest, I liked the sound of that, the hint of danger that he’d added to the word. But what I’d liked more was that he’d confessed he was the same, a strange thing to share, and yet perfect because he’d said it.
I had always been alone, one more product of my suffocating, solitary childhood, and apart from the rest of my equals even as I’d stood among them. I’d also accepted that no one else felt the same. But to hear Lord Savage say the same of himself, a casual fact shared while we danced, had been exhilarating—yet almost frightening as well, because he’d made me feel dangerously vulnerable. It was as if he’d been able to look past my well-crafted, jewel-covered facade and see me as I really was.
There’d been danger in his sexual presence, too, a danger that had been equally irresistible. He hadn’t been coy, and he hadn’t been flirtatious. Instead, he’d stated his physical desire for me and frankly described mine for him. He had used words no gentleman should use to a lady, and yet from him they had sounded right, even as they’d shocked me, and excited me, too.
No, he excited me, shamelessly and without apology. Over and over, I’d imagined myself as the woman with him in the garden: her hips that he’d caress with a mixture of reverence and possession, her fingers clutching tight to the bench with her legs spread wide, the better to feel the full force of his cock.
I thought endlessly of how he’d pushed her hard against the bench with each thrust, how his fingers had dug into her hips to keep her steady, how she’d matched each of his primal groans with a cry of her own. Was it wrong to want that, too? He would be the one man who’d show me the kind of pleasure I’d read about in forbidden books, and had never felt with my husband. But Lord Savage would take me, claim me, ravish me, make me wild with joy, and then smile, and kiss me, and make me laugh softly, as if I were the only woman in his world.
No wonder I’d had trouble sleeping. He had behaved so differently from any other gentleman I’d ever met. I’d been thrown so off-balance by his sheer masculine arrogance that I’d been unable to measure his true interest, or if it came close to matching my own desire. Days had passed without so much as a word from him, and not once in my whirlwind of engagements did our paths cross. I’d despaired, fearing my obsession with him must be completely unrequited.
Yet as soon as I saw the embossed arms of the Earl of Savage on the card, I knew I had my answer. He’d written only a single word on the card, underlined with a bold, inky slash:
Tomorrow
That single word promised infinitely more than an entire book of flowery poetry because it had come from him. From him.
“Where shall I put the roses, ma’am?” Hamlin asked, seizing possession of the vase from the lower maid. “In the parlor?”
“On the table beside my bed, Hamlin,” I said, keeping the card. “I wish to breathe their fragrance as I sleep.”
Yet, Hamlin remained with the vase in her hands, clearly hoping I would reveal the sender’s name.
“Quite the honor that is, ma’am,” she said. “Whoever sent those roses would be mighty glad to hear you liked them so well.”
But I only smiled, lightly tracing the embossed arms with my fingertip with anticipation. Hamlin didn’t need to know; she would only disapprove. What happened next was between me and Lord Savage, and no one else.
Red roses meant passion and desire, and tomorrow—tomorrow I’d begin to learn how deep that desire would run.
* * *
The next afternoon, I looked eagerly from the window as the train slowed for the stop. One glance at the sleepy little station, surrounded by green fields filled with cows, was sufficient to show that Wrenton was in fact in the country and far from London.
Yet, it was all part of the adventure that this trip had become for me. Before today, I had never once traveled unaccompanied, not even to cross the street. I’d first been with my father, and then my husband, and always surrounded by nursemaids and governesses, servants and porters, private secretaries to make arrangements, and security men with pistols beneath their jackets to keep me safe from the kidnappers Father had so feared. Long ago I had found a way to set myself aside mentally, to be alone in my head even with the others close around me, but they had always been there.
But today I had left my staff behind at the Savoy, with only Hamlin scowling on the platform at Victoria Station. I had chosen the viscountess’s own compartment and had proudly handed the conductor my ticket myself, and in my purse were the chits for my two trunks.
These were ordinary experiences for most people, but for me they were rare, glorious signs of independence, as was the neat, fitted traveling suit of lavender serge that I wore with a large cream-colored hat and a heavy veil. I’d told Hamlin the veil was to protect my privacy, but covering my face had secretly made me feel worldly and mysterious, as if I traveled like this every day, and a bit wicked, too.
No, more than a bit wicked. Wasn’t I even now on my way to join the gentleman who had feverishly occupied my thoughts and dreams ever since we’d met? If things went as I hoped, I’d soon see the man who would become my lover before this week was done.
My lover, I thought, thrilled to think of Lord Savage in that way. No wonder I was smiling as I stepped from the train, and for the first time since I’d left London, I lifted back my veil to breathe deeply of the country air.
“We’ll have your things down in a moment, ma’am,” the conductor said as the station’s single porter wrestled my luggage to the platform. For me it was next to nothing: only the two trunks for gowns, three hat boxes, and several smaller valises and bags for the rest of my belongings.
I was disappointed to see that I was the only passenger to disembark at Wrenton station. Even though Lady Carleigh had promised that our party would be a small, select group, I had still hoped there would be others here to join me on the way to the manor house. I’d even dared to hope that Lord Savage himself might be on my train.
But I soon saw that I wouldn’t be entirely without company. An elegant motorcar, accompanied by a horse-drawn cart, were waiting before the station, and as soon as I stepped from the train, the chauffeur threw open the car’s door and trotted up to the platform. In his hands was a small introductory placard with my name neatly lettered upon it, a nicety made unnecessary by my being the only lady on the platform.
“Welcome to Wrenton, Mrs. Hart,” he said, touching the front of his livery cap. “I am Simon, ma’am.”
“Good afternoon, Simon,” I said, smiling warmly at the chauffeur. It was impossible not to, really: he was a delicious young man with a ruddy face, bright blue eyes, and curling blond hair. His livery coat barely contained his broad shoulders and the rippling muscles of his arms and thighs, and he truly was the perfect model of a country-bred Adonis.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hart,” he said, smiling in return. “My only wish is to please you. Parker and I will see to your trunks.”
That smile surprised me, and not just because of his dimples, either. I hadn’t expected such—such familiarity from Lady Carleigh’s staff. Simon was a servant, and servants were not supposed to smile like that at female guests of the household.
It was one thing for Hamlin to be impertinent, but another entirely for a male servant from another household to be so bold. Keeping my expression stern, I lowered my veil back over my face, determined to reinforce decorum.
Yet, from behind my veil I watched Simon and Parker—who was also quite handsome—as they loaded my belongings into the wagon, their breeches pulling snugly over their buttocks and thighs as they bent and lifted the heavy trunks and cases. In most houses, the servants with the responsibility of driving cars and carriages were seldom as young or as worthy of such regard
as these two men.
At last they were done, and Simon opened the door to the motorcar for me, standing respectfully to one side. I walked briskly to the door, gathering my skirts to one side to climb inside the car.
“Permit me to assist you, Mrs. Hart,” Simon said, taking me firmly by the elbow. “That step is a high one.”
Although the step wasn’t high at all, I simply nodded. But as I bent to climb into the car, I was shocked to feel the chauffeur’s hand on the back of my skirts, lightly caressing my bottom as he guided me inside.
I gasped and quickly turned and sat, the audacity of his touch still burning on my flesh beneath my skirt.
Unperturbed, Simon reached down to push the hem of my skirts into the car, so that they wouldn’t be caught in the door. As he did, he slid his gloved hand beneath my skirts and touched my silk-covered ankle.
I gasped again, but perhaps not quite as startled as I’d been before, and when he slid his hand up my leg to my thigh, I didn’t gasp at all. He did not stop until he’d reached the top of my stocking, his deerskin-covered fingers warm and sure on my bare thigh.
I’d never felt leather on so intimate a part of my anatomy, and to my surprise, it was not distasteful. It was … intriguing.
“Her ladyship wishes you to be pleased in every way, Mrs. Hart,” Simon said, his gaze intense with promise and his fingers tracing little teasing circles on my skin. “While you are her guest, whatever you desire is yours.”
Before I could answer, he withdrew his hand and gently closed and latched the door, then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the motorcar. He said nothing further, but instead concentrated on steering along the narrow, rutted road.
Yet, as I sat in the backseat, studying the broad sweep of his shoulders before me and the delightful way the manly sweat had dampened his blond curls around the rim of his cap, I had no doubt that if I asked him to stop the vehicle and continue what he’d begun, he would oblige.