This was love talk, silly nonsense men concocted to make ladies want to shed their clothes—and it was working. Esther squirmed and realized that Percival Windham’s talk was having an effect on certain parts of his anatomy as well.
How… lovely. How intriguing. “What else?”
He laughed quietly. “Now who has the inconvenient questions? I want to make love to you, of course, endlessly, all night, until you are limp with pleasure and neither of us can move.”
Esther lifted her face from his shoulder, needing to see his eyes. “All I sought were kisses, Percival. You need not flatter and dissemble.”
His expression in the shadow of the angel’s wings was hard to read, but he wasn’t smiling. “Give me your hand, love.”
She obliged, and he brought their joined hands down between their bodies.
“Feel that. A man can’t fake desire. A kiss between a man and a woman should always have a little desire in it.”
If this thick column of flesh was his idea of a little desire… Esther withdrew her hand and felt her cheeks flush. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
“Nor shall I.”
For a devastated instant, she thought he was reneging, except his hand fisted on her braid, gently but implacably, and Esther understood in the next second what he was about.
He was hers to kiss. Here in this small, secluded graveyard, peace filling the air and cherubs and angels looking on with eternal smiles, Lord Percival Windham was hers.
“Esther?”
Not so casual now, and how she loved hearing her name on his lips. “I’m thinking.”
Marveling at the possibilities. She made him wait for a few heady moments while she reveled in the feel of his hair in her hands, while she traced the shape of his ear with her nose, and she settled herself on the ridge of his erection. The luxury of time he gave her was a sumptuous gift, one she indulged in shamelessly.
“How does it feel when I do this?” She shifted her weight on him minutely, bringing on all manner of pleasurable sensations.
“It does not hurt. Will you kiss me, Esther?”
There was a “but” in his it-does-not-hurt, one Esther could not fathom. She hitched closer and wished she were in her nightclothes, or in nothing at all.
“Esther, please…”
Ah, the glory of hearing that hoarse, pleading whisper, of feeling it against her bare skin. Gently, slowly, Esther settled her mouth on his, treasuring everything about the moment.
The sound of their clothing rustled when she shifted, and his arm tightened around her.
The feel of his clean-shaven cheek against her palm as she cradled his jaw.
The scrape of his riding boots as he spread his legs and closed his fingers in her hair.
The sweet lemony taste of his tongue seaming her lips.
He keeps lemon drops in his snuffbox.
For long, long moments, that was Esther’s last coherent thought. She became nothing more than the female half of a passionate, unforgettable, indescribable, profound kiss, and how long she existed in that blissful state she could not have said, though for the duration of their kiss, Percival Windham was both storm and refuge, both the inspiration for her desire and the frustration of it.
When Esther at last subsided against his shoulder, she was panting and wishing her clothing to Hades—she was also wishing his clothing to Hades—and enjoying the feel of his hand stroking slowly, slowly over her hair.
“Can you describe that kiss, Esther Himmelfarb? I surely cannot.” There was wonder in his voice, awe even.
“My first kiss?” A modest description, also a confession of sorts. She wanted him never to stop touching her hair in that soothing caress and yet, as long as he touched her in that way, she would have no means of reassembling her scattered wits.
“Our third kiss, my love.”
“Fourth, if we’re to be precise.”
“Third—the little nothing before was just the appetizer. Let me hold you.”
He was counting their kisses. Esther hoarded up that realization and did indeed let him hold her, and hold her, and hold her. At some point, he shifted and rose with her cradled against his chest, and still she did not stir. He carried her—her, Esther Himmelfarb, whom the dainty, petite Charlotte had described as Amazonian—down the walkway to the wooden bench, then took a seat directly beside her.
Esther retrieved her riding glove from a skirt pocket and slipped it on, the better to control the impulse to touch Percival Windham’s hair, to cradle his palm once more against her cheek.
When Anthony came up the walk, whistling an up-tempo version of “God Save the King,” Esther was still sitting beside Percival Windham, not touching him but wondering how—how on earth—she would describe the kisses that just passed between them.
* * *
Esther had regrets. She regretted not packing more of her best gowns; she regretted her family’s assumption that she could be any kind of aid to Michael in his marital machinations and any kind of check on his wagering impulses. She regretted bitterly that there hadn’t been time to devise some other plan for rescuing Lord Percival from Charlotte Pankhurst’s infernal schemes.
More than any of that, Esther regretted that she’d asked Percival Windham only for mere kissing lessons.
“He didn’t even blink,” she informed an enormous white cat curled at the foot of her bed. “Desperate spinsters must importune him for kissing lessons the livelong day.”
The cat squeezed its eyes closed, eyes that sported the same startling, lovely, rosemary-in-bloom blue boasted by Percival Windham’s eyes.
Esther paced the confines of her small chamber. “I have been accosted, you see. I have been groped and slobbered over, I have been propositioned, and I have even been proposed to.”
She shuddered at the memory of Baron Bagshot’s proposal. She’d had to help him up from his genuflection, and given the baron’s fondness for his victuals and the unreliability of his septuagenarian knees, the undertaking had been ungainly.
And he’d been so unabashedly hopeful.
“I was supposed to consider myself fortunate, for he assured me I’d quickly be a widow and well fixed. What sort of bride wishes her husband into the grave?”
The cat rearranged itself to a sitting position.
“Percival isn’t the least bit conceited.” Esther regarded the cat, a creature born with a full complement of conceit. “He’s easy to talk to, and he smells good, and when he lifts one from a horse, one feels… dainty.”
Dainty was a novelty and precious. No other man had conjured this feeling in Esther’s breast, as if she might shelter in his arms, lean upon him, and enjoy conversing with his chin instead of enduring his conversation with the tops of her breasts.
“He has a determined chin, nothing retiring about it. I am in a sad case when I am besotted with a man’s chin… The way he uses his hands is equally enchanting, firm and… firm.”
Esther sat on the bed and picked up the cat, who had commenced to groom itself and looked none too pleased to be interrupted.
“My mama still berates us in wonderfully precise German when we transgress. She’s very practical, and I know exactly what is meant when a man and woman become lovers, cat.”
Because Esther was scratching the nape of the beast’s neck, a comforting vibration began to rumble forth from her confidante.
Esther whispered, her lips close to the cat’s elegant fur. “I should have asked him to become my lover. This is a house party, we’re sophisticated people, and even a poor relation in training is entitled to a few lovely memories.”
The cat began to knead Esther’s shoulder through her nightclothes.
“Naughty kitty.” She cuddled the cat closer, mentally assuring herself, for the thousandth time, that asking Lord Percival for his kisses had not been foolish and she would not regret it.
She would, however, regret not asking him for more.
* * *
The Marquess of Pembroke was a
blond, shambling giant with genial features and a heartwarming devotion to his wife and daughters. As his father studied him, Pembroke sat by a mullioned window and pretended to read some thick tome, though no doubt a pamphlet on grafting roses or distilling perfumes lay between the pages of Pembroke’s book.
Pembroke pushed his glasses up his nose then rubbed the heel of his right hand absently against his sternum. The gesture belonged on an old man, but in recent years had become alarmingly characteristic of the Moreland heir.
His Grace launched himself into the room, lest he be found spying on his oldest surviving son. “Is your indigestion acting up?”
Pembroke blinked, set the book aside, and rose slowly. “Not particularly. Good day, Your Grace.”
“And the same to you. I trust your lady fares well?”
Bella had been present for last night’s meal, it being Her Grace’s decree that the family dine together in the evening, though formality had always characterized His Grace’s dealings with his sons.
“She’s out riding with the girls. It’s a fine day for a hack. Was there something I might do for you, Your Grace?”
His Grace did not remark the infrequency of Pembroke’s own ventures on horseback. As a younger man, Peter, like his brothers, had ridden like a demon—when his mother would not get wind of it—but marriage, or that ache in the man’s chest, had sobered the marquess considerably.
His Grace gestured to the settee. “May I sit?”
“Of course. Shall I ring for tea?”
God’s holy, everlasting balls… Their dinner conversation was the same. A parody of dialogue.
His Grace flipped out the tails of his coat and appropriated the middle of the sofa while Pembroke subsided into his reading chair. “Tea won’t be necessary. Her Grace would like us to attend the last week of the Morrisette house party. The children needn’t come, of course, though I’m sure Lady Morrisette will make accommodation if you insist.”
He rather hoped the children would come, for both of his granddaughters were delightful young ladies who liked for their grandpapa to read to them and tell them tales of life at court.
Pembroke took off his glasses and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, no doubt mentally fashioning a response while polishing spotless lenses.
“You never refer to her as my mother, as our mother. Did you know that?” Pembroke’s tone was not accusing, it was merely curious, perhaps carefully curious.
From parody to farce—or tragedy? “The duchess is rather attached to the privileges of her station. Is there a point you would make, Pembroke?”
“I love my wife.” Pembroke’s chin came up a bit as he said this.
“Your sentiments do you credit.” The duke’s answer was swift and sincere.
Also, apparently, surprising to them both.
Pembroke rose and stood facing the window, which looked out over the stables and nearer paddocks. “I have wondered how my parents contrived to have four children, given what I know of my progenitors now. She’s set the dogs on Percy and Tony.”
She being Her Grace, of course, and the implied criticism being that His Grace had done nothing to stop her matchmaking—which he had not.
“Percival and Anthony are of an age to be taking spouses. You were younger, and your union has been blessed.”
Pembroke shot a look over his shoulder. “I believe you mean that.”
“I most assuredly do, and with your brothers married, perhaps you and your marchioness will finally have some peace. Ten years is long enough to bear the entire brunt of ducal expectations.”
Blond brows rose, as if Pembroke’s circumstances could not possibly have figured into the duke’s thinking where Percival and Tony were concerned.
“I’ll tell Bella we’re to join the house party.”
A change of subject, but in Pembroke’s tone, the duke divined the truth: Pembroke would ask Arabella if she would mind very much spending just a few days placating Her Grace with a social outing. Bella would turn up stubborn, convinced if she agreed and they attended, then Pembroke would be even more miserable than she. Much fuming and many portentous looks would be served up with dinner for the remainder of the week.
And in the end, they’d both go, and both hate it. Perhaps they’d even slide a hair closer to hating Her Grace.
Managing a large and prosperous duchy was simple compared to dealing with one small, relatively civil family. His Grace rose to stand beside his son.
“Anthony is in clandestine pursuit of the Holsopple heiress, who is not trying very hard to elude capture. She’s had several seasons to lark about, and refused any number of offers. Her Grace is making overtures to the girl’s mother, and thus the entire idea will be Her—your mother’s invention, provided Anthony and his love do not elope first, and provided I can manage to communicate as much to your baby brother.”
Pembroke folded his glasses and stuffed them into a pocket. “And Percy?”
“Percival is acquitting himself cordially to all and sundry. I predict that when he falls, he’ll fall hard and without respect to where Her—your mother would like him to fall. Do I take it you are not inclined to join the house party?”
“Bella despises those gatherings.”
“As do I.”
This bit of honesty proved too much for Pembroke’s reserve. The marquess aimed a rare, sympathetic smile at his father. “Is it time for your lungs to act up?”
“My lungs—? Oh, I think not. Twombly has defected from his post as Her Grace’s favorite gallant, and I am afforded a rare opportunity to escort my wife. I will make your excuses to her regarding your attendance, yours and Lady Bella’s.”
“My thanks, Your Grace.” The relief in his son’s eyes was hard to look on.
“For God’s sake, Pembroke, Her Grace behaves as she does only because she cannot abide the idea that any of her children should be unhappy. She’s neither evil nor unreasonable, just very determined.”
“If you say so, sir.”
His Grace took his leave, and Pembroke’s nose was back in the book before the duke had left the parlor. The duchess was determined, mortally determined, but her ends were perfectly justified. Nonetheless, it was Pembroke’s lady wife who’d carried the burden of the duchess’s disappointment for nigh a decade. The duke held his daughter-in-law in great affection, and enough was enough.
As His Grace sought the duchess to relay word that Pembroke and his marchioness would not be joining the house party, an uncomfortable thought occurred to him:
Unlike Pembroke, Percival would not have needed his papa to serve as a go-between with the duchess. Percival would have told his mother he wasn’t inclined to attend, and no matter how Her Grace fumed, pouted, and twisted the thumbscrews of maternal guilt, Percival would not have yielded.
Given the way Pembroke rubbed at his chest and kept company with books and rosebushes, the day might come when the dukedom fell into Percival’s hands.
And that would not be an entirely bad thing—for the dukedom.
* * *
“My full name is Percival St. Stephens Tiberius Joachim Windham. I am very thankful His Grace could contain my mother’s excesses and limit her to four names for each child. Quimbey has eight baptismal names of at least three syllables each. What about you?”
Esther gave herself a moment to memorize his lordship’s entire name—Percival St. Stephens Tiberius Joachim Windham. “I am Esther Louise Himmelfarb, plain and simple.”
“You have told two falsehoods, my dear. You are neither plain nor simple. When is your natal day?”
Esther answered that question, just as she’d answered so many others, and all during his lordship’s polite interrogation she was aware of a chorus of crickets chirping in the moon-shadowed garden. She was aware of Percival Windham sitting so close to her, the heat of his muscular thigh along hers was evident through the fabric of her nightgown and wrapper. She was aware of his scent and aware of the way his voice in the darkness felt like an aural cares
s.
Most of all, though, she was aware that two days after promising to teach her how to kiss—and two long, restless nights—he most assuredly had not kissed her again.
“I have a question for you, your lordship.”
“Percy will do, madam. You are quite forgetful about my request that you abandon the formalities.”
He sounded amused, while Esther wanted to grind her teeth. “I named a boon to you when we visited your family plot, and you agreed to grant it. Do you consider the obligation discharged, or have you forgotten my request?”
Without any change in his lordship’s posture, the quality of his presence beside her shifted, as did the nature of the darkness surrounding them. The moon was a thin crescent in the sky, and the night was mild. From beyond the walls of the kitchen garden, an owl hooted, making Esther think of all the mama mice grateful their children were safe in bed.
Bed, where she ought to be.
Though not alone. For once in her sensible, lonely, pragmatic existence, Esther Himmelfarb did not want to go to bed alone. This realization had come to her as she’d sat in Lady Pott’s tiny dressing room, mending a hem at Zephora Needham’s request. Lady Pott had been snoring off her brandied tea in the next room, and the billowing ball gowns on their respective hooks had felt like so many cobwebs clinging to Esther’s life.
Percival’s fingers, strong and warm, closed over Esther’s hand. “If you think for one instant I could forget either kissing you or the prospect of kissing you again, Esther Louise, you are much mistaken.”
I want to see you naked, but for this glorious, silky hair, Esther, and a smile of welcome for me. She recalled his words, and they made her brave—or reckless.
“I want to see you naked, sir.”
He went still beside her then drew her to her feet. “Not here.”
If not here, then somewhere—anywhere. She did not care, provided he granted her this wish, because a man in want of his clothing was often a man in want of his wits—her grandmother had told her that, and with a wink and a laugh too.
The Courtship (windham) Page 6