A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  As the gentleman turned away, hauling Harry behind him, she understood that she would find out soon enough. And, perhaps, she might be able to thank her savior for sparing her from certain ruin. There was only one problem—she could not be honest with this gentleman, any more than she had been honest with the rest of the sailors.

  He may have saved her from Harry, but he could not save her from the future she would receive, if she was forced to return to England. No, she would have to keep up the ruse, and hope that she could continue to fool this gentleman, and everyone else. After all, who would believe a known cretin such as Harry over a peaceful, quiet individual such as herself?

  If she could not succeed in that, then she was doomed to wed Lord Beaurgant. And, no matter what threat may be made against her life from here on in, she could not allow that to happen.

  She would rather die.

  Chapter 14

  Simon slammed the iron door shut behind Harry, appalled by the sight of the horrible young man. He had returned from Faro not long before and had been drawn by the terrible scream that had echoed up the staircase and onto the upper deck. Adrenaline pulsated through his veins, even now. For he did not know what might have befallen that boy if he had not appeared when he had.

  “Sir, you’ve got to let me explain,” Harry begged, gripping the slimy bars.

  “There can be no reason that you can offer that would alleviate you of your crimes here, tonight,” Simon shot back, furious.

  “But, I…” Harry paused, as though contemplating his next words. To Simon’s surprise, the foul sailor slumped to his knees and rested his head against the bars. Evidently, the reason he had been about to give was unsuitable, prompting him to keep his mouth shut.

  Good. Simon did not tolerate violence or deviancy of any kind aboard his vessel. He knew that things such as this went on, aboard other ships, but he did not permit it to go unpunished within his fleet. Buggery disgusted him, even more so when it was forced upon an unwilling individual.

  “You will be fed. Other than that, nobody is to speak with you,” Simon said coldly. “I will make it known. And, upon our arrival in Cape Verde, you will be delivered to the Naval tribunal. They can decipher a suitable punishment for your behavior, for I have washed my hands of you.”

  Harry said nothing, his face twisting up in a bitter grimace. Satisfied that he had said all he had to say, Simon turned away and made his way back up to the cabin deck. There, he found the boy huddled against the wall, clutching tight to the torn sides of his shirt. He had put his cap back on and peered out from under the peak with frightened eyes that reminded Simon of an ensnared rabbit.

  Simon removed his jacket and put it around the shoulders of the shaking boy, who stiffened at the slightest touch. I am sorry that this has happened to you. He wanted to say so out loud, but he did not wish to startle the boy, who looked as though he might faint at the merest hint of kindness.

  He realized he was partially at fault for this, for not having had James McMorrow investigate the behavior of Harry more thoroughly. James had sensed something was amiss with the boy, but Simon had not thought it anything too serious. These actions, however, were very serious indeed. He had only to look upon the boy to realize how traumatized he was.

  “I am sorry, but I have forgotten your name.” Simon knelt to the boy’s level and looked into his dark blue eyes. They were rather striking, with long, feminine lashes that took him by surprise.

  “Andrew Barton, Sir,” the boy squeaked in reply.

  Simon nodded. “Yes, of course. Well, my name is Simon Fitzwalles, the Earl of Burhill. This is my ship that you are sailing upon, and so I am responsible for the welfare of all who reside within it. I know you have had a somewhat trying evening. And so, I would like to invite you to recover in my quarters. I will have my manservant bring you something warm to drink and new clothes to wear.”

  The boy blinked strangely, his eyes widening. “The Earl of Burhill?”

  “Yes, though I usually tend to keep that to myself.” He smiled kindly and offered out his hand to help the boy up. “Come now, let us tend to any injuries you may have and see you restored by the stove.”

  The boy neglected to take Simon’s proffered hand and stood of his own accord. Although, he could not stop staring at Simon with that unnerving expression, as though he knew something he could not say. Passing it off as residual terror, Simon led the way up the corridor, making sure that the boy was following, like a rather unsuccessful Orpheus and Eurydice in the underworld.

  Even when they arrived at Simon’s quarters, the boy seemed unable to settle. Simon supposed he had never been in quarters this grand, though he did not know too much of this new recruit. I will have time to discover more, once the boy’s fears fade.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Barton.” Simon gestured to one of the armchairs. Tentatively, the boy sat down, careful to keep his shirt tucked about his chest.

  “Thank you, Lord Burhill,” the boy replied, his voice shaking. Poor thing.

  Simon walked to one of the closed doors and knocked gently. A moment later, a familiar face appeared—Simon’s manservant, Brockmire. He had clearly been sleeping, his pale blue eyes shot through with thin, red veins, whilst his graying, fair hair was unkempt, sticking up at curious angles. Indeed, he looked rather unwell.

  “Lord Burhill, you have returned early. I was not expecting you until the morning.” He straightened his shirt. “I would not have rested if I had known.” A rattling cough erupted from Brockmire’s throat, a faint speckle of red showing through the flimsy white fabric of his handkerchief as he lifted it to his mouth.

  Simon frowned. “Are you unwell, Brockmire?”

  “A trifling cold, no more.”

  “Are you certain?” It did not seem to be a simple cold. That worried Simon, for he could not risk releasing a contagion upon the ship.

  Brockmire nodded. “I will be quite well in the morning, My Lord. May I fetch you something before you retire?” He peered over Simon’s shoulder, and saw the young man sitting in the armchair. “Ah, I did not realize we had guests.”

  “Yes, I am afraid young Mr. Barton has had a rather horrible evening. As such, I was wondering if you might bring two hot ports and a fresh set of trousers and a shirt? And when you are done, I would suggest that you retire to your chamber and do not leave it until you are feeling much improved.” His tone was soft and worried, for Brockmire had been an excellent manservant to him aboard this vessel. He did not like to think that something may be afoot with the fellow.

  Brockmire cleared his throat. “Of course, Sir.”

  “I will send for the ship’s physician in the morning, before we depart. He can look over you, to ensure that you are well.”

  “I am well, My Lord.”

  Simon smiled. “Nevertheless, I would have a professional opinion. As much for your sake as for the rest of us. You know the protocol, Brockmire.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest in disappointment. “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Thank you, Brockmire.” Simon put his hand on his manservant’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  As Brockmire busied himself, preparing the hot Port and acquiring new clothes for Mr. Barton, Simon crossed the room and sat in the armchair opposite the young man. He did not seem eager to remove his cap, even though they were indoors, and it was the proper thing to do. However, Simon did not point out the fact, for the boy had been through quite enough for one evening.

  “So, Mr. Barton, would you mind telling me a little bit about yourself?”

  * * *

  Jemima gulped as she sat opposite Lord Burhill. She realized that he had not recognized her, but she recognized him. He was not a frequent presence in social gatherings, but she had encountered him often enough to remember him, putting the face to the name with ease. It was a skill of hers, to remember people. However, she knew that they had never been formally introduced at the soirées they had mutually attended.

  Indeed, he was somewhat in
famous in the upper echelons of society, for his decision to embark upon business endeavors, instead of remaining in England to attend solely to his estate. It had caused quite the stir, after the gossip had circulated, not long after the death of his father. For it was not the done thing in polite society. Jemima herself had never heard of such behavior prior to him, though she rather admired the tenacity of his spirit, to purchase a fleet and enter into the merchant trade.

  At such close quarters, she could properly view him, in a way she had not been able to do when he had been shrouded in the shadow of the lower deck. He had broad shoulders, and though he was sitting, she knew him to be tall. His features were masculine and striking, reminding her of a lion, which only highlighted the mane of amber curls that framed his strong face. Hazel eyes looked upon her, swirling with a hint of caramel.

  He is very fine indeed. The softness in his eyes made her feel more at ease, scaring away the demons that had plagued her not long before. There was something about him that made her feel safe and protected. His voice was like honey, rich and sweet.

  “I am the youngest son of a steward, who used to aid in the care of Cowden Manor, just East of Cambridgeshire,” she replied, at last. She was aware that she had let the silence between them linger a little too long. However, she could have cursed herself for choosing her own home as the epicenter of her ruse. Then again, it was the only one she knew. If he had further questions, she reasoned she could answer more suitably if they regarded Cowden Manor.

  Lord Burhill frowned. “I confess, I do not know it, but I am not exactly au-fait with the estates of England. I ought to be, I suppose, but I never took the time to learn. Is it pleasant there?”

  “It can be,” Jemima replied. “The gardens are exceedingly pretty in the summertime.” Do not speak of gardens! A gentleman would never talk so. “And we have exemplary stables, for riding and hunting, and suchlike.” That was more like it. If she wished to fool him, one-on-one, she needed to think more like a gentleman would.

  “I do not care much for hunting, but I do enjoy riding,” he said wistfully. “It is one thing I miss when I am aboard this ship. Although, the exotic locations we visit more than make up for the lack of husbandry.”

  “Your estate is Burhill Towers, is it not?” Jemima asked.

  He smiled. “I see you have learnt more than I, in such matters. Yes, that is my seat.”

  “Do you care for it, My Lord?”

  “When I am in England, I suppose I do. Though, I do not think of it much when I am away. I have an excellent steward, who oversees the running of my estate. Much like your father, I imagine?”

  Jemima swallowed. “Yes, very much so.”

  He eyed her curiously for a moment, but the arrival of the manservant distracted his attention. As the fellow set down a tray with two glasses, and laid out a fresh shirt, and trousers, Lord Burhill seemed to forget any suspicion he might have been harboring.

  “I am sorry for the behavior of Harry, Mr. Barton,” Lord Burhill said, taking one of the glasses and handing it to her. “Please, take some of this to ease your nerves. And these clothes are yours to wear. You may go into one of the adjoining chambers to dress, if you please?”

  “Yes, My Lord. Thank you.” Taking the glass, she took a hefty sip, before setting it back down. Without another word, she grasped the clothes and hurried through one of the doors in these grand quarters, closing it firmly behind her.

  There, she pressed her back against the closed door and dragged in short, shallow breaths. This entire endeavor had been far easier before she had encountered Lord Burhill, for she had thought herself far from anyone who might recognize her. He had not done so, as of yet, but he had been looking at her with a rather intense curiosity that made her panic. She could not risk being discovered and being soundly returned to her furious parents.

  Let him be ignorant of who I am.

  She prayed in silence, her face lifted up to the dark beams that crossed the ceiling. Letting her nerves ease slightly, she began to undress from the torn remains of her old clothes. Glancing around as she did so, she realized she was in a bedchamber. She stopped abruptly. Had she entered Lord Burhill’s bedchamber by accident?

  Her eyes drifted towards the four-poster bed, the covers neatly made. Half-dressed in the bedchamber of a bachelor, she felt a sudden thrill tickle up her spine. Had Lord Burhill ever taken a young lady to bed in this room? She did not think he was the type to do so, but it did not stop her imagination from running wild. Even after what she had endured, she could not help it. It was Lord Burhill himself that inspired such thoughts. He would never seek to take a lady by force. He was one to woo with his rich voice and gentle manners, she was sure.

  She walked towards the bed and let her hand trail across the soft coverlet, the warm glow of the candlelight casting her bare skin in a golden haze. She wore bloomers, her chest still bound, but other than that, she was naked in that halcyon glow. Catching sight of herself in the mirror on the far side of the room, she smiled.

  With the shadows that ebbed and flowed around her, it created a curious illusion. One that made it look as though she still had her flowing, raven hair. She turned this way and that, smoothing her hands across her stomach. Reaching up behind herself, she untied the knots that held the bandages together, until she stood, bare breasted in the candlelit haze. In truth, she had missed being a woman.

  It troubled her to think of what Harry might have stolen from her. This naked form that belonged to her, to be given only when she decided. She had to be bold. She had to remind herself that he had not achieved his goal. Her body was still her own, mostly unmarred by his vulgar hands.

  I must think on sweeter things. I must not allow him to ruin my mind. I must not allow him to triumph in this. She forced her mind away from the darkness, urging it towards more pleasant images. Images that would allow her to remember that she was strong and pure, still. To do that, she had to reclaim herself entirely, dispelling Harry’s touch with her own.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined a handsome young gentleman coming up behind her and smoothing his own palms across her stomach, working up toward the fullness of her breasts and cupping them gently. She wanted to chase away the horror of what Harry had almost done, by picturing desire instead of brutality. Love given, not taken. She wondered what it might be like to watch such a thing occur, in the reflection of that mirror.

  Picturing the delirious couple in the alleyway, she smiled to herself at the prospect of a gentleman nuzzling into her own full bosom and taking one of her pert nipples into his mouth. Her abdomen tightened at the prospect, her nipples hardening as if she were in such a situation.

  Lord Burhill, perhaps? He had been brave and courageous, saving her from the grip of Harry. What if this were his reward? He was handsome and kind, his voice soothing and pleasant. She imagined he would make her feel desire instead of fear, were he to step into this room and see her like this.

  Her teeth grazed her bottom lip as she pinched her nipples lightly. A shiver of lightning shot through her body, a heat rising from deep within her core. There was something about being so close to destruction that had given her a renewed sense of life. She had been saved, gifted with the chance of giving herself to someone she loved, who might take her for the first time in a gentle and passionate fashion.

  Of course, she did not love Lord Burhill, and she did not really mean to reward him with her pure, untouched body. This was simply her imagination at play, creating delightful daydreams in her mind. And he was the first gentleman she could think of, with this being his chamber. As her hand wandered down the smooth curve of her stomach, sliding into the waistband of her bloomers, a knock at the door jolted her out of her wonderings.

  “Mr. Barton? Are you faring well in there?” It was Lord Burhill.

  Mortified at the risk she had taken, Jemima raced towards the pile of clothes on the floor and pulled the new trousers on. “Quite well, My Lord. I will be with you momentarily.” She lunged for the fa
llen bandages and hurriedly bound her breasts once more, before fastening the fresh shirt across. There was a waistcoat, too, which she quickly buttoned up to hide her womanly figure.

  Taking another look in the mirror, she saw a young man staring back at her, with shorn hair and a boxy, though slender, physique. A relieved sigh hissed from her lungs—she was Andrew Barton again. And that had been a very close call.

  Chapter 15

  Peter scoured the pile of letters that had arrived in the last few days and slammed his fists into his bureau, frustrated by the lack of leads he found amongst them. He had encountered several of Lady Jemima’s acquaintances in the past week and given them the same tall tale about wanting to arrange a surprise engagement ball. However, they had all returned with the same stark truth—nobody had seen nor heard from Lady Jemima since her escape.