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

by Olivia Bennet

  One thing brought her comfort, however. If Harry had not mentioned his suspicions of her being a lady to Lord Burhill, then it stood to reason that he might continue to keep quiet on the matter. After all, the consequences of seeking to assault a young lady were far more terrible than harming a young gentleman. Perhaps, that was what had purchased his silence.

  Slowly, she lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, letting the night’s events wash over her. Anger, despair, gratitude, relief…it all mingled in her mind. Closing her eyes, one prominent feeling remained, and it brought a tentative smile to her lips. Here, she was safe. Here, in this room, she was out of harm’s way.

  That could not be taken away from her, as long as she could maintain the ruse of being Andrew Barton.

  So…the hard part is still to come. For, though it sounded simple on the surface, Jemima knew it would be anything but. If Lord Burhill discovered the truth, or came to recognize her, she would have nowhere left to run.

  Chapter 17

  Peter wasted no time in accepting the Duke of Cowden’s permission to search Lady Jemima’s personal belongings. Leaving him behind in the library, Peter tried not to look too eager as he mounted the staircase and headed in the direction of Lady Jemima’s bedchamber, following the directions that the Duke had given him.

  He paused for a moment on the staircase, remembering the evening he had discovered her on the landing, with her back pressed to the nearest door. He had pursued her for much of that evening’s revels, though she had tried to evade him, even then. The memory brought a smile to his lips. She had thought herself clever back then, but he had found her. He would do the same again.

  Moving across the landing of the first floor, he came to a halt outside the second last door on the left and let himself into the room beyond. He lingered on the threshold, absorbing the sight before him. Her aroma drifted around the empty expanse—a perfume of lavender, something sugary sweet, and a faint hint of rich sandalwood.

  As the Duke had said, nothing had been moved. The bureau still had papers littered across it, and a pair of shoes were askance in front of the bed. The pillows were still ruffled, where she had last lain her head, and the curtains were partially drawn, as if she had been preparing for nighttime.

  Slowly, he entered, taking in everything, in case he missed an important feature. He longed to find something that would lead him to her, but that was not the only reason he had asked to gain access. In truth, he wanted to be closer to her, in some small way, as though that would connect them. It was the same reason he had pressed his lips to her portrait on the evening he had trailed her, although this was far more satisfying.

  First, he went to her armoire, and began to rootle through the clothing. He found gowns of all kinds, and brushed the silky fabrics against his skin, his body shuddering in delight at the sensation. The scent of her was more intense on the gowns she had more recently worn, as he buried his nose into the necklines of the dresses, imaging them filled out with her sensual form.

  Next, he opened drawers, discovering her corsets and pantalettes. To his dismay, when he leaned in to draw their scent deep into his nostrils, he found only the scent of starch and soap. He had been hoping for something more visceral, but that had been washed out of them by the laundry.

  Putting everything back neatly, lest someone discover his trail of furtiveness, he wandered over to the bureau and sat down. A few ink splotches covered the varnished surface, with a fingerprint clearly ingrained in one of the dried marks. He smoothed his own fingertips across it, trying to imagine Lady Jemima’s thoughts before she had escaped Cowden Manor.

  What did you think of, my love? Where did you wish to go?

  He glanced at the window beside him, which gave a beautiful view across the back gardens. He could not envision her clambering down from such a height, nor would such a thing have been possible without a rope, or without tying the bedsheets together. As that had not been discovered, he knew she could not have absconded like that.

  Then how? He sat back in the chair where Lady Jemima had sat countless times and wondered what her plan had been. It was becoming clearer that she must have left by one of the house’s exits, but even that would have been difficult without someone spotting her.

  An idea burst into his mind. Were you in disguise, my sweet?

  That seemed like the only option, if she had managed to get away from the house without being noticed. Then again, he could not conjure up a single disguise that would have allowed her to pass unseen. Her face was too recognizable, and that long, raven hair would have given her away immediately, even with a hat of some kind upon her head.

  Are the staff in on it? It was a possibility, though it would also have been a rather risky move on their part. If it was discovered that they had aided her, they would lose their employ at Cowden Manor, and their reputation alongside it. And yet, he could not ignore the niggling doubt that they had somehow helped her. After all, someone had to know something. People did not simply disappear, and certainly not young ladies such as Lady Jemima.

  He rose from the chair and walked about the room, making several circuits. As he did so, he kept his wits about him, scanning the area for anything amiss. However, aside from the shoes which had been left askance, there was nothing untoward at all.

  Curious, he moved towards the shoes and ducked down to the level of the floor, where he let his eyes peer into the gloom beneath. A faint dusting of lint had fallen upon the floorboards, like the first frost of Winter, but there was nothing under there, either. Well, nothing aside from the crumpled remains of a nightgown. Reaching under the bed, he dragged the nightgown out and held it in his hands.

  It was a long, elegant garment made of soft cotton, with a lacy trim at the hem and high neckline. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he buried his face in the fabric and inhaled the intense scent, as though he were a bloodhound on the search for a fox. He smoothed it across his neck and his lips, letting the fabric brush against him. Beneath his trousers, he felt his member stir in sudden excitement.

  He pictured her, standing in this very room, dressed in naught but this nightgown, on their wedding night. He envisioned himself approaching her, his member straining for the heat of her sex, and sliding this garment from her body. If he thought hard enough, he could almost feel the smooth softness of her skin as he caressed her naked figure, his hands moving eagerly down to cup her sensual warmth.

  Biting his lip, he imagined sliding his fingers inside her, and listening to her gasp against his neck at the unexpected sensation. In this dream, she was willing, but he knew she would not always be. In the throes of his imagination now, he wondered how sweet it would feel to press her back onto the bed and have her unbutton his trousers, freeing his erect member.

  How delicious…He pictured her ready and exposed, her slender legs brought up to the edge of the bed, urging him inside her. Naked as she was, he imagined guiding himself into that wet lotus, and sinking in to the hilt, over and over until she screamed his name for everyone to hear.

  He opened his eyes suddenly, realizing how foolish he was being. If anyone were to find him here, with his face buried in her nightgown and his member showing rather obviously through his trousers, they would come to all the wrong conclusions. He merely wished to retrieve his bride, so he could bring his imagination to life. There was nothing sordid about that, surely?

  Shaking off the heat of his arousal, he glanced back under the bed. There, right beside the spot where the nightgown had been, he noticed a few unusual specks. Reaching for them, he pulled his hand back to his face, and found a few flakes of mud upon his palm.

  Dirt? Why would there be dirt here? He pressed the detritus between his forefinger and thumb and watched as it crumbled away to nothing but ash. Lifting his dirty fingers to his nose, he breathed in the smell of earth. It made him frown, for he could not think of any reason why Lady Jemima would have had dirt upon her feet. This was fairly recent, by his reckoning, and had not been swept
away by the maids.

  Moving back to the bureau, he took out a clean sheet of paper, and dipped the quill into the ink. On the crisp vellum, he wrote: 1. Dirt on the floor. This would be his list of evidence, which he hoped would create a more comprehensive picture of where his bride had disappeared to.

  And, more importantly, how she had disappeared.

  Leaving it upon the bureau, he moved over to her vanity, where an array of trinkets and bottles of scent lay upon the table. He sat there for a moment, lifting the bottles to his nose and drinking in the aroma of Lady Jemima. He longed to pocket one, but he knew someone would notice if it was missing.

  Looking into the mirror, he assessed his reflection. He frowned at the sight, for he looked more tired than he had expected. Dark circles ringed his dark eyes with purple crescents, and a faint shadow of stubble could be seen along the edge of his jaw. He knew he would have to remedy that, soon enough, but he had more pressing matters to attend to, first.

  Skirting his hands along the two small drawers that were embedded in the vanity, he contemplated opening them. Reasoning that they would only be filled with more useless trinkets, he stood up instead, and padded over to the large trunk at the foot of Lady Jemima’s bed.

  Opening the lid, he discovered an extensive pile of blankets and sheets. Frowning, he began to sift through the seemingly innocuous items, certain that he would find something more. However, it seemed that the items were innocuous indeed, for that was all he could find within the box. Blankets, pillows, coverlets, and a few folded sheets.

  He had almost begun to give up hope, when he caught sight of something in the very bottom of the trunk. Snatching at it, he brought it up into the light and smiled broadly.

  It was a tiny slip of paper, and on that paper, two words—Head Gardener.

  Chapter 18

  Jemima awoke as dawn glanced in through the pretty, crosshatched windows at the far side of her new chambers.

  She had not closed the curtains, as she’d known she would need the light to awaken her, so she would not be late to attend to her duties in the galley. Stretching like a cat beside the wood stove, she felt oddly refreshed, for she had experienced the best night’s sleep she’d had in a long while.

  And it is all thanks to Lord Burhill. She smiled at the memory of his kindness, and quickly threw back the covers. She had expected an English chill to creep upon her skin, but the room was surprisingly warm, even at such an early hour.

  Dressing in fresh clothes, she slipped out of her bedchamber and crept across the sitting room area. She froze before she could reach the door. Lord Burhill was asleep in the armchair where she had left him, his head lolling to one side as he breathed softly. Even in slumber, he looked kind and peaceful—the perfect savior.

  She paused uncertainly, for she did not know if Brockmire would be emerging from his own bedchamber anytime soon. Lord Burhill’s manservant had looked exceedingly unwell the previous evening, and she doubted his state had changed in such a short expanse of time. Taking a shaky breath, she tiptoed towards the sleeping figure and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

  Gently, she shook him.

  He blinked awake with a start. “Barton? Is something the matter? Has Harry escaped?” He lurched forwards in his chair, but Jemima pressed her palm to his chest, urging him back into the seat.

  “Nothing of the sort, My Lord. You were asleep, and I thought it pertinent to wake you, so you might retire to your bedchamber for a while. If you remain here, you are likely to get a sore neck, if you do not already have one.” She smiled down at him, grateful that she had thought to place her cap upon her head before she had exited her chambers. True, her hair was shorn, but she reasoned he was more likely to recognize her if he could see her full features.

  Lord Burhill visibly relaxed. “Thank you, Barton. That is most thoughtful of you.” He chuckled sleepily. “Although, you may be right—I fear it is already much too late for my neck.” He rubbed it tenderly, turning his head this way and that.

  “You should rest, My Lord.”

  He nodded. “If this crick has not abandoned me by evening, I should like you to draw a bath for me. You know how to do that, I trust?”

  “I can ask,” Jemima replied, for she had never drawn her own bath in the entirety of her life. Then again, how hard could it be? She had watched her maids do it often enough. Although, here, she was not even certain where she could get fresh water.

  “Very good. Speak to Brockmire if you need to.” He paused. “Which reminds me—if you pass Dr. Simkins’ cabin on the way to the galley, might you send him here?”

  Jemima dipped her head in a clumsy bow. “Certainly, My Lord.”

  “Excellent. Then I shall see you this evening.” He smiled at her. “I trust you slept well?”

  “I did, thank you.”

  “That is good to hear. And, remember, if any of the other men cause you any further trouble, you are to tell me immediately. I will speak to them about Harry myself, so they understand the consequences of any violent behavior.”

  Jemima nodded. “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Go on then, before Ben has reason to scold you.”

  She turned on her heel and left the Captain’s quarters, feeling a weight lifted from her shoulders. Although, as she reached the staircase leading down into the belly of the ship, she hesitated. Not because this was the scene of last night’s crime—well, not exactly—but because realization had slowly dawned upon her. If she was to draw a bath for Lord Burhill, would he also expect her to bathe him?

  Surely not…Her cheeks reddened as she contemplated the idea. Although, if he did happen to ask, she would have to come up with a very good excuse as to why she could not.

  Hurrying down below decks, she stopped short of the spot where Harry had accosted her in the gloom of the previous evening. In truth, it had rattled her, though she had not realized just how much until that moment. A delayed sense of panic and fear gripped her, as she stumbled against the wooden wall, unable to move.

  Last night, it had not seemed real. Perhaps that was why it had not affected her so intensely. But now…now, she was rooted to the spot, her heart beating fast, her palms clammy with terror. It had not been a nightmare. It had been very real indeed. Harry had almost brutalized her and almost taken her honor along with it.

  He is in the brig, he is in the brig, he is in the brig…

  She repeated the mantra, in the hopes it would urge her to move forwards. Instead, she found herself sinking down against the wall and drawing her knees up to her chin. Her mind filled with terrible memories, still fresh. Harry lunging at her. His body upon her. His weight crushing her. The sour smell of his breath. The grappling of his hands against her, tearing her clothes.

  “Barton?” A voice made her turn. Ben had just emerged from his cabin, bleary-eyed but smiling. His smile faded as he saw her, trembling in fear. “Barton, what’s up? Are you all right, lad?”

  Jemima shook her head. “No…no, I do not believe that I am.”

  “What’re ye doin’ out here?” Ben approached and heaved her to her feet. “Why ain’t you in the galley? Has somethin’ happened, lad?”

  “Yes…yes, it has.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “Well, come on to the kitchen now, and tell old Ben all about it. I’ll make us some tea—what d’you say?”

  “That would be very nice, thank you,” she replied feebly.

  Taking her gently by the arm, Ben led her along the foul corridor, riddled with its nightmarish memories, and ushered her into the galley. He plonked her down on one of the stools as he crossed the room to prepare some tea. She sat there, shivering, as she waited.

  “Now, you tell me what happened, and I’ll deal with it, d’you hear?” Ben said, as he set two tin cups in front of them. Jemima put her hands around hers, letting the warmth creep through her cold palms. She could not understand how her state could change so swiftly, simply by seeing a single spot in a corridor.

  “Harry…” she gasped,
struggling for breath.

  Ben frowned. “Harry? What about ‘im? What’s the devil gone and done this time?”

  “He attacked me,” Jemima whispered. “He attacked me, but Lord Burhill saved me. Harry is in the brig now and is to stay there until he can be sent to a tribunal in Cape Verde.”

  Ben sighed wearily. “I knew that lad would come to naught but trouble.” He took a deep sip of his hot tea. “Should’ve been thrown off this boat a long time ago, if yer ask me.”

  Jemima sipped her own tea, grateful for the heat of it. “He wanted to hurt me, in the most awful way.”

  “That don’t surprise me. Yer feminine in yer ways, and some men get the madness about ‘em when they’ve been at sea too long. Harry’s one of ‘em. He got in some bother on our last voyage, but the Captain and Lord Burhill saw fit to give him another chance. Looks like he didn’t do well by it.” Ben shook his head. “Still, we’ll be shot of him come Cape Verde.”