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

by Olivia Bennet

  Lord Burhill groaned in appreciation as Jemima moved the cloth up the sides of his neck, pressing deep into the muscles that were causing him upset. That sound made her stomach flutter and her abdomen tighten, feeling a sudden heat in the most secret part of her. A warmth spread along her sex, sending intense shivers through her body that gathered in her very center. It surprised her as much as it delighted her, for she had never experienced such intense feelings before.

  I am surely feverish? This is surely an ailment? Nobody had told her of this, nor had she read of any such sensations in her treasured novels. This was entirely new, and not at all unwelcome. It certainly did not feel like a sickness.

  But what use is this? She could not tell Lord Burhill the truth of her state, nor did she imagine he would be reciprocal in these fledgling affections. After all, he thought her to be a young man. He had certainly never given her any indication that he was so inclined, though she had caught him staring at her in an unusual manner on more than one occasion. It had unnerved her, then, but now she felt a longing for him to look at her again and see her for who she truly was.

  * * *

  Simon luxuriated in the warm water, enjoying the relaxation brought on by Barton’s skillful massage. Reveling in the soothing motions, he caught sight of the two of them in the mirror on the far side of the room. What he saw took him by surprise. In the gloom, Barton looked rather like a young lady, for he had removed his cap without Simon realizing.

  The shadows that conspired in the darkness made it look as though the boy had long, flowing locks of the same raven shade as his shorn hair. Simon held his breath, hardly believing his eyes. The shape of Barton’s face was delicate, with rosy cheeks and a slender chin, leading down to an elegant neck that he could better see, now that Barton had removed his cravat. Curiously, he found no hint of an Adam’s Apple.

  Those sapphire eyes were fixated upon Simon’s shoulders, as Barton moved the cloth in gentle circles, washing away the strain of the last few days. He noticed a small smile turning up the pink corners of Barton’s lips, inspiring a sudden desire in Simon that he could not swallow. Despite himself, Simon responded to the sight in a rather unexpected manner. He felt his arousal growing, though he hugged his knees to hide his swollen member.

  What in heaven’s name is the matter with me? Barton may have looked extraordinarily feminine, but that did not change the fact that he was a male. And Simon was certainly no deviant, with homosexual tendencies. He had never so much as looked at another gentleman in a desirous manner, for he enjoyed the curves and splendor of the feminine form. And yet, he could not desist in staring at Barton.

  “I believe the ache has gone,” Simon said, his throat constricted. “Thank you, Barton.”

  “As you like, My Lord.” Barton sat back on his haunches and handed the cloth back to Simon, who took it rather too quickly.

  “You may go, Barton.” He knew his voice sounded coarser than he had intended, but he needed Barton to leave before any discomfort could prevail.

  He nodded. “Of course, My Lord.”

  As Simon watched the boy go, and heard the door close behind him, he released a sigh of relief. He did not know what had come over him, to feel such a sudden desire for the young man. It mortified him, to think that he had become aroused over such a fellow. Or any fellow, for that matter.

  This will not do. No, this will not do at all.

  * * *

  Jemima hurried out of the room and snuck away to her own bedchamber, where she lay down upon the bed and heaved out a series of fractured breaths. She had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. Lord Burhill’s physique had quite taken her breath away.

  To be able to touch that smooth skin and run her hands along his taut muscle…she felt rather overcome.

  Indeed, she had caught him looking at her in the reflection of the mirror, though she had not dared to look back. The way he had stared… it was almost as though he knew who, or what, she was, but lacked the courage to confront her. Still, it had not been the sort of gaze he had afforded her previously. No, this had been something else entirely—a weighted, intense gaze that spoke of secret desire.

  I am evidently losing my mind. There was no possible way that Lord Burhill could have been looking at her in that way, for he had never so much as suggested that she was anything other than Andrew Barton. He believed in her ruse. And that meant he could not desire her, in the way she might have liked him to.

  I have been without fresh air for too long, methinks. That was the only explanation she could muster for this strange shift in her way of thinking. She was no harlot, and though she dreamt of love, she had never been one to fixate upon the sordid aspects of a union between man and wife. In truth, she was not even entirely sure of the logistics of procreation. All she had to go on were the fleeting sights she had seen, and the sound of ecstasy they inspired.

  Could it truly be pleasurable? It seemed to be the case, but she lacked any experience in the subject. Annie, the maid, had certainly seemed to enjoy the attentions of Eddie, and the lady in the alleyway had been euphoric in her lover’s touch. But nobody within her circle, not even within her friends, had ever spoken of such pleasure. Intercourse was a forbidden topic in polite society, and the absence of knowledge abounded in her mind.

  Pulling the coverlet over herself, she tried to forget what she had seen. For, although she was eager to know more, she knew she had no way of doing so. How could he feel even a hint of affection, given her current state? Her desires for Lord Burhill would have to remain hidden, draped in a disguise, as she was. She only hoped that, in time, they would go away.

  If they did not, then she stood to risk everything.

  Chapter 20

  Peter burst into the laundry, his eyes narrowing as the ladies within shrieked in surprise. He held the small slip of paper in his hands, as though it were a trophy. In a way, it was, for he was certain it would lead him to discover how Lady Jemima had escaped. Already, an idea was forming in his mind, though it was almost too outlandish to contemplate. Even for a lady such as her.

  “You.” He pointed to the most senior of the ladies. “Do you work here?”

  She nodded. “I do, M’Lord.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “Mrs. Frost, M’Lord.”

  “Well then, Mrs. Frost, might you be able to tell me what this refers to?” He brandished the slip of paper in her face. It had become second nature to him, to ask for the names of ladies, for it seemed to make them more amenable to his requests.

  Mrs. Frost frowned as she looked at the fragment. “It’s a notation, M’Lord. We put them on the clothes, so we know what is going where. That must have come from one of the head gardener’s items.”

  “As I suspected,” he mused, mostly to himself. “And has there been any report of missing clothes in the past few weeks?”

  Mrs. Frost paled. “I…I can’t say, M’Lord.”

  “What do you mean? Either you know there are garments missing, or you do not. It is fairly simple.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Are you telling me you cannot say, or that you will not?”

  She trembled before him. “It’s not so easy as that, M’Lord.”

  “You may speak freely, Mrs. Frost. If there are any garments missing, I will not hold you responsible. Indeed, if you speak the truth, I will see to it that you are not punished, if anything has been spirited away without explanation.” He waited patiently, for he could tell he had struck a nerve, by the worried look upon her face.

  She dipped her head nervously. “There were some garments went missing almost a fortnight ago. A shirt and some trousers, and a waistcoat. A cap, too, and one of the ostler’s said his boots were missing.”

  “And why did you not report this?”

  Silence ensued.

  “Did you believe it might make you look careless, Mrs. Frost?”

  She looked up, startled. “I…I suppose I did, M’Lord.”

  “Did this happen shortly before
Lady Jemima disappeared from this house?”

  She frowned in thought. “Yes, I believe it did, M’Lord, but we didn’t find out them garments were missing until after.”

  Peter smiled with satisfaction. “Very good, Mrs. Frost. Then that will be all.”

  “You won’t say aught to the Master, will you?”

  “I must, Mrs. Frost, but I will plead your case with the utmost sincerity.”

  In truth, he had no intention of doing so. He did not care a fig what happened to these underlings. Instead, he would leave their punishment up to the Duke. After all, if they had come forward with this sooner, then they might have been able to apprehend Lady Jemima more quickly. Thanks to them, Lady Jemima continued to put distance between herself and Peter.

  And you must be appropriately punished for that foolishness. He did not say so aloud, for he knew he might have further questions for the laundress. Turning away, he headed out of the low outhouse and made his way back to the main building, to seek out the Duke himself.

  What had started as an impossible thought was becoming clearer by the second, and, if he was correct in his assumptions, then they did not have a moment to lose. Dressed in men’s clothing, Lady Jemima would truly have become unrecognizable. And, with that gift in her arsenal, she could be just about anywhere.

  * * *

  “You cannot be in your right mind, Lord Beaurgant,” the Duke remarked, his chest puffed out in shock. “That is simply not possible.”

  Lord Beaurgant smiled. “That is what I thought, at first. However, you must agree, the evidence is making it seem ever more likely. I discovered the slip of paper in Lady Jemima’s trunk of belongings, amongst a pile of blankets and suchlike. It should not have been there. And, when I spoke with the laundress, she told me that several garments had gone missing. Do you believe it to be coincidence?”

  He is trying to make me look a fool. Andrew stared at the impertinent gentleman with cold eyes, though he could not deny the hint of plausibility in what he was saying. After all, nobody had been able to locate Jemima, and nobody had heard a whisper of her. The idea that nobody had so much as seen her rang alarm bells in his mind, for she was a striking young lady who rarely went unnoticed.

  If she had ventured into the outside world, dressed in gentleman’s clothing, then there was every chance that she might have been able to wander without suspicion. For who would take a second glance at a young man in drab dress, going about his daily business?

  “I do not know, Sir,” Andrew replied tersely.

  “I understand your apprehension, but Lady Jemima is unlike ordinary young ladies. I would not suggest such a horrendous thing, if I did not believe she was capable of it, under the right circumstances.” Lord Beaurgant paused. “She was evidently spooked by the idea of marital union, and as she gave me little chance to persuade her of my merit, it would seem she has absconded by impulse alone. That can drive a person to do unseemly things.”

  “But dress as a gentleman?”

  Lord Beaurgant nodded. “Even that, Your Grace.”

  Andrew sank down into one of the armchairs in the library and held his head in his hands. He could not believe that his daughter had embarrassed him in so uncaring a fashion. If news of this were to spread, he would become a laughing stock, and Jemima’s reputation would be tarnished beyond repair. Unless Lord Beaurgant was still willing to marry her. Which, by the looks of things, he was.

  The unusual gentleman seemed almost excited by the prospect of Jemima’s method of escape, as though it thrilled him to have such a peculiar bride. Then, perhaps it is for the best if I allow him to retrieve her, with whatever means necessary. At least, that way, his daughter would not be a lifelong spinster, with no hope of a husband.

  “Then, what do you suggest for our next course of action?” Andrew sighed wearily, fervently wishing he had been blessed with a son instead. Sons were dutiful and obedient, where daughters appeared to be unruly and troublesome.

  Lord Beaurgant grinned. “I plan to visit the nearby town, to ask if anyone has seen a young man matching Lady Jemima’s description, though with the necessary amendments. There are only a handful of ways that she would have been able to leave the surrounding area—by stagecoach, by acquiring the services of a passing cart, or by walking. I happen to believe that she would not have been able to endure the latter, which leaves two remaining possibilities. I will explore both, until I discover some answers.”

  Andrew nodded slowly. “And you will return to me if you discover anything?”

  “I will, Sir. You may rely on that.”

  “Very well, then. I suppose you must be on your way, for if what you say is the truth, then there is no telling where she may be.”

  Lord Beaurgant rose sharply and sketched a bow, before exiting the library, leaving Andrew alone with his thoughts. He could not fathom how their family had been brought to this, and all for the sake of an engagement. He, himself, had been privy to an arranged marriage, and it had resulted well enough for him. He had grown to love his wife, and she had grown to love him in return.

  Why must young ladies put so great a precedence on love? He did not understand the attraction, personally. That initial feeling of affection was a transient thing, and so often disguised the truth, which was nothing but lust. He had lusted after enough young ladies in his time to know that it was nothing to risk one’s honor over.

  Turning his gaze towards the window and viewing the expanse of greenery that stretched away into the distance, he wondered where Jemima could be. In truth, he feared for her. What if she had been harmed? What if she had been assaulted? What if someone had discovered the truth and taken advantage of her?

  And, worst of all, what if she could not be retrieved?

  You foolish girl.

  One thing was for certain, he no longer knew if there would be a place for her here, after what she had done, even if she could be returned. True, he did not wish harm to come to her, and he hoped she could be found without a mark upon her.

  But, even if they could hide her actions from the general populace, he was not sure he could ever look upon her face with affection again.

  Chapter 21

  As the following day dawned, and the Evening Star was due to sail for its next port of Cádiz, Simon found himself in something of a predicament. His encounter with Barton the previous night had prompted him to think of another way in which the boy might be safe from harm aboard this ship. Indeed, he had started to wonder if Barton might be better off on land, awaiting a different vessel to return him to England.

  Simon knew these thoughts were not solely spurred on by his concern for Barton’s safety. His curious feelings in the bathtub had brought his mind into turmoil, causing him to doubt his own sense of self. How could he have had such a response to a young man? It made no sense to him, and he did not know if he could continue on such a lengthy journey with Barton at his side.

  “Good morning, My Lord.” Simon turned to find Barton standing on the threshold to his bedchamber, his cap firmly fixed upon his head. Even so, Simon could not forget the way he had looked last night. So feminine and delicate. If he looked close enough, he could see that same elegance in the curve of the boy’s neck and the manner in which he stood, as though he were prone to dancing.

  “I had a thought, Barton.” Simon cleared his throat. “Might you prefer to wait on shore, and find a vessel to make your return to England? I could even arrange your passage, if you would like? You have suffered greatly upon the Evening Star, and I would not see you endure any further discomfort.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in horror. “No, My Lord. You cannot send me back to England. Please, I implore you.” He paused uncertainly. “Have I displeased you in some way? Did you not care for the bath that I drew for you? I am unused to such labors, but I did my very best.”

  Simon sighed. “No, you have not done anything to displease me, Barton. I merely thought it might be better for your welfare, if you were to return to England. You are
clearly unsuited to life on the sea.”

  “How so?” A cold note entered his voice.

  “It is your demeanor, I suppose.” Simon struggled to find the right words, without giving away the truth—that Barton had confused him deeply, and he did not know how to contend with those emotions. “You are much too slight and fragile for this way of life.”

  “I have done something to displease you, I am certain I have. Something has changed, My Lord. Please, inform me of my error, so that I may strive to never make such a mistake again.” The pleading tone in Barton’s voice tugged at Simon’s heart, for he did not wish to send the boy away. He simply feared what might happen to his own mind if he did not.