by Gaelen Foley
“That is fortunate.”
“Fortunate, indeed, since his chambers are right above mine. If he had taken up the trumpet, I fear I should not be half so accommodating.” He reached into his waistcoat and fished out the key to his rooms. Becky held her breath, her heart pounding as he turned the lock. It clicked back with a low snick.
Alec glanced at her in question, reading her eyes, as though trying to assess if she was quite sure about this, but in the moment’s somber silence, a sudden, hungry growl from her belly startled them both. Becky clapped her hands to her middle, her eyes widening.
“God’s teeth, was that your stomach?” he exclaimed.
She turned red, mortified. “I—I think it was the thunder.”
“Becky, sweet,” he chided with a pained wince. “You’re starving, aren’t you?”
She bit her lip for a second, then nodded ashamedly. “I haven’t had anything to eat since last night.”
“You should have said something!”
“I don’t wish to be any trouble.”
“Nonsense, you couldn’t be any trouble if you tried.” He shook his head at her, then opened the door to his chambers. “Now, then, what am I going to feed you?” he mused aloud as he led her inside unceremoniously, tossing the key and the other contents of his waistcoat onto a thin-legged Sheraton table by the wall. “I shall send out to Watier’s. We’ll order a feast.”
“Honestly, I’m not that picky.” She walked in cautiously behind him.
“Well, I am. Welcome.”
Their echoing footsteps suggested the spacious dimensions of the hall even before he lit a fine beeswax candle. The flames rose one by one atop the silver candelabra on the table, rolling back the darkness to show her the elegant space he called home.
Goodness, she thought. He claimed he wasn’t rich?
There were gleaming white plaster cornices, a fireplace with a veined marble chimneypiece, and a huge bay window. The crimson walls contained exquisite paintings that hung on little chains from the brass picture rail beneath the gilded frieze. The man had very fine taste, she thought, rather awed. The sophistication of his home made her feel like an utter hayseed.
Small jeweled objets d’art adorned the mantelpiece, but she gasped at the sight of two painted Grecian urns on display inside a pair of recessed statuary alcoves.
“Are those real?” she blurted out in amazement, the rude question popping out before she could stop it. “Sorry.” She covered her lips belatedly with her fingertips.
He smiled blandly. “Athens, fifth century B.C.”
“Good heavens,” she breathed. Don’t touch anything. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her damp pelisse and stared all around her. The chaise in striped satin looked wonderfully inviting, but she dared not sit down on the furniture in her wet, dirty clothes.
“Make yourself at home, my dear.” He went striding across the glossy parquet floor. “Sitting room through the French doors there.” He pointed to a pair of closed double doors on the other side of the room, then opened a door on the left. “Bedroom’s here. Follow me.”
Her eyes widened as he disappeared inside. Lord, he wasn’t wasting any time! He had promised not to rush her—
“Becky, come here, pet.”
She sidled over to the threshold of his bedchamber and peeked inside, a dozen nervous excuses on the tip of her tongue, but he quickly beckoned to her from a smaller room attached to the far wall of his sprawling bedchamber.
“Come into the dressing room. I think you will appreciate this.”
“But—”
“Hurry. I have a little treat for you.”
“What kind of treat?” Her heart pounded, but she was too intrigued to refuse. She tiptoed through his bedchamber, then stopped and stared in amazement at his towering domed bed. It nearly filled its arched, curtained alcove, only leaving enough room for several candle stands.
Elevated on a carpeted plinth, its plumed crown ringed with roses and winged cherubs nearly touched the ceiling; a profusion of sumptuous draperies flowed down from the dome to swathe the headboard in velvet opulence. The foot of the bed was curved inward like a rounded couch, with wooden bed-steps at the center of the sinuous contour. Large, gilded mirrors on both walls of the alcove reflected the gold and scarlet expanse of the kingly mattress.
No, one could not call that thing a bed, she thought with a gulp. It was an altar, a shrine to the mysteries of Eros. Oh, Lord, what in heaven am I doing?
Suddenly, from the dressing room, she heard a creaking noise followed by the steady splashing sound of pouring water.
“Becky, in here!” Alec called.
What in blazes? Hurrying past the hungry maw of that wide bed, she joined him shyly in the dressing room, peeking in with caution.
“Voilà,” he said with a smile, then she gasped as he gestured to an extravagance the likes of which, she was quite sure, had not been seen since Nero’s day.
She stared in openmouthed wonder at the built-in bathing tub of dark green marble ensconced in an arched, curtained alcove like the one that housed the bed. It had, to her disbelief, two taps jutting out of the wall with engraved tiles that labeled one, CHAUD, the other FROID. Water was pouring out of both spigots amid a cloud of steam.
“Warm bath, my dear?”
“But—what—how?” She looked at him in question.
He smiled at her bewilderment. “We have piped water from a cistern for the cold tap. For the hot, the kitchen boiler lies on the other side of this wall. A pipe concealed inside the wall carries the heated water right through from the boiler to the bath, you see?” He reached across the tub and casually knocked on the tiled wall.
“Ohhh.”
“It’s new. Very rare. Actually, this is why I moved here. Only a few of the ground-floor apartments have them.”
“Positively decadent.”
“I know,” he purred with a leonine smile. “I’m a sensualist, what can I say?”
“You’re spoiled,” she murmured in wonder.
He slanted her a sudden frown. “I’m sure I am not spoiled,” he riposted in a somewhat prickly tone.
Had she struck a nerve? Becky tore her gaze from the steaming bath and looked at him in surprise. “I was only jesting.”
“Humph.” He rose languidly from the edge of the tub, showing her a glimmer of his high-society hauteur. “If there is one thing in this world that I treat with dead seriousness, cherie, it is pleasure.” He gestured toward the bath with a courtly flourish. “Enjoy.”
“Pardon?”
“Soap. Towels.” He pointed to these items on the shelf nearby while the water continued splashing merrily into the tub. “Just turn the handles on the taps when it’s filled. You’re welcome to use my dressing gown when you’re through.” He nodded to a long robe of paper-thin, royal blue silk hanging on a peg.
“But Alec—”
“But nothing, ma petite. I will not permit you to expire of a fever from the storm like some tragic heroine in a pantomime. I want you out of those wet clothes, posthaste—perhaps you shall require some assistance in disrobing?” he offered, turning back to her, one eyebrow raised suggestively as his glance skipped down over her body.
She looked down at herself abruptly and realized her wet clothes were clinging to her in a most indecent fashion. “I—I can manage, thanks.”
“I don’t mind,” he added with lavish generosity. “I’m fairly handy at undoing a lady’s stays—”
“I’m sure.”
“I set a record for speed once in that very art.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, it was a wager. I had to do it blindfolded, both hands tied behind my back. Forty-five seconds.”
Her eyebrows lifted high. “How?” she asked faintly.
“Using my teeth.” His smile was tranquil, slightly treacherous. “I like winning wagers.”
She gulped.
“Now, if you want someone to scrub for you, I am happy to volunteer—”
He took a step forward; she jumped back.
“Alec!”
Alec stopped himself with that choirboy smile. “Right. I’ll just be going, then.”
Becky shook her head at the scoundrel, but could not help smiling warily as he retreated. His blue eyes danced with mischief as he strolled to the door, sketched a bow, and withdrew. For a long moment she stood there uncertainly, then dragged her hand through her hair. It took her a moment to recover from his whirlwind presence, but then he popped his head back in the door.
“Yell if you need anything. Don’t hesitate.”
“Go away!” she scolded, laughing.
“Right. Sorry. Leaving.” With a sparkling look full of pretended repentance, he withdrew again and closed the door.
Still chuckling, Becky glanced around at his tidy dressing room: the mirrored vanity with its array of shaving accoutrements, small cologne bottles, pewter-handled hairbrush, toothbrush, comb. She eyed the soap and thick, puffy towels longingly, then stepped closer to the tub and peered in to see how full it was.
Feeling the delicious steam rising to her face, she chewed her lip indecisively, and glanced at the dressing room door behind her. “Are you still gone?”
“Yes!” he called from some distance through the apartment, then asked hopefully, “Do you need me?”
“No.”
“Hurry! I’m bored.”
“Yes, sir,” she muttered, though it was impossible to mind the order, given his lavish hospitality. She let out a weary sigh, beginning to relax already. After several days on the run, huddling down in barns at night to snatch a few hours of sleep and coming out smelling of animals and hay, not to mention getting spattered with mud from passing carriages on the road, a bath would work wonders to restore her sense of normalcy.
Going over to the dressing room door that Alec had left open a crack, she tried to close it, but to her dismay, it would not shut properly.
“Sorry, the latch is broken,” he called from an outer room, apparently hearing her efforts to make it stay closed. “Don’t worry, Becky, I won’t spy on you. Tempting as it may be.”
She snorted in answer to his droll remark. “Very well, I’m trusting you!”
But only up to a point.
Pressing the door closed as best she could, she went over to the bathing tub, rested her foot on the edge of it and drew her skirts up over her thigh with a wary glance over her shoulder.
The tiny suede pouch that held the Rose of Indra was firmly tied to the garter around her thigh. Quickly, she untied the leather strings that had secured the acorn-sized ruby and glanced around for a place where she could hide the jewel for the night. Lowering her foot and brushing her skirts back down again, she tiptoed over to the mahogany dresser, bent down, and silently opened the bottom drawer.
Tucking away the great ruby behind neat stacks of her host’s muslin cravats and white lawn and cambric shirts, she closed the drawer again, satisfied that her inheritance, the hope of her village, was securely squirreled away till morning.
This done, she turned to the magnificent bath with a sparkle of anticipation in her eyes. Why, she could wash up and look a good deal more respectable when she left tomorrow morning to call on the Duke of Westland.
There would be time enough tomorrow to shoulder her worries again. For tonight, she would cast her cares aside, needing time to recover. Catching a glimpse of her pauperlike reflection in the mirror, she let out a wry snort and continued undressing.
Meanwhile, Alec waited in wet clothes for the victuals to arrive; waited, indeed, for three quarters of an hour. Waiting was not generally his forte, but he could be a patient man when he knew the reward would be worth it.
After his lengthy hiatus from the world of amour, he intended for both of them to take their time tonight. Savor it.
He was eager to get out of his wet clothes, but for that, he needed the dressing room. He was restless and dashed uncomfortable, but had no intention of barging in on his fair guest’s privacy, all the same. That would have been exceedingly bad form, and invasive. It was important that Becky feel safe in his keeping. Women gave themselves so much more passionately when they were given enough reassurance.
Inexperienced as she was, he was prepared to go to great lengths to put her at ease. Curiously, he found he didn’t mind.
At last the errand boy returned with a large basket of food elegantly draped with a checked napkin from the club, a small bottle of champagne, and a baguette peeking over the side. Alec handed the windblown lad an extra two shillings for his pains, took back his dripping umbrella, and closed the door. At once the room filled with the delicious, savory scents of Watier’s best fare.
He set the basket on a pedestal table in the center of the room, poured two glasses of Beaujolais, and went to inform his pretty foundling that her gourmet feast had arrived. With the wineglasses dangling from one hand, he mused upon the pleasant task of looking after someone else for a change, instead of circling endlessly against the devils in his head.
Sauntering into his darkened bedchamber, he had only gone three paces into the room when the candlelit vision ahead stopped him in his tracks. The dressing room door had swung open a few inches, thanks to its broken latch, so it was purely by innocent accident that he caught a fleeting glimpse of Becky’s naked loveliness.
She had gotten out of the bathing tub and was languidly drying off, running that thick white towel all over her body.
The chivalrous part of his brain gave the order to turn away—but somehow his limbs refused to obey, the command overridden by his awestruck male senses.
Good heavenly Lord.
Transfixed, his dazed stare trailed over her white hourglass figure. Her wavy sable mane hung heavily past her alabaster shoulders to kiss the sweeping line of her back. His gaze sank lower helplessly. Sweet hips, a derriere just plump enough to make his mouth water. Long, elegant legs that he needed wrapped around him, now. With a smooth motion, she slipped on his blue dressing gown and glided out of his line of vision.
A jolt of lust throbbed through him belatedly. He suddenly remembered to breathe. Abruptly, he loosened his hold on the wineglasses before he snapped the stems.
He fairly held his breath, listening: He could hear her moving about in his dressing room, humming softly to herself. The tender sound made him quiver like the tickle of light fingers running down his back. He forced his glazed stare away from the crack in the door, his pulse galloping.
After a moment, he managed to fight the lion of carnality back into its cage for the time being, then struggled to recall his purpose in coming here in the first place. The vision of her silken body had chased every thought from his head.
Ah, yes. The food.
“Becky?”
“Hullo.” She appeared in the doorway with a relaxed and sensual air, combing out the tangles in her long wet hair. Her cheeks glowed from the warm bath and there was a golden-violet luster in her eyes.
Alec swallowed hard.
The cloth belt of his dressing gown cinched her narrow waist, and with an inward moan, he recalled all too vividly that there was nothing beneath that fine blue silk but warm, white skin and heavenly curves. He could almost taste them.
“Your, uh, dinner’s here.”
“Bless you,” she purred. “I feel so much better already.” She accepted a wineglass and took a sip. “Mm. You were right. The bath worked wonders.”
“Good.” Slipping his arm around her slim waist, he leaned down, captured her lips, and gave her a soft, slow kiss. He could not resist. She tensed at first, but he felt her yield after a moment, resting her hand on his chest. “Go and eat,” he murmured, releasing her with some reluctance. “Food’s on the table in the other room.”
“I can wait for you.”
“Go on, you’re hungry. It’s all right.” Brushing past her, he set his wineglass on the dressing table and then began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I’ve got to get out of these wet clothes. Of course,” he a
dded slowly, “you may stay and watch if it pleases you.”
Shrugging off his waistcoat, he tossed it carelessly over the wooden towel stand nearby and offered her a smile.
Becky’s heart was racing, her lips still tingling from his unexpected kiss. His silk dressing gown caressed her skin; already she felt wrapped in his pleasing male scent, entangled in his web of desire.
She wasn’t really going to do this, was she?
The thing of it was, there was hardly any graceful way out of it now. And as he continued undressing for her, she was not sure she wanted to.
She stared at him for a long moment, trying not to look shocked and virginal.
“You love to tease me, don’t you?” she asked after a moment.
“Who, me?” he whispered coyly.
Mrs. Whithorn’s voice in her head promised fire and brimstone, but Becky did not budge. She held her ground, trying to prove, perhaps, that she could be sophisticated and worldly, too.
Alec watched her watching him, and then her gaze traveled down his body. She could not help staring at the way his thin white shirt clung to his skin, wet linen hugging every muscled line of his broad shoulders and lean waist. He was even lovelier than she had thought. When she looked into his eyes again, she read an invitation there that took her breath away.
No, she was not ready to touch him yet.
With the leisurely air of a man biding his time, he sat down on the vanity stool and pulled off his shoes, chucking them aside. He stood up again, his bare feet long and princely, cushioned by the thick Persian carpet.
He reached for his wine, took a sip, and then shrugged his black suspenders off his shoulders. He started to take off his shirt, but paused. “Do you want to help?”
“No.”
His eyes danced. “Suit yourself.” Then he peeled his shirt off over his head, and Becky stifled a gasp at the glorious flex and play of sculpted muscle. He sent her a speculative glance, the promise of undreamed pleasure smoldering in his eyes.
So, he wasn’t an angel, after all. No, she concluded, her heart beating faster as he helped himself to a towel. He was a veritable Greek god—all smooth and strong and perfect. No angel could inspire such wicked thoughts. Her hand trembled as she lifted her goblet to her lips and took a steadying sip of wine, but she could not help staring as he patted the towel over the flowing lines and broad dimensions of his damp chest, then ran it lower, caressing oh-so-invitingly the intricate rippling fretwork of his taut belly, lapped by unsteady candlelight.