by Louise Allen
‘Why mortifying?’ He leaned one shoulder against the high mantelshelf and lounged, as pleasing to the eye as a carefully placed piece of statuary, the lamplight teasing gilt highlights out of what she had thought was simply dark blond hair. She wondered how much of that lazy perfection was deliberately cultivated.
‘Because it was a commonplace thing to say and I have no intention of being commonplace.’
That faint smile curled Alex’s mouth again and Tess found herself staring at his lower lip and puzzling over why, when he smiled, which stretched his lips, the centre of the lower one seemed somehow fuller.
‘That is an uncharitable insult to Sister Benedicta,’ she said hastily. ‘Only sometimes, when she managed to string an entire conversation together consisting of nothing but clichés, I had to bite my lip to stop myself screaming in sheer boredom.’ Biting lips…why on earth should that image…? Stop it!
‘I will remove my dangerous male presence from your bedchamber and leave you to bathe in comfort.’ He straightened up and strolled to the door. ‘Supper in an hour, do you think?’
‘Yes. Perfect. This is lovely, thank you. A fire and a hot bath and a maid,’ Tess gabbled, as a pretty girl, all apple cheeks and blond braids, ducked under Alex’s arm as he held the door open. He simply grinned at her and went out.
This was indeed the Primrose Path to Perdition. Luxury, warmth, leisure, being waited on. And all because she hadn’t had the willpower to stay awake last night and insist she be taken down to Sister Clare to do her duty. It was not fair, she had thought she had conquered all those silly yearnings and what-ifs and if-onlys. Now she was having a taste of things she had dreamed about, all served up by an attractive man, and it would make her new life that much harder to adjust to. My dangerous male presence. Oh, yes, indeed.
It’s a hair shirt, that’s what it is, she thought wildly as a serving man lugged in a tin bath, set it in front of the fire and another brought buckets of steaming water to fill it. She was being given a hint of the life she might have had if Mama and Papa had not died, if she’d had a few pounds to her name. If she’d had a family.
If…if. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. And there’s another cliché. The maid said something and Tess grabbed her handkerchief, blew her nose inelegantly and made herself concentrate. ‘Dank u,’ she said and submitted to having her cloak unfastened and her gown unlaced. ‘Wat is uw naam?’
*
Damnation. Tess was crying, or on the edge of it, he could hear it in her voice. He was not used to feminine tears unless they were accompanied by a tantrum and demands for expensive trinkets. Alex pushed himself away from the wall outside her door and negotiated the ill-lit landing towards his own room. Her ankle probably hurt, she was tired, she was cross, cold and hungry and she wasn’t used to men. He shouldn’t tease her. In fact, he should probably find some respectable Flemish maid of at least forty summers and employ her to travel with Tess to London while he took another ship.
On the other hand, he knew he wouldn’t do anything out of line, she would probably feel fine in the morning once she was rested and he was enjoying her company. She was refreshingly different, was Tess. He was used to simpering young ladies who had been schooled in the arts of husband catching until they all appeared to have been pressed from the same gingerbread mould, or to experienced women of the world who would flirt and employ their charms on him, just as he amused himself in return.
Tess was as straightforward as a schoolroom chit, but with maturity and intelligence to go with it. Perhaps she was what all those little butterflies flitting around Almack’s in their pastel gowns would have been like if they hadn’t been spoiled. Anyway, he enjoyed her company, when she wasn’t prosing on about Christmas and families, so he would award himself the gift of escorting her. After all, she would be safer with him than just a maidservant if there were men up to mischief on the way. He knew all about men up to mischief, none better.
And the indulgence of observing innocence at close quarters was made safe by the fact of who she was. No one was going to descend like the wrath of God announcing that he’d compromised the chit and must now marry her. Marriage was not in his plans, and wouldn’t have been, even if he had every intention of infuriating his family. A wife, he had long ago decided, would mean a loss of freedom for no discernible gain, given that mistresses combined sexual expertise with no limitations whatsoever on his lifestyle. One day, perhaps…but not yet, not for a long while.
He grinned at himself for finding virtue in doing what he wanted, sobered at the memory of her wide eyes and almost trembling lip and peered at the next door in search of his chamber. The room numbers were hard to make out in the gloom. Where the devil was his? Ah, next one. His foot made contact with something soft, there was a muffled sound somewhere between a mew and a squeak and a weight attached itself to the toe of his right boot.
Alex lifted his foot, hopped to the door, opened it and in the light from several branches of candles examined the small ball of orange fluff attached to the immaculate leather of his Hessian. ‘Let go.’ No effect. The dratted creature obviously only spoke Flemish. Ignoring the hastily muffled laughter of the maid who was laying out towels on the bed, he hopped to the chair, bent down and attempted to prise off the kitten without leaving scratches that would give his valet hysterics.
‘You, I suppose, are a punishment for sending Byfleet on ahead with the heavy luggage.’ He held it up by its scruff while it stared cross-eyed at him and mewed pitifully. ‘He doubtless has a particular tool for removing kittens from footwear.’ He turned to hand the kitten to the maid, but she had gone, the sound of her giggles fading down the corridor. Alex put the animal on the floor and it gazed up at him, tail tip twitching, its pink tongue protruding a fraction beneath its whiskers.
‘I suppose you think you are endearing?’
The kitten mewed, then made a leap for the dangling tassel of his Hessian.
‘No!’ Alex caught it in midair. ‘You are a menace. On the other hand, females like cats and they dote on babies of all varieties. I suppose she might take to you. You’ll make her smile at any rate.’ The maid had left the basket she had brought the towels in. Alex upended it over the kitten, which squeaked piteously. ‘Humbug. You are obviously a loss to the acting profession. Here.’ He screwed up a scrap of paper, pushed it under the basket and then began to undress to the sounds of shredding and fierce miniature growls.
*
Tess straightened her back and lifted her chin with the vague feeling that perfect deportment might compensate for wallowing in wicked luxury. A hot bath instead of a chilly sponge-down, soft towels, fine-milled soap, a fire. Bliss. Even having to put on her drab grey gown again could not entirely suppress the fantasy that she was now a glamorous woman, perfumed, exquisitely gowned and coiffed, an exotic creature that any man would put on a pedestal and worship from afar.
At least afar would be safe. Tess knew perfectly well from observation and whispered gossip what men got up to in close quarters given any encouragement, and her fantasy did not quite dare explore that. Although when she contemplated a certain gentleman’s shoulders—
The door opened and Alex walked in, carrying, for some reason, a small wicker basket. ‘You are very pink,’ he remarked after one glance at her face. ‘Bath too hot?’
‘Er, no, I am sitting too close to the fire, I expect.’ And blushing like a rose, fool that I am. Apparently it would take more than one luxurious bath to turn her into a lady capable of stealing a man’s breath. ‘What is in the basket?’
‘A very early Christmas present for you.’ He placed it on her lap. ‘I thought you needed cheering up.’
He had bought her a hat! Or perhaps a muff, or a pretty shawl. A lady could not accept articles of apparel from a man, she knew that. Tess used to sneak into the back of the room when Mrs Bond had given the lectures in deportment that were intended to prepare the young ladies who had been sent to the convent to finish their education. Tess shou
ld not have been there because, obviously, she was not going to be launched into society or have a Season, so she had no need to know all about attracting eligible gentlemen in a ladylike manner. But it had been a pleasant daydream.
Those rules did not apply to her, she decided as her fingers curled around the sharp corners of the basket. I am not a lady. I am an impoverished…orphan. A bonnet is not going to compromise me.
The basket seemed to move as she opened it, and then a small ginger ball of fluff scrambled out and latched on to her wrist. Needle claws dug into her skin. ‘Ouch! You have given me a cat?’ Not a hat. Was he drunk?
‘A kitten.’ Alex came to his knees in front of her, tossed aside the basket and tried to prise the ferocious little beast from her arm. ‘Ow! Now she has bitten me.’
Good. ‘He has bitten you. Marmalade cats are usually male.’
‘Really?’ All she could see of Alex was the top of his head as he bent over her and wrestled with the kitten. The top of his head and those broad shoulders… What was it about that part of a man? Or was it only his? Tess had not reached the age of three and twenty without having admired some good-looking men from afar, and being closeted in a convent did nothing to suppress perfectly natural yearnings, however sinful those might be.
His big hands were gentle, both on her wrist and with the kitten, who was becoming more and more entangled in Tess’s cuffs. ‘Little wretch,’ Alex was muttering. ‘Infernal imp. If you were a bit bigger, I’d skin you for glove linings, I swear.’ But she could hear the laughter in his voice as he did battle with his minuscule opponent. ‘I wonder if tickling will work.’
Abruptly the needles were withdrawn from her wrist, there was a scuffle under her elbow and the marmalade kitten shot out, skidded across the polished boards and perched on the cross-rail of the table.
Alex lost his balance, pitched forward and for an intense, endless, moment her arms were full of his solid torso, his mouth was pressed into the angle of her shoulder and her face was buried in his hair.
He smelt of soap and clean linen, the now familiar citrus cologne and something…simply male? Or simply Alex? His hair was thick and tickled her nose, and when she shifted to support his weight her fingertips found the nape of his neck, bare and curiously vulnerable. His lips moved against her skin, she felt his hot breath and the tension in his body, then he was pushing back, rocking on to his heels, his eyes dark and his expression unreadable.
‘Hell’s teeth—’ Alex huffed out a breath and smiled. It seemed a trifle strained. ‘Sorry, I do not mean to swear at you and I certainly did not mean to flatten you. I seem to be making a habit of it.’ Whatever he had felt in her arms it was not excitement, delight or any of the other things her fantasies had conjured up with a dream lover. Naturally.
‘Why did you give me a kitten?’ Tess asked, more tartly than she intended.
Alex shrugged and stood up. He had the sense not to carry on apologising, she noted. ‘You are miserable. I thought it would cheer you up. Ladies seem to like small baby creatures to coo over.’
‘I cannot speak for the ladies in your life, my lord, but I do not coo. And do they not prefer diamonds?’
‘I am surprised at you, Miss Ellery. What do you know about ladies who prefer diamonds?’
‘Why, nothing.’ Tess widened her eyes at him innocently. ‘But surely your mother or sisters—or your wife, of course—would prefer a gift of jewellery to kittens?’ She knew all about kept women from the whispered conversations when she joined the boarders after lights out. They all had brothers or cousins who were sowing their wild oats in London and they exchanged confidences about who were considered the worst rakes, the most exciting but dangerous young men.
‘Hmm.’ Alex shot her a quizzical look, but she dropped her gaze to her scratched wrist and began to wrap her handkerchief around it. ‘I do not buy my sisters or my mother presents, and I am not married.’
‘No, I suppose I should have deduced that you were not.’ Tess tied a neat knot in the handkerchief and looked up.
‘Indeed?’ His eyes narrowed and she discovered that relaxed, amiable Lord Weybourn could look very formidable indeed. ‘And how did you arrive at that conclusion?’
Chapter Four
‘How did I deduce that you were not married?’ Tess swallowed. She had strayed into dangerous personal territory and she could only hope he did not think she had been fishing…that she had any ulterior motive. She fought the blush and managed a bright smile. ‘It was easy from what you said about Christmas. If you were married, your wife would not allow you to spend it cosily beside the fire with your brandy and books. You would be out visiting your in-laws.’
‘So you imagine that if I were to be married I would live under the cat’s foot, do you?’ The relaxed, rather quizzical smile was back again.
‘Not at all. But visits to relatives are what happens in families.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I am out of practice with them.’
‘That is a shame.’ She dreamed about being part of a family, a real family, even if there would be bickering about whose turn it was to entertain the awkward relatives for the holiday season. It was a long time since she had experienced a Christmas like the ones she had enthused about in the carriage. A long time since she had known a family, and this man had that gift and was apparently happy to throw it away.
‘A shame? Not at all.’ Alex moved away as the landlord, followed by a maid, started to bring in their dinner. ‘It is freedom.’
They said no more until they were alone again. Tess ladled soup into bowls while Alex shredded roast chicken into a saucer and put it down for the kitten. ‘There you are. Now leave my boots alone. What are you going to call him?’
So I’m going to have to keep him, am I? Trust Alex to give me a kitten, not a bonnet. ‘Noel,’ she decided, adding a saucer of milk beside the chicken. ‘Because he is a Christmas present.’
‘You really are an exceedingly sentimental young woman.’ Alex passed her the bread rolls. ‘Butter?’
‘Thank you. And I am not sentimental, it is you who are cynical.’
‘Why, yes, I cry guilty to that. But what is wrong with a little healthy cynicism?’
‘Isn’t it lonely?’ Tess ventured. It was ridiculous, this instinct to hug a large, confident male. Perhaps that was how lust seized you, creeping up, pretending to be some sort of misguided, and unwanted, compassion.
‘What, forgoing gloomy evergreen swags, tuneless carol singers, bickering relatives and enforced jollity? I will enjoy a period of quiet tranquillity and then my friends return to town eager for company.’
Tess set her empty soup bowl to one side and waited in silence while Alex carved the capon. There was something very wrong within his family, obviously, if he did not give his mother and sisters presents and he preferred solitude in London to a festive reunion. She bit her lip and told herself not to probe. The atmosphere of plain speaking between the nuns that prevailed in the convent was not, she suspected, good training for polite conversation in society.
Alex passed her a plate of meat and she reciprocated with the vegetables, racking her brains for what might be suitable small talk. ‘I do not remember London at all well.’ Or at all. ‘Is your house in Mayfair?’ That was the most fashionable area, she knew.
‘Yes, in Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly. Just a small place because I travel so much.’
That appeared to have exhausted that topic. ‘Your valet does not travel with you?’
‘I sent him on ahead, along with my secretary and several carriages full of artworks. It was a most successful trip this time.’
Tess thought she detected a modest air of self-congratulation. Was that simply the pleasure at a successful chase or was Alex reliant on the income from his dealing? It seemed a precarious existence for a viscount. Maybe he could not afford lavish celebrations and entertainment at Christmas, she pondered, in which case she had been unforgivably tactless to have pressed him about it. Although he certai
nly seemed to spend money on his comforts without sign of stinting. Perhaps that was an essential facade, or he ran up large debts.
‘Have I dropped gravy on my neckcloth?’ he enquired, making her jump. ‘Only you have been staring at it for quite a while.’
‘I was thinking that your linen is immaculately kept,’ Tess admitted. ‘Your neckcloths and your shirts.’
Alex choked on a mouthful of wine. ‘Do you always say what you think?’
‘Certainly not. Should I not have mentioned it?’ But it had been a compliment…
‘Perhaps not comments about gentleman’s clothing?’ Alex suggested.
‘Goodness, yes, of course. The outside world is such a maze, full of pitfalls.’
‘Are you nervous of what you will find in London?’ He put the question in such a straightforward way, without any show of sympathy, yet she sensed he understood just how frightening this was. Mother Superior had certainly shown no such insight, only the expectation that Tess would obediently accept her lot in life despite the blow she had delivered.
‘Terrified,’ she admitted baldly. ‘But there is no point in giving way to it—that will only make it worse. I will soon find my way around my new world. I did with convent life after all.’
Alex watched her over the rim of his goblet, his hazel eyes intelligent, and not, for a change, mocking. ‘It must have been a shock to find yourself there. Wine? This is very good.’ He refilled his own glass from the decanter.
‘Thank you, but, no. I’ve hardly ever had it before and I do not think I should start now.’ Tess scrutinised her conscience and admitted, ‘You are offering me too much temptation as it is.’
The air went still, as though someone had taken a deep breath and not let it out. ‘Temptation?’ Alex said with care, as he set down his knife and fork.
‘Food, servants, luxury,’ she explained.
‘Ah. The temptations of comfort, you mean.’ He picked up his glass again and turned it slowly between long fingers. The heavy signet ring on his left hand caught red highlights from the claret. ‘This is not luxury, although it is very civilised. You are tempted by luxury?’