by Fox, Georgia
How easily a life could change after one twist of fate. Had the Earl never walked in on her spanking the footman, she would never be here now, about to sip tea and nibble fancy cakes in the rarefied atmosphere of the Dalton. Irony indeed.
The waiter swept around in a graceful turn and bowed. Ah, they had reached the table. She finally raised her eyelashes, looking for Nicholas.
Her pulse quickened. "There's been some mistake," she exclaimed.
The waiter must have escorted her to the wrong table, for the man sitting—or rather, sprawling there—was not Nicholas, although they shared a similar scruffiness. This man was older, tanned by too much sun, slightly weathered. His dark hair was too long for a gentleman and in disarray that suggested scant familiarity with comb or brush. He was also overdue for an encounter with a razor and his clothing was more suited to a dockyard than a tearoom. His mouth, she immediately discovered, was the same.
"Sit down woman and stop making a bloody fuss. I want to know what the fuck you and the gouty old bugger think you're doing with my son's life."'
Well, this was a waste of a perfectly good gown and hat, wasn't it?
The waiter hovered, looking nervous.
"You can go," the man in the chair exclaimed. "Fetch me something to eat, damn you. I've been waiting here long enough for my turn at the wicket. But don't bring me any of those skinny-arse sandwiches. I could eat a fucking horse." Although some of his terms were those of a boy at least partially raised in England, he had a definite accent—no surprise since he'd lived more than half his life in America. Oh yes, there was no mistaking his identity, even under all the scruffiness. She remembered Brandon Wilder's extraordinary eyes. They'd stayed with her for twenty one years—since she caught him being sick in her master's rhododendrons one starry summer night.
Drusilla had visited the seaside once, on her day off, and seen that same silver grey where sky met sea, just before a storm rolled in with the tide.
"What the fuck are you looking at woman? Sit down."
The waiter hurried off, head bowed. Several ladies at nearby tables winced into their handkerchiefs. Some got up and left. The bravest and nosiest stayed. The hotel staff, it seemed, were in a state of confusion, and chose to avoid the situation rather than confront it.
He shouted at Drusilla in his hoarse voice, "You deaf, woman?"
Her fingers tightened around her purse. "Where is Master Nicholas Wilder?"
"Upstairs in my hotel room. Safely out of my fucking father's devious clutches and yours, you wretched, interfering cunt."
She thought someone at a nearby table had just fainted headfirst onto her crumpet.Looking at this naughty boy in a man's body, she said calmly, "That's quite the mouth of a stevedore you have there. I hope you have a cock as big as your attitude, or else you must be a great disappointment to the ladies."
His nose twitched. Until then he'd been leaning back, legs stretched out and fingers stuck in the pockets of his shabby waistcoat. Now he sat forward abruptly, the slender front legs of the chair slamming into the tiled floor. "Never had any complaints."
She raised an eyebrow. "To your face, perhaps."
His lips almost formed a smile, but it was interrupted by a burp of enough magnitude to sever the hold, and thus the life, of three petals from a poinsettia, sending them drifting to the cloth from the small plant in the center of the table . Two silver eyes widened. He stuck out his hand so suddenly, she thought he meant to punch her. "Brandon Wilder."
"Your reputation precedes you, sir."
When she didn't accept his hand, he finally withdrew it. "Who the buggery blazes are you woman?"
"I was under the impression you knew."
"The basics only," he muttered, steadily surveying her person. "Not the interesting bits. No one told me you had any."
"I haven't."
"If you say so." He glowered up at her. "Have I seen you before woman?"
Drusilla gave up waiting for him to hold her chair for her like a proper gentleman and decided to sit. "I've been told I bear resemblance to Lilly Langtry."
He snorted. "Nothing like."
"Allow me to straighten a few facts for you." She placed her reticule on the table and ripped off her gloves. "Now pay attention. I don't cook my cabbages twice." His gaze followed her hands and his brow wrinkled, puzzling over something. "My name," she added crisply, "so you needn't keep referring to me as woman or old bat or anything else—is Mrs. Drusilla Kent. Close to what you called me. But not quite."
He said nothing, but smiled, very, very slightly. Even seated he was an imposing presence. Probably something to do with the way he spread out, taking up more room than was gentlemanly. Several waiters, carrying trays back and forth, were forced to step over his feet. He made no apology, no attempt to decrease his size.
Again, Drusilla thought how one event could change a person's life forever. The first time they met he was high above her in circumstance. Now, today, after all that had happened since, she had risen up and he had fallen. They faced each other across that table, almost on an equal footing. It gave her a considerable rush of satisfaction.
"Your father did not mention to me that you were back in the country, Mr. Wilder."
"Because he doesn't know. " His eyes gleamed. "Yet."
"And what is your intention, now you're here?"
"To stop you and that old bugger marrying my son off to some frigid society cow who'll make his life a misery." This man clearly needed a few lessons in etiquette too. Pity he wasn't likely to turn up on Madame Pantoufle's doorstep, because she could show him a thing or two. About her interesting bits.
She folded her gloves and set them on top of her reticule. "After all these years of shirking your responsibilities, you're here to teach him....what, exactly?"
Brandon had been watching her hands. Now his gaze lifted to meet hers. She faced him boldly.
"Your own example, Mr. Wilder, has hardly been—"
"I left because I thought it would be better for the boy if I wasn't around. I was hardly the best example in those days and he had my father, who could at least be trusted to raise the boy in a safe home. Scandal followed me wherever I went. I thought, if I left, the gossip would fade in time and he'd be left in peace. I didn't want him tainted by my mistakes."
She supposed there was some sense in what he said. While she still mulled over his explanation, he spoke again, sharpening his tone.
"Where's your husband, Mrs. Kent?"
Her train of thought slammed on the breaks too quickly. She skidded, tilted and almost came off the rails. "What?"
"Your husband." Leaning over the table, he snatched up her reticule, letting her gloves fall. "You said you're Mrs. Kent. Why would any sensible man let a fine-looking woman like you run your own business? Go out to hotels alone to meet strange men. Where is he while you're here with me," he grinned slowly, "speculating on the size of my cock."
"I'm a widow. Kindly give that back to me." That smile was one thing that had not changed about him in the difficult years since their first brief encounter, which he didn't remember, of course. Thankfully. She didn't need him knowing she was once a humble kitchen maid.
"You don't look like a widow. Don't act like one either." He boldly opened her reticule, tipping it upside down . Her perfume rolled out, her house key and some banknotes. There too was her miniature, leather bound notebook. They both reached for it, but he snatched it up first.
"Give that back at once," she exclaimed, pulse quickening.
He leaned back, holding the book to his chest. "You leave my son's business alone and I won't pry into yours. Not nice is it? Having someone rifle through your life?"
She kept her composure. Somehow.
Blackmail again—like father, like son, she thought dourly.
Drusilla put out her hand, palm up, and said steadily, "Give the book to me."
His fingers stroked the leather cover, tapped it lightly. "Soon. First you'll answer a few more questions for me."
>
"I'm a perfectly respectable widow. You're not going to find any dirty secrets in that notebook."
"Tsk, tsk - two fibs already. I know you're not respectable or you wouldn't sit down with me."
She held her mouth held tight, shoulders rigid.
"I also know you're not a widow."
Now she was truly alarmed. If something gave her away, she needed to know what it might be. "What makes you think I am not?"
"The way you removed your gloves."
He wasn't much like his son in looks, she realized. Nicky's thoughts were written all over his face. Brandon's were hidden, apart from little teasing glimpses occasionally set free to wander over his rugged features. "I don't follow, Mr. Wilder."
"A widow, Mrs. Kent, would keep her gloves on until the sandwiches came. Widows are always very cautious like that."
"Known a great many widows have you?"
"A few." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Widows often have to be pried out of their clothes. At the rate you stripped those gloves off, the moment you met me, I'd say you're accustomed to showing bare skin to a man. And if you're a widow," he opened his arms in a shrugging gesture, still holding her notebook between his long, sun-browned fingers, "well....that would suggest Mrs. Kent has a lover."
"Don't ever try to tell fortunes, Mr. Wilder. You have all the perceptibility of a goldfish. "
"But," he brought the notebook to his lips and stared up at the grand crystal chandeliers, "if you had a lover, would he want you meeting strange men in hotels? Let me see now...," his gaze returned to her face, "perhaps he doesn't know you're here. Or he's married. Or he's not the jealous type? Perhaps he likes to share?"
She shook her head, refusing to discuss her love life. Or lack thereof. "Mr. Wilder, since you're here, we may as well talk about your son's future. If you have no interest in that, then I will leave."
"Without this?" He waved the notebook back and forth between them, teasing her with it.
Damn and blast. If only she'd stuck with her usual secret pocket, hidden in the folds of her skirt, to stow the little book safely on her person. But no, she'd been vain enough that day to use a reticule, thinking it would give her hands something to do—keep them from fidgeting in an unladylike manner.
So now he had her, she realized, with a quick shiver of excitement. She had to stay. Even if sitting across a table in intimate conversation with this notorious scoundrel could do absolutely no good for her decent reputation. Besides, here came the tea and those darling little fondant cakes. She ought to have just one, since she'd looked forward to it all day.
Four in the Afternoon
November 22nd
The leather on the little notebook smelled faintly of cigar smoke. Not too stale yet and of the expensive variety. So there was a man somewhere in her current life. The perfume she carried, he'd noted, was expensive but only a small bottle. A man would have purchased a larger one to impress, which suggested she bought it for herself. So she was a woman who enjoyed luxury, but nothing too ostentatious. She'd brought with her just enough to pay for the tea, no more. A practical woman and, since she planned to pay for the tea herself, independent-minded. As for the key —why would she need to let herself into the house? Unless she kept no servants, or very few, and frequently came and went at odd hours. Fascinating.
Amazing what a man could learn from one peek inside a lady's reticule.
The woman was far from what he'd expected, although she tried to make him think she was exactly that. She kept her expression bland, serious, even when confronted with his outrageous language and behavior. Her dress was well-made, beautifully fitted, fine cloth. He didn't know much about material, but he knew when it rustled that way it was costly. From what he could see of her hair under that hat, it was a deep, rich shade of russet. Her eyes were a similar shade, just slightly darker, the lashes tinted with a late summer bronze. Whenever she spoke he found himself staring into those eyes and getting lost. He only looked at her lips when they were not moving, for they told him more when they were mute. The lower lip was fuller, straighter. The top lip had a pronounced bow that could lend itself to a most appealing pout. If she was ever inclined to use it.
Brandon suspected this women had never pouted for anything in her life. She had other ways of getting what she wanted, no doubt.
Her figure was what he would once have termed "fuckably shaped". Since he was now almost forty he supposed he ought to have some other word for it. This afternoon he was actually ashamed that he didn't. Shame was not a frequent lodger in Brandon's conscience, but he was suddenly feeling half his age again, complete with rampant libido.
Her breasts hid behind a small jacket and a ruffled blouse with a row of pearl buttons in the front that were decorative and not at all functioning— as far as he could make out. His fingers itched to unlace her corset. Just thinking about her nipples constricted beneath all those layers, made his sac tighten, his shaft stiffen. Her waist was ridiculously tiny, her hips a pleasing swell that made a man think about holding them while he mounted her from behind - right under that bustle and all those frilly, cascading ruffles.
The dratted matchmaker, hired to shackle his son with a nightmare society bride, was not supposed to look like this. She was meant to be as wide as she was tall, possibly as old as Eve, and to smell like a Lancashire hotpot. He had it all prepared in his imagination when he set out to confront her.
Then she came and set everything arse over heel.
An affair was the last thing in his plans, but he had a feeling that if he let her leave the Dalton that afternoon without trying to seduce her, he'd regret it for the rest of his no-good, rotten life. He watched her drink tea with her little finger arched, her lashes demurely lowered. She could be sipping tea in a vicarage parlor, not sharing her table with a notorious rebel, putting herself in scandal's way.
Mrs. Kent, to put it mildly, was a complication. She was going to cause him problems, because he couldn't stop looking at her, he was already aroused and she was stubbornly pretending not to notice. But he didn't have time for this. His trip to London was to be brief, all business. Family business.
It was only a fortnight since he received the letter from Nicky's grandmother, telling him of a marriage being arranged for his son. Why the old lady communicated with him after more than twenty years of silence he had no idea. Her letter came out of the blue and he'd had to rush to catch the boat from Argentina, so that put him in a bad mood from the beginning. The moment he disembarked, he raced to London. He'd had no time since arriving in London to visit a barber, get a shave, get properly dressed.
Of course, he hadn't expected a woman like this one to sit down at his table and jerk her gloves off so hard it made his eyes water.
Damn! His cock would not lie down.
"I have no intention of causing your son harm, Mr. Wilder. I only want to find him the perfect wife, as I was tasked by your father."
He curled her notebook away into the palm of his hand—it fit there nicely. "What does my father know about wives?" He leaned toward her over the tea-cups and the shattered poinsettia plant. "My father, Mrs. Kent, was born with ambition, but no balls. I'm sure you figured that out already and you're laughing behind his back, taking his money and walking all over him, just like everyone else does."
"Just like you did?"
The damn woman looked smug now, stirring lavish amounts of sugar into her tea, long lashes lowered again, casting shadows on her cheeks. He cleared his throat and said sharply, "Captain Wilder thinks a man can be happy only if he's rich. He married my mother purely in hopes of getting his hands on the Charming fortune. His second wife was also from wealth and, from what I remember, never gave him a moment's joy. They practically lived separate lives, because he had no idea how to fulfill her needs and she had no desire to fulfill his. I understand he's spent most of the money now anyway on foolish attempts to fit in where he is not wanted, only tolerated. Even that tolerance must be on borrowed time."
&n
bsp; He wondered why he bothered trying to explain, but before this woman his thoughts tumbled out like coins from a hole in his pocket.
"Perhaps, if your father is such a bad judge of women, that's why he's concerned for Nicholas."
"His concern is for the Charming fortune and his own status."
"There could be many motives, Mr. Wilder, for your father to want his grandson well married. Why you immediately assume his intentions are bad, is much to do with your character and his, but I am not here to mend family feuds. I am only here for your son's contentment."
"And the money. What's my father paying you for your services?"
"That is a matter between he and I."
Would she ever give a straight-forward answer to a question, he wondered.
Why not find out? What did he have to lose?
He leaned across the teacups again, almost knocking over the two-tiered cake platter. "Come upstairs to my room and we'll do a deal, you and I."
"A deal?"
"Enjoy the afternoon with me and I'll give your notebook back. I don't care for cake, but I'd very much like to eat your sweet pussy until you scream these elegant walls down."
She spooned even more sugar into her milky tea, but that was the only sign of anything amiss. Most women would pale or blush scarlet at his brazen suggestion. She did neither. "I thought Nicholas was upstairs in your room."
It took him a moment. He'd expected a slapped face at the very least, but she sipped her tea, her expression unchanged.
"I lied," he admitted finally with a quick shrug. "I sent him a message to meet you at Claridges instead. I suppose that's where he is now, waiting for his matchmaker."
She set her cup in the saucer with a crisp chink and gathered up the contents of her reticule. "I'm going now. Good afternoon Mr.—"
"Drink your tea. It's getting cold." He smirked. "People are looking."
"As if you care. You clearly enjoy making a scene."
"But you don't."
Her shoulder relaxed an inch and she picked up her teacup again, apparently forgetting she was ready to leave.