by Fox, Georgia
It was lucky he came back to help the boy. Someone had to—someone whose interest was in the boy's happiness, not the Charming fortune or any social climbing ideas.
Suddenly Nick exclaimed, "Have you had a woman in here? I can smell violets."
Brandon strode back to the brandy decanter. "I was...occupied earlier."
"I thought so. No wonder you were still in bed at this hour."
Smirking, he poured them both another brandy. Mrs. Kent was waiting behind that dressing screen right now. Unable to dress without help, she was stranded until he lent a hand. Well, she'd just have to wait a bit longer. He wasn't inclined to let her go from his suite just yet. The woman, he though with a warm leap of brandy-fired excitement in his gut, wasn't leaving until he'd tried out that freshly shaved pussy. She was quite delectable. It amused him to no end that his father had hired the woman to teach Nick etiquette and find him a bride. It would have made more sense if she was hired to teach Nick something else. Not that his son needed lessons in that, he was quite sure.
He looked at the boy again. "Heels— off the furniture."
Nick frowned. Slowly he took his booted foot off the table.
"And slow down with the drinking," he added.
"Damn it, father. I didn't expect to be lectured by you."
Cheeky brat. Brandon raised his eyebrows. "That's what fathers are for. That's what they do."
"Yes, but you're not a normal one."
He sighed. "I fear you'll have to take what you've got in this case." Setting his glass on the sideboard, he motioned toward the bedroom. "Excuse me, I need to dress."
The boy stared morosely at his brandy. "I wonder where she disappeared to. Mrs. Kent."
"Perhaps something... came up." He coughed and strode quickly into the bedroom. Rather than close the door all the way, and risk rousing the boy's suspicion, he left it ajar to continue their conversation.
Nick shouted from the couch, "She'd better have a bloody good explanation for the mix-up. Grandfather's paying her a pretty penny."
"I have no doubt she'll come up with something," he called back, slipping off his bathrobe and walking behind the dressing screen.
Drusilla Kent stood there, clutching her clothes and looking cross. Also looking extremely beautiful in her state of dishabille. He tugged the pile of clothing out of her arms and dropped it to the floor.
"Women always have excuses," he shouted louder.
She backed up to the wall and he followed, eyeing her naked body from her tumbled dark hair to her mysteriously knowing eyes and tense mouth, to her cherry nipples, full globes, softly rounded stomach and shaven mound. His hands around her face, he lifted it for another kiss. She could make no sound, no complaint, for fear of his son hearing in the adjoining room. But her mouth was soft and yielding; there was no attempt to stop him. She raised one arm around his neck and kissed him back, her lips opening wider, her tongue caressing his.
"She's a very interesting woman," Nick called out. "I can't quite make her out."
"Hmm." He slid his hands down and lifted her against the wall until she curled her legs around his waist. "Tricky things, women." At this angle her cunt was spread for him, the petals open, exposing her pollen for harvesting by his eager stinger. What a luscious treat this surprising afternoon had turned out to be. He slapped his cockhead against her opened labia and she gasped softly, moving her hips, her legs climbing up his back. The woman was a powder keg and he, apparently, had been the spark she needed after sitting unused for too long. He nudged upward until his crest filled her entrance.
"She's got a beautiful pair of titties," Nick shouted from the other room.
In the process of lowering her onto his erect phallus, Brandon paused. "She's got what?" He stared at the subjects of their discussion, which were, at that moment, directly in his face.
"Titties," Nick hollered back, his voice getting louder as if he approached the room.
Easing her all the way down, prying her smooth cleft open with his cock, he grunted. "I see." Eyes narrowed he glared at her. She put both her arms around his neck now and fluttered her long lashes. "And how would you know about that woman's titties? I thought you'd never met her yet."
"Oh," Nicky laughed lazily, "I met her alright. How do you suppose I came to recommend her services to grandpapa? Have you never heard of Madame Pantoufle and her House of Correction?"
* * * *
Drusilla felt the muscles in his shoulders stiffen. She saw the fire in his eyes. His hands grabbed her bottom and he began moving her up and down on his rod, impaling her over and over, merciless. His body beside hers was so darkly tanned it made her skin look like ivory. She couldn't catch her breath, but hung on with her legs and arms as he angrily ravished her up against the wall of his bedchamber.
He was right about the shaved pudenda, she mused; it did heighten the sensations, made her feel even stickier, wetter, made their bodies a tighter fit. Or so it seemed.
Brandon bent his legs and pushed up again until she almost cried out. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and he shuddered, pressing her to the wall, his cockhead pushing at her womb, coming hard inside her, just where she'd told him not to.
Seven in the Evening
November 22nd
The moment he'd disposed of Nicholas, he marched back into the bedroom, where she was pulling on her bloomers and chemise.
"What exactly are you up to, woman? Is this a scheme to cheat my father out of his last pennies? You and Nick are in this together perhaps, eh?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
He stood with his hands on his hips, jaw squared, eyes narrowed. "Has he had you?"
"Has who had me? Your father?"
"My son!" he snapped impatiently.
Drusilla pulled on her corset and turned, waiting for his help. "Of course not. I told you, I'm not that sort of woman."
He huffed, fingers pulling hard on her laces. "Your behavior this afternoon in my suite has rather given another impression."
"Blackmail was your idea," she exclaimed over her shoulder. "You put me in this position. I have not slept with your son. He's all prideful hot air, like most boys of twenty one. Can't you see that?"
"How would he know you have gorgeous breasts."
A loud laugh shot out of her, cut off abruptly when he tugged especially and needlessly hard on her corset laces. "Do I?" she managed, breathless.
"You damn well know you do, woman."
She felt very light-headed suddenly. Perhaps it was the tight corset again. In fact her entire person felt lighter. Even her heart and soul. She'd enjoyed herself that afternoon. Now she felt—dare she think it—young again? Free.
"I have not slept with your son," she repeated firmly, turning to face him. "I have no intention of doing so."
He was still doubtful, peevish. "And this Madame Pantoufle? What's all that about?"
"I shudder to think. Perhaps your son has a vivid imagination, or simply muddled me with some other woman." Pushing by him, she grabbed her gown and stepped into the skirt. "Now I would like my notebook back, Mr. Wilder. After today, you and I need have no further contact."
He thrust a hand into the pocket of his bathrobe and drew out the little leather-bound book. "Where did my son see you before then?"
"I have no inkling." Drusilla pulled on the silk blouse and again required his assistance to button the back of it—a task he fulfilled with apparent reluctance, holding her book in his teeth. "But I do not hide away like a hermit crab," she added, "so it could have been anywhere."
Swinging around again she snatched the book out of his mouth and moved to his washstand mirror.
"Nick doesn't want a wife," he snapped. "I knew that and he just confirmed matchmaking was not the reason he hired you."
"He said no such thing."
"Then he inferred it," he shouted. "Heavily."
She kept her voice even. "He may not think he wants a wife, but perhaps he needs one." Smiling at him breezily in the mirro
r, she added, "In any case, worse things can happen to a man than falling in love."
He scowled. "I wouldn't know about that."
"Of course you wouldn't." She jabbed a pin in place to hold a particularly stubborn and wayward lock of hair.
"It would seem to me, Mrs. Kent, that whatever your intentions, my son wanted to hire you for reasons other than those he gave my father."
"Then he'll be disappointed, won't he?"
His lips turned up in a snarl. "He'd better be."
Drusilla slipped into the smart little jacket of her ensemble. "Don't be tiresome, Mr. Wilder."
"Tiresome?"
"I believe you know what I mean." She sat on the bed to pull on her boots. "I have no interest in your son other than correcting his manners and finding him a bride. But even if I had any interest, this —between us—was one afternoon only, as we both agreed. You maintain no rights over me, nor I over you. Have you got a button hook?"
Still frowning, he padded barefoot across the carpet and sat beside her. "No I don't. Listen, Drusilla—"
"Oh, never mind, I'll manage without. Well, it's been most interesting, Mr. Wilder, but I must dash. Other appointments to keep. Thank you for the tea and cake."
As she bounced up, he did too, catching her by the arm. "Drusilla."
She took a breath. "Yes?"
He looked down at her, his eyes hot, dangerous.
"Yes?" she demanded again, eager to be off.
"It might itch when it grows back," he managed finally, letting go of her arm.
"How nice. I shall look forward to that then."
He did not follow her from the bedroom and she left his suite with the very odd feeling of unfinished business between them. And the suspicion that he had meant to say something quite different. That what he had in mind for Drusilla Kent was much more perilous than a little itch.
* * * *
An hour later she relaxed in a hipbath of warm, fragrant water and looked through her notebook, searching for names of clients with eligible daughters. Time to get the business of matchmaking underway. Nicholas Wilder wasn't going to be much help to her, his father even less so. But they might become obstacles. Therefore she must strike quickly, find a girl for Nick to fall in love with before he even knew what had hit him, and then collect the balance of her fee from Captain Wilder.
She leafed through the pages, studying each name. Surely one of these society gents must have a daughter they wouldn't object to marrying off to the heir of a vast fortune. If not she'd be reduced to plucking a woman out of thin air.
Polly was going through the wardrobe that evening, finding any old garments that her mistress might want to donate to the poor, as she did every winter.
"What about this peach silk, ma'am." The maid held up a ruffled evening-gown—the very first extravagant frock Drusilla had ever owned— with a daringly low-cut curaisse bodice and a train edged in white Alencon lace. The style was several years out of date and since she'd been in mourning black for six years, Drusilla had no chance to wear it anyway. But she'd kept it in her wardrobe because it was so beautiful and she couldn't bear to part with it.
"Perhaps, ma'am, if you don't want to let it go completely, I could use the material and make something new for you."
"That's a very kind thought, Polly." Drusilla watched from her bath as the maid held the silk gown up to herself and looked in the mirror. "That color does look exceptional next to your skin. Try it on."
"Oh, I couldn't ma'am."
"You certainly can." She smiled thoughtfully. "Indulge me. Go behind the screen and put it on."
While the maid disappeared, Drusilla turned her gaze back to the notebook, skimming over names, dimensions and the specifics of each client's preferences. Unfortunately it was very difficult to concentrate on the task when her mind was so full of her own preferences— and the afternoon of debauchery she'd just enjoyed in Brandon Wilder's hotel suite. How kind of him to indulge one of her fantasies, she thought idly.
"That handsome young man who came looking for you today, ma'am." Polly peeped around the screen. "He was very rude. Needs taking down a peg or two, if you ask me."
"Nicholas? Yes, he certainly does require a set down."
"Barged his way in, demanding to know where you were. I was about to clap the side of his head with a saucepan."
She chuckled. "I'm not sure he would have felt it, Polly. He has a very thick head."
"Threatened to sit and wait for you in the parlor, whether I liked it or not."
Drusilla turned a page of her book and ran a finger over the names. "How on earth did you get him out? Did you have to call Martha down?"
"Oh, no. I dealt with him meself. Shooed him out with the broom, ma'am. Brushed him out with the dirt he brought in on his big feet."
"Good for you."
The screen trembled and Polly stepped out. "Here I am."
Drusilla looked up.
"What do you think, ma'am?" The girl grinned, twirling playfully, her cheeks slightly flushed because she knew instinctively, without even glancing in the cheval mirror, that she looked pretty. It was something a woman knew right away when she tried on the perfect gown and magic occurred.
In the mellow gaslight her little maid was transformed from girl to woman.
Drusilla snapped her book shut. "I think, Polly, we've found our Princess of Charming."
Why not? It hit her like a thunderbolt. But could she carry it off? Could Polly?
Surely no society debutante was more deserving of a lucky break. None sweeter, more natural and unspoiled than Polly, who rose from the pumpkins and the ashes to make a better life for herself. All she needed was a few lessons in deportment —and the girl had already shown herself to be a fast learner with a mind like a sponge.
She was looking at Drusilla with wide eyes, not understanding yet, of course.
It would not only be a good deed for Polly, it would be a wonderful trick to play on the folk who lived their lives in snobbery and hypocrisy. Daily Drusilla witnessed wildly inconsistent behavior among the upper classes. She saw not only the outside veneer, but also what went on behind closed doors. Yet her access to those circles was only as a ghostly figure. Madame Pantoufle was allowed in, but kept on the fringe, a dark secret of society's elite. Meanwhile, widowed Mrs. Kent, proper and respectable, was too lowly for the upper echelons among whom naughty Madame Pantoufle, the very opposite of respectable, plied her trade.
There was no cause more worthy, no idea dearer to Drusilla's heart than the improvement of circumstances for the poor and neglected. Wherever there was injustice or an imbalance in the world, she should find a way to right it.
The more she tested the idea in her head, the more intriguing it became. Polly, she thought mischievously, would be an even greater creation than that of herself.
But then there was Nicholas. An insolent young man who, as Polly had dryly observed, needed taking down a peg. Was it fair to unload him on this girl?
"You thought Master Wilder handsome, Polly?"
"Before he opened his mouth," came the swift reply.
Drusilla smiled, leaning back in her bath, damp locks falling to her shoulders. "The same might be said of a great many men."
Polly checked her reflection in the mirror, standing in her stockinged feet, hands on her waist. "I haven't got enough to fill it out," she muttered.
"It just needs taking in at the bodice." Drusilla tapped her fingers on the edge of the bath. "Master Wilder will be very rich one day." At least he had the grace to attempt an apology for his outrageous conduct in that carriage by sending her chocolates and flowers. Although he probably did not have to pay for the chocolates; it was the thought that counted.
Or was she being soft?
The maid was unimpressed. "Pity he can't buy himself some manners then with all his money."
Drusilla laughed. He would certainly never get one over on Polly. She'd be good for the boy. "Wouldn't you like to marry a rich man?"
&nbs
p; "I don't know, ma'am. I never thought of it."
"Think of it now then...more gowns like that one. You'd never have to clean out another pan of ashes, never have to blacken another grate. Never have to peel another potato. You would have nothing to do all day, but float about leisurely and look beautiful."
"Sounds a bit dull, ma'am."
"But in the evenings you would attend grand dinners and balls, visit the opera house and the theatre." She knew Polly adored the music hall. There was something else she knew Polly loved too. "And you would have all the chocolate you could possibly eat."
That, it seemed, was the deciding factor. "Oh then, I'd say yes," Polly exclaimed, breaking into a big smile that dimpled her cheeks. "How could a girl refuse an offer like that, ma'am?"
"Indeed, what girl could?"
She's almost made it sound irresistible to herself. Good thing she wasn't in the market for a husband.
Eight in the Morning
November 23rd
He swept through the tiled hall of his grandmother's town house, following the footman, trying to shorten his stride, which was naturally long and inpatient. They paused at the door of the breakfast room, where the footman tapped smartly and entered.
"Mr. Brandon Wilder, ma'am."
It was a bright room facing east, with tall, narrow windows and light furnishings. He remembered rarely being allowed in this room as a boy. It was his grandmother's special retreat, where she spent her first hours of the day in peace and tranquility, surrounded by her favorite objects and waited on by a footman who wore cloth slippers to ensure he made as little noise as possible in her presence. His grandmother insisted on two large bouquets of fresh flowers in the room, even in winter, and the carpet had to be turned regularly to avoid faded marks from the sun. All her ornaments and paintings were handled by only the most trusted housemaid and the cushions on her chairs had to be plumped up and placed just so—one discovered at the wrong angle could cause her to have a very bad day, and thus cause the entire family and staff to have the same. Her breakfast room was not, therefore, the sort of place in which a child was welcomed, particularly not a clumsy boy who had dirty hands more often than not.