Well, too bad. She was confounded as well. Today’s display of his excellent choice of tailor only serviced her suspicion that the dedicated and trustworthy Mister Wallace Finnley came from a background far nobler than he had yet revealed to her. Certainly, from his education, even from his speech, she ascertained that he had had a decent education in rhetoric, decorum, business of running a household—and a group of servants.
What else was there?
She would learn.
“I daresay, good sir, it is the devil’s own day out there. The snow is deep as ever. And you will freeze if you do not come huddle with me under this carriage blanket.”
He shot her a longing look of those fierce blue eyes that warmed her to the quick.
She bit her lip, for he certainly meant to freeze her but he’d had quite the opposite effect. Throwing aside the corner of the fur piece, she lifted her chin at him. “Stop this nonsense and come get warm.”
He grumbled. But he came.
She took his hands. Even in his well-fitting leather gloves, his hands were cold. She tucked them under the blanket in his lap and snuggled close to him.
He jumped.
She jumped closer.
Oh, my.
What had she touched?
A more personal part of his body?
She wanted to chuckle.
But didn’t.
Retracting her fingers from his person, she fished for his hand instead. She had grasped another part of his anatomy which was not so much cold as hard. Very.
Inside, she smiled and wondered how large he might be. Bigger than Ranford? She coughed to stifle her snort. Ranford had been big enough to cause her some discomfort, although it was not his size that accosted her senses but his lack of interest.
She shifted, the memory of her husband’s perfunctory service to his husbandly duties a dark blotch on his character. Virgin that she’d been when she went to him on her wedding night, she’d assumed his speed at the task was his prudence for her inexperience. But night after night, his habits brought her more and more questions about the nature of coupling. When she’d asked him if she was lacking in performance, if she must do something, anything, he had laughed at her. Laughed.
That’s when she’d decided he was more of a cad than a mate. Less of a gentleman than anyone thought. Including her father. And perhaps even his reputed mistress. Soon after she had sought out through her Aunt a few risqué books about the art of marital bliss. Hortense had pretended shock, but soon relented and allowed her to borrow a few from her library.
“A woman must know what one is about, I always say,” she’d handed them over. “Best to return them to me when you are finished.”
When Alicia had arched a brow in question, Hortense replied that she did not think Ranford would appreciate such in his house. He’d consider them material to lock her away.
Agreeing that she needed nothing to pique Ranford’s interest in her new found independence, Alicia had handed them over after she had virtually memorized the texts and could envision the drawings with her eyes closed.
Informative, they had titillated and inspired her. Sadly for Ranford, they inspired her to confront him with his marital shortcomings, physical, emotional and even financial. He had not liked it, to the point where he stayed away from her. And that was wonderful freedom. She dared to daydream of a lover worthy of her own longings. Though she had not wished him dead and gone, Providence had aided her and within a few months she was to emerge from her cocoon and find a new delight in her life. With the man who was her butler—and yet was not.
Facing Finnley, she bit her lower lip. “I hope the snow will stop soon.”
He pulled fur blanket closer up over her shoulders. “We’ll make the service. Never fear.”
“Do you think any of the servants suspect us of running off together?” She curled her lips in humor.
“I hope not.” He hugged her to him, the heat from his body a comforting lure.
“Your idea to join me in the carriage on Oxford Street was superb. Thank you for this. We are well and warm and you aid me to say my farewell to a lady whom I adored. Your presence eases my mind and our journey.” She slid closer to him, her hip tight against his, her hand clasping his in the hollow of her lap. Good place for his hand. She shivered at the expectation of how he might touch her there without layers of coat and dress and petticoat and chemise between them.
She’d lead him on to what she wished to learn about him. “Have you traveled in Kent often?”
He frowned down at her and smoothed tendrils of her hair from her cheek. He was so tender, his fingertips touched her like angels wings. “Last year more than before.”
“Why was that?” she asked in her most nonchalant tone.
“I had a relative here who invited me to visit.”
Hmm. He would not tell her who that relative was. Secretive, again. “Did you stay long?”
He shifted his gaze out the window. Then reached over to pull the oil shade down. “A fortnight.”
“Where?”
“Dover.”
“Oh, well, then. Not far from Sevenoaks. Have you been to that town before?”
“Once on my through with my regiment after Waterloo. What was left of my regiment. We lost so many. More than half.”
“Did you leave the Army after that?”
“I did. I had no stomach for it any longer.”
“And what did you do afterward?”
“Worked with the Home Office. Then went to the Marine force on the docks. My regimental commander during the wars took a position there to track stolen goods from ships and warehouses. I helped him detect those responsible and put them in gaol.”
She stared at him.
And he shifted. Looked sheepish. As if he’d told her a fact she should not know.
“You did not tell me this.”
“No.” He raised the fur throw higher against her shoulders.
“Are you ashamed of it?”
“What? No. Not at all.”
“Why not tell me? It is unusual, to say the least. And I would have been intrigued to think that my very own butler had served to capture thieves and murderers. Imagine.”
“Most would not want a man like that in their house. They’d turn him away.”
“Is that why you did not tell me? You thought that I would not hire you?”
“Yes. Most in the ton do not wish to know anyone concerned with crime. Not Bow Street Runners. Not the Marine force.”
Intriguing. “I think such men must be courageous and smart.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “You have an open heart.”
For you I do. “What qualifications must such an investigator possess?”
“One who remembers details. One who solves puzzles.”
She smiled at him. “Fascinating. How did you come by these skills?”
“A childhood spent alone allows one to dream and concentrate on any interest.”
She fingered the fall of the collar of his black greatcoat. “And what were your interests?”
“I was very sickly. So my interests were sedentary. Bugs and plants. I collected them all. My mother loved each one and my father hated them. Said they were subjects for a female.”
Detecting his bitterness, she squeezed his hand in sympathy. “As if there are divisions in the realms of the universe. Ridiculous. A person should be permitted to study whatever thrills him or her. Ants. Lilies. Rocks. Romances.”
He draped his arm around her shoulders. “Your views are those of a revolutionary.”
“Do you dislike me for them?” she teased without fear of his answer.
“Admiration is more the word, my pet.” He pulled her close to kiss her temple. “Now you must tell me what your passions were as a girl.”
She made a face. “I adored my brother’s toy soldiers and played battles with him. I commanded the French forces. Always. Jerome insisted I los
e. But I won. Often. He was graceful about it.” She picked at the fur throw over her lap, envisioning Jerome’s delight at moving his men about the nursery room carpet. “I sometimes wonder if his boyhood games induced him to go to the wars.”
“Soldiering is far from a game. Sad that far too many think it a time for camaraderie, instead of the gory business it is.”
“Jerome wanted to be a hero. Wanted to impress my father with his exploits. He died trying.” She inhaled and cast off her gloom. “Enough of that. It’s over. What I must tell you is that I too know a bit about plants.”
Finnley’s brows shot up. “Do you? I never heard that.”
Had he spoken with someone about her? The way he said that implied he had. “Oh, I see. My servants talk about me, do they? Well, it happens, I know. But yes, I do know the value of oregano and lemon grass. Even nightshade.”
“That last is poisonous,” he said with some gravity.
“Yes, indeed. Did you know a few plants grew in the back garden?”
“Is that so?” he asked, his gaze on the opposite seat, but his eyes blank. “When?”
She examined him closely. “Mrs. Sweeting told me last autumn. Took me out to the patch and pointed it out. What’s wrong? Why do you frown?”
His gaze traveled to hers. “Sweeting told you about it?”
And when she confirmed it, he added, “It seems odd for it to grow in London.”
“A tough weed to survive the close air, eh?” she asked.
“Did Mrs. Sweeting say when she first noticed the plants?”
“No. I didn’t ask her.” Should I have?
“Why did she tell you about them?” he asked her.
This question made her frown. He was very interested in the plant. Why? “I was in the kitchen one afternoon, talking about a particularly bitter tea she’d brewed for me that morning. I hated it and wanted her to discard it. She and I began to talk about my husband’s illness leading to his death. A rambling conversation. Nothing more. Then Mrs. Sweeting recalled how Lord Ranford had been confused and short of breath for weeks before he passed on. He’d suffered headaches too.”
“Did he really?”
“Yes, indeed. Made me wonder about the surgeon’s declaration of his cause of death. Heart congestion seems less to do with the head than the body, you see.”
Finnley agreed.
“And then there was the fact that Ranford’s valet fled the next day like a thief in the night. I wondered about that.” She had disliked the persnickety little man who never gave her the time of day without a sniff and upturned nose. “I was happy to have him gone though. He disliked me. He disliked the first Lady Ranford, too. Anyone close to Ranford got the gimlet eye from him. He was so loyal to my husband that he fairly squeaked with it.”
“And none of the other servants missed him?”
She gave a laugh. “Never. Though Mabel and Preston did comment on his hasty departure. They didn’t miss old Norden, either. He was an extremely good butler.”
Finnley threw her a faint smile. “You liked him? He was efficient?”
“Efficient? He was a general ordering his troops!” Alicia sighed. “Like most butlers, the house was his kingdom and he knew all that occurred there. He brooked no objection to his rule, though I will say, bar one, he was the most officious man I’ve ever met.” She raised a brow at Finnley.
He shook his head and dismissed her jibe. “Was Norden difficult to control?”
“Obedient in all things, unless of course, you wanted the soup spoon put down with the fish fork.” She pondered his death. Odd he should go months after Robert. “He was not clumsy and I couldn’t understand why he had fallen to the cellar. He looked like a rag doll at the bottom of the stairs. I hated to bury him.”
“Did you go to his burial, too?” Finnley asked, sounding incredulous.
She nodded. “I did.”
“Ah, me.” Finnley settled her back to his embrace more fully, his lips near her ear. “You give more to others than you receive.”
She liked being held and cossetted as if she were a prized possession. At length, her thoughts strayed to the nightshade. “After Sweeting told me about the poisonous plants, I had Grimes pull them from the garden. I was afraid of them. Silly, but still.”
“Wise of you,” he said, his voice faint, his body unmoving.
When Finnley said no more, she pulled back to glance at him. He brooded. “What disturbs you?”
“I don’t like poisonous plants around humans. When I was eight or nine, one of our under footmen went out into the field one afternoon, rubbed against a few wild berries, took a rash and within the hour, could not breathe. He died the next day.”
“Terrible.” She watched him. So caught up in his memories of the man who passed away so suddenly, he didn’t notice that he had revealed the fact that his household employed not merely one footman, but more.
She had been so right about Wallace. He was not from servant stock. His family had employed servants and his education had consisted of more than bugs. He’d had books and enough schooling to train his mind to solving the riddles of mysteries. And crimes.
She wasn’t totally sure why, but she shivered again.
He took her hand in his and smiled with more sympathy than consolation. “I’m sorry to be a mean cuss, Alicia. This is not—“ He waved a hand. “I hate this arrangement. It’s not what I want for you. For us.”
Us. The word, the slip of his tongue, inspired her. She regarded him with hope. “I must apologize as well, Wallace. This subterfuge is not ideal. But I know not what else to do or how. I am not well versed in hiding an affair with a man. Especially my butler.”
“I would have wished our relationship other than it is.”
“So do I.”
“If we were of the same backgrounds, we might have had a chance at a more fulfilling friendship.”
Aren’t we of the same backgrounds? “For the next few days, we are equals.”
He cupped her cheek. “We must not pretend.”
“But you’re here,” she whispered to him, “and part of you is willing.”
“Accepting how we admire each other does not condone the intimacy.”
“You quibble, dear sir.”
“Alicia, listen to me. When we return there will be no continuation of our affections. We cannot risk it.”
She reached up and brushed her lips over his firm mouth. “This is what I want.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her tightly to him. “God help me, so do I.”
He kissed her with fierce ownership, his lips almost bruising in their intensity. She moaned, wanting that and more from him. He responded and lifted her onto his lap, his arms fast around her, binding her close, muttering his need. He took her mouth again, his hands in her hair, delving, probing, massaging. Her hat fell off, her pins scattering. Her hair came down in a heavy fall in his hands and over her shoulders. He sent his hand up her leg along the outside of her calf. She welcomed his touch with a sigh. Past the edge of her stocking and her garter, he caressed the round of her thigh and then the bare skin of her hip.
She undulated at his open-handed claim and when he curled his fingers into the valley of her legs, she spread her thighs for him.
He stroked her with delicate fingers. “You are so sweet.”
She widened her thighs more. Those risqué books she’d read offered her nothing so thrilling as this rapture with him.
He traced the seam of her lips and probed between them with gentleness beyond any she’d known. “Darling girl, you’re wet, too.”
“Near you, I am warm and melting.”
He pulled back. “Look at me. Tell me what you feel.”
As he traced delicate lines upon her nether lips, she shuddered in hunger for more of him. “I want your fingers on me. Inside me.”
He did as she asked and sank a finger deep into her core.
She arched,
delighted. Her breasts tingling, she squirmed a little in his arms.
“Shall you have more?”
Her only answer was a moan.
He chuckled lightly and drove another finger inside her channel. “Darling, you will undo me with your ardor.”
She hung on to him, her nails digging into his greatcoat. Her legs grew chilled but all she could think of was his hand, his fingers inside her, swirling and stroking, creating fires of urgent need. And she yearned for more.
She nestled to him. “I want all of you. Tonight.”
He hugged her near. “You have quite turned my head.”
“Success. And I know you’ll give me more.”
“You think me talented in bed, do you?”
“I know it,” she said with utter confidence.
“I hope to make our first time together glorious for you.”
Will there be more than a first time? She clutched the wool of his coat as her breasts blossomed and her heart picked up a faster tempo. “It is now.”
He lifted a brow, his fingers busy with her willing body. “Like this?”
He found some impossibly sensitive spot that made her jerk forward into his arms. “You like that.”
“Give me more,” she pleaded.
He smoothed her stomach with an open hand and shifted her so that she lay up and his access to her was more complete. With his talented fingers, he parted her folds, flicked at the nub that showed her stars and rubbed it and circled it, pinched it and caressed it until she seized upward and then let the skies open up for her with a shower of bright lights.
He caught her to him.
She clutched him close and when the world pulsed back into light of day, she gazed at him. “Is it like that every time?”
The look on his face was one that portrait painters should seek to replicate. He was her lover, her enchanter, her partner. “A good man works for it every time.”
“Are you able?” she enticed him.
“I am, my dear Alicia. Only with you.” He pulled down her skirts and sat her up. Still in his lap, she let him arrange her skirts, pick up her hat and find a few pins.
She would be forthright with him. It worked, rattling him, drawing him to her even more. “Robert was not an attentive husband.”
Her Beguiling Butler Page 7