He took a quick drink of his sherry and put it aside. “I wonder if you and Belle had an opportunity to discuss her problems prior to her marriage.”
Surprised by this turn of topic, she shook her head. “I did know that her estate manager attempted to steal her inheritance.”
“Then she did not tell you that when she arrived in London, she took a position in Lord Cartwell’s house as governess to his ward?”
“She did.” That fact did not astonish Jess as much now as it had when Isabelle had told her. After all, Isabelle was different from Jess. An heiress of a merchant class family, Isabelle was gently educated in the arts and letters. Jess’s teachings were her own, granted by Charlie’s father on the estate. Her knowledge of the intricacies of dining and menus derived from her dedication to learning the duties of a superb chef. If she knew French and which fork to use, it was because she was a chef. Not an heiress. Not a noble’s daughter.
Charlie was staring at her. “A friend gave Isabelle a reference to a servants’ registry. Luckily, her first interview was with the earl. He hired her instantly.”
“As he should.”
“Indeed. But what I wish to point out is that he did not know of her circumstances.”
“Not about her estate manager’s theft?”
“Nothing. She did not tell him. But wished to keep the matter to herself. Until he insisted that he would help her—and she allowed him to accompany her.”
She raised her glass. “To the Earl of Cartwell. I wish to meet this man. Belle invited me to take tea with her soon. I promised to ask Moseley for time to do that—”
“And now you needn’t ask her. You can go when you wish.”
Jess shot to her feet and put down her glass. “I’m used to my freedom but to do that? Take tea? I couldn’t possibly.”
“You are their equal.” Charlie took her hands and his sweet expression tore at her fear of rejection by her betters. “You will meet Baldwin Summers, Earl of Cartwell. His wife, his countess is your friend. Belle and I are friends. And Baldwin was once my commanding officer in the Guards. He and I are friends. Furthermore, you will meet another couple who live at Number Ten. He is Lord Beaumont and his wife is a baroness in her own right. When first they met, he was her butler.”
“Now, you are joking.”
“Not one bit. He was also an officer of Bow Street.”
She sucked in a breath.
“He was. And I called upon him yesterday.”
She startled. “And you told him…?”
“I did.” He drew her to him and pulled her to his lap. There he put his hand to her jaw and lifted her face. “I asked him how things are done at Bow Street. He assures me you can make your statement to them. Or if you prefer, we can go south to Brighton to make it to the constable.”
She put her head to his shoulder, fear clutching her heart.
“My darling, you were frightened. And you ran for help for him. Even though the man threatened you.”
“But I am quite ashamed I did not stop him.”
“Could you have?”
“No.” That answer did not diminish her guilt. “He was a big man.”
He wrapped her close. “No, you couldn’t. If you thought you might’ve, you would have tried it. But in such situations, where we face combat, we take assessments. And we decide. Even as we think we don’t. We are prudent. Wise.”
“I want to be wise now. Prudent. Do what I must.”
“I know.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll go to Bow Street. And you will tell them what you know. Then you will feel more like your old self.”
Valiant, she gave him a smile, cupped his cheek and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”
For a second he seemed not to breathe…but considered her lips for far too long. Then he shook his head as if to clear it and said, “Now rise up! Come in to dinner, Miss Archer. You must eat and tell me what you think of my Cook’s fare.”
“Oh, Lord Rockingham,” she laughed as he tugged her along, “I’m certain the meal will be superb.”
“Hmmm. I require proof.”
“Such as?”
“Well, let’s see…” He led her into the dining room in a rush. She’d been in here a few times to clean the fireplace and the afternoon when she’d washed the chandelier twice. But she hadn’t taken time to appreciate its beauty. With walls covered in vermilion silk and life-size portraits of Houghs gone to their rewards, the dining room blinded one in its golds and reds. Even the chairs were upholstered in rich ruby. Countless pillows in the window well were heaped up in a spectrum of purples and reds. As she followed him in, he turned and closed both doors behind them, securing privacy from those who might traverse the hall. “I think you must consume two servings of each dish.”
“I will grow quite fat.” She clamped a hand to her heart in false dismay—and grinned at Peters the butler who stood at the ready.
“Miss Archer,” Charlie said, raising a brow as he stared at her hand upon her décolleté, “I like much of you as you are.” His gaze centered on her breasts, but he blinked and cleared his throat. “And I’ve a desire to see you with a bit more flesh on your bones.”
She feigned outrage. “My dear sir, if I uttered one word against the service, I fear the entire staff would boil me in oil.”
“Let them dare and we shall see who boils! Come.” He urged her toward the massive mahogany dining room table and the chair to the master’s right. Each place was set with service for a French dinner of seven wines, six forks and knives and one pair of silver spoons, various accoutrements, and the first course of soup. With a flourish, he himself pulled out a chair for her and waited until she seated herself in it.
She was impressed with his attention to detail. “You’ve taken great care in this meal.”
“It marks a special occasion.”
With that, he lifted his gaze to Peters who came forward to pour a pale Champagne…and then promptly disappeared.
The additional note of privacy spiked her interest and summoned the long-suppressed craving she had for the man who took the chair so near her. Were the usual footmen and Peters to return with each course? “We are drinking our dinner, are we?”
“Peters will return. When I ring. We’ll dine à la française.”
Truly a service meant for lovers. She relished the thought and turned to toast him. “You have planned this intricately.”
“I want them to learn below stairs that I wish you here. And I want you to see that you belong here.” He lifted his own glass to acknowledge her. “With me.”
She reveled in all her good fortune. In finding him again. Hale. Hearty. Unbroken and unbowed by war. Unmarried. Remembering her as they had been. Devoted. Eager for each other.
“For example,” he said as he poured more sparkling wine into her crystal flute, “this comes from Madame Clicquot’s private vineyard in Reims. What do you think?”
She took one sip and then another, licking her bottom lip. “Superb.”
He leaned over and with his thumb, retraced the path of her tongue, taking any remaining moisture and much of her composure. “I have more for you.”
Dare I claim it? “What?”
He bit his own lip. “Boar.”
“How is it done?” She caught his finger, closing her lips over him…and sucking.
“Roasted,” he seemed to growl.
She nipped him.
His eyes narrowed in need. “You’re a witch.”
She let him go with a pop. “Double double, toil and trouble.”
He grabbed her up and out of her chair to sprawl across his lap. “You stir me.”
She giggled and pressed her lips to his eyelids and down the line of his nose. “I like your bones.”
“You could hoist me up over the spit.” He sank his fingers into her coiffure and sent her pins raining to the carpet.
“Why would I want you there when I can have you here?” she asked spreading kisses across his cheek. �
�I’ve sculpted you.”
He drew away, tipping his head in confusion. “How?”
“In ice.” As if to illustrate, she ran her fingers down the column of his throat to peel away his cravat. “It was the only way to have you.” She pressed a fervent kiss to the magnificent hollow of his throat. “I missed you. Wanted you always.”
He pushed away from the table and rose like Proteus from the sea. With her in his arms, he marched to the double doors.
But she stopped him. “We can’t.”
“We will.”
“They’ll know.”
He cursed and strode to the wooden seat with hundreds of fat cushions. He let her slide down his very ready body and put her to the bench. Throwing the cushions to the carpet, he made a plush pile worthy of a pasha. Then he yanked off his frock coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, let down his braces and knelt before her, one knee to the cushions, one bent before her. He took her hand. In appearance, he seemed as if a swain proposing to his beloved.
“You know I want you, darling. I always have. If you want me here, I will most certainly never deny you. Nor myself.”
“Charles,” was the only word that came to mind, though the formality of his name meant some fine thing to her which, in lust as she was, she could not name.
“Jessica,” he replied in kind, his expression as hopeful as when he’d been a boy and they’d cooked together in his family’s kitchen. He’d loved sweet treats then. Tonight she was his sugar. Tonight he was her sustenance for the morrow. “‘Come with me and be my love.’”
She gave a laugh at his remembrance of their silly paraphrasing of old rhymes. “And we shall all the bread dough prove.”
He chuckled. “Through wind and rain and sleet and snow—”
“The only one I’ll ever love…”
“Is you,” they both said together.
And he drew her down to him, his arms the safest haven, his kisses the sweetest manna.
“I hate to ruin your gown, sweetheart. You are so delectable in it. Help me take it away.” He was already busy with her hooks and pushed the cool fabric off her shoulders, down over her breasts to pool at her waist.
She pushed at the fabrics that separated her from him, hungry to have his bare hands, his bare skin, his bare heart against her own. Her mouth watered. Her fingers itched. Her belly burned to have him deep inside her.
“Corsets are prisons,” he cursed their existence as he struggled with her laces and took it away.
She spun to face him. “Your shirt is so much easier to….” Her mouth fell open at the sight of his massive chest. His arms, like wooden beams. His pectorals, like polished copper pans. His nipples, dark, pointed. She checked his eyes. Yesss. He wanted her, most definitely. She splayed her hands over him. “You are every woman’s dream. A rock of a man.”
He seemed to turn to flame before her eyes. “My dear woman, you’ve not seen just how much rock.”
She shivered. “Show me.”
“Now?” He teased her, the fiend.
She licked her lips and nodded. “This minute.”
He bent to remove his shoes, which for some reason—perhaps because he looked at her and not at what he was doing— did not come off easily. He hopped around. Finally, he got one off. “Ridiculous things.”
She giggled.
“No laughing, Miss Archer!”
“Of course not!”
“This is serious business!” He threw the other shoe away.
The darn thing hit a Ming vase and in one crack…broke…into two chunks upon the rug.
“A valuable piece?” she asked, full of mirth.
“Not as valuable as you,” he growled, fingering the buttons of his placket.
And then it fell.
She gulped.
The bulge beneath his clothes seemed to…yessss…grow larger. Longer. Oh. She. Would. Have. A. Wonderful. Time. Virgin that she was, she nonetheless was no child about the mechanics of sexual congress. She just knew how happy she was going to be. And he was clearly happy right now because his…member? Yess, his member was a brilliant rope of…well…she grinned. Sausage.
“You look like you are about to go up like fireworks.” He laughed but it was short and frantic sounding.
“I will explode if you don’t take off your breeches and let me see what I’ve come for.”
“Darling, what you will indeed come for is this.” And in a flick of his wrist, he let loose his small clothes and…whoosh. He was bare. Long and bare. Hard, so damn resilient, and…my, my, my…bobbing.
“Ohhhh,” she said in honor of his assets. “You are….” She barely breathed and blew air through her lips so that she gave off a little whistle. She checked his gaze. “That will be mine?”
“Most assuredly. We just need to get you ready.”
“Oh! I am!” she assured him with wide eyes and greedy smile.
He reached for her. “I mean we must peel you down to your essentials.”
She swallowed and thrust out her arms. “Yes, indeed. Do have me.”
“Sweetheart?”
“Yes?”
“Step out of your shoes.”
“Of course.” She had a bit of a go kicking them off. Finally chucking them away. “Careful not to hit a vase, you’ll note.”
“Color me grateful,” he beamed.
Hard, too. She beamed at him.
“Now let’s remove that chemise, shall we?”
“Please.” She lifted her arms when he put his hands to the thing and skimmed it up over her tingling flesh.
She caught her breath, eager, quivering. She knelt down there before him, the cool air of the dining room puckering her nipples and making her flesh go goose-pimply. Then much as she had looked upon him, he enjoyed a languid perusal of her nude body.
Kneeling before her, that marvelous long cock of his aimed straight for her, he reached out to cup her cheeks. “Christ, you are the most lovely creature. All this hair.” He draped it over her naked shoulders. “Your skin. I love your eyes. You’re cheeks. Your pretty bow mouth. And then we have this throat. A Greek column.”
She rolled her eyes. “Arrrgh. I never knew you were so talkative.”
“Do I bother you?”
She caught his smoldering blue gaze. “You torment me, you rascal. Get. On. With. This.”
“There’s a purpose.” He planted a ravenous kiss to one shoulder.
“Is there? What?”
“To make you want me.”
She snorted. “You never had to work for that, dear man.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“How?”
“When you squirm, you want me well.”
“Like now?” She wiggled beneath his touch to her elbows.
“That and then there are these.” He lifted both breasts and kneaded them gently.
“Hmm. Yes. I like that.”
He arched one brow, then weighed her breasts in his palms. “I remember them as much smaller.”
She swallowed loudly. “Garrr. Pancakes, you called them.”
“Now,” he crooned and rubbed his thumbs across her tingling nipples, “they’re pumpkins.” And before she finished gasping, he plucked both with nimble fingers. Her knees gave way and she sank sideways to the pillows.
He came with her, pushing her to her back and looming above her. “You are my beauty and I love all this about you. Your beautiful rosy berries.”
“You used to call them raisins.”
“Ba! Not so small, but big and worthy of this.” He put his lips to one and sucked so hard she arched, boneless.
“The other, too.” She offered him with a twist.
And he took that one, too, then kissed his way down her torso to caress the plain of her belly. “Your pastry, smooth as new cream. Your parsley,” he whispered as he threaded his fingers into the wealth of her hair below and stopped her breath. “Most of all, my darling woman,” he said on a sigh and parted her folds, “I love your lettuce.”
&n
bsp; She chuckled and cuffed him…but stilled when he moved onward, inward.
“This little mound here—?”
“A raisin?” She squeaked.
“Ah.” He rolled her flesh and made her groan. “One ripe petit pois.”
“A pea!” She guffawed but froze as he sank his fingers deep inside her.
The sound of her body’s molten appreciation of his attention had them both smiling at each other.
“Oh, my. That’s…” She ransacked her mind for a word. “Delectable.”
He dropped his head to her throat and moved to sink low between her thighs. “Let’s learn how sweet you are inside.”
“Oh,” she sighed and dug her fingernails into his shoulders.
But he escaped her with a torrid kiss to her lips and more, all down the center of her to her…lettuce and her swollen…little…pea.
She came up off the cushions. “Oh, Charlie,” she managed as he laved her and she captured handfuls of his curls.
“Most of all,” he growled as he raised his face and stared into her eyes, “I love your pot de creme.”
She shouted her laughter, but he gave her little time to go on when he put his mouth once more to her…pea…and scraped his teeth over the little bud. “God!”
He chuckled.
She yanked on his hair. “A bit of mercy, you devil.”
He maneuvered and then slowly, deliberately, he put the tip of his cock to her…lettuce. Parted her with the hot poker of his…cucumber.
And then pumped her, primed her and gave her all of him. Every glorious inch of him.
He rose upon his elbows, his blue gaze fierce flames. “Give over, my darling. Come with me.”
And never had she lost her mind so easily, so quickly, nor so damn well.
The euphoria, the quaking of her body was the most exquisite rapture she’d ever known. He gave her all of him, his release as fervent as any she imagined.
And as he sank over her, she wrapped her arms around his massive shoulders and combed his hair with her fingers.
“I love you,” he told her, his statement no revelation to her.
And she had always loved him. Only him. All the others—of whom there had been only two who might have appealed—paled beside him. Then as now, he was her only love. Tomorrow she’d utter the same words to him when she was more herself.
His Naughty Maid: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 3 Page 9