by Suzi Love
His coachman, following orders, halted a few houses further along the square, and a footman opened the door. Richard leaned back against the richly upholstered interior and debated whether he should, or should not, disturb the household.
The first argument for descending was the glow of a lamp in an upper window. The light glowed strongly, so someone was awake and waiting to hear his news. And though he’d not admit this to another living soul, he already knew that was Laura’s bedchamber.
A true gentleman would never acknowledge knowing where a lady slept. It was one of those ridiculous rules of proper behavior where even males and females from the same family were, whenever feasible, housed in separate wings. The sexes were always to be distanced from each other by as many corridors and solid walls as possible. Heaven forbid that any well-bred young lady should encounter a man without his coat and cravat. Or if a highly-strung girl should glimpse her father or brothers without a shirt, her sensibilities were supposed to be so badly affected that she’d suffer a severe paroxysm from which she’d need days to recover.
So a known womanizer shouldn’t know that Laura dressed in that chamber each morning, and laid her pillows on the bed there each night. He’d absorbed these facts through osmosis, and of course because he paid close attention to every word she uttered. If she knew he remembered every quirky thing she said and did, she’d no doubt berate him about it, and compare him to the sycophants who followed her movements like adoring lap dogs.
He banged his head back against the padding, repeated the action, and hoped to knock some sense into his thick skull. If Laura’s neighbors around the square noticed him mooning like a love sick fool under her window, he’d be the laughing stock of the City by morning. On the other hand, knocking on her front door would awaken half the household. Either way, the Earl of Winchester was destined to make a spectacle of himself over a lady, who always seems to entangle him in her dramas in one way or another.
He slid back the roof, ready to order his coachman to drive on to his own home. He stopped and listened. A voice, assuredly feminine, called out. Despite the pitch being lower than usual, he instantly recognized the voice and its not-to-be-denied command. He screwed his eyes shut and prayed that when he again looked at that window, the third from the corner on the second floor, there’d be no sign of her. Then he’d feel free to move on with a clear conscience, knowing he’d kept his word and come to deliver any news.
“Winchester.” The hissing of his name in the relative quiet of this time of night sounded like a loud and piercing scream. Certainly not a whisper, as Laura had probably intended.
From above him on the driver’s box came the unmistakable sound of Peter’s laughter. Even his staff understood that every interaction with Laura diverged from normal. And that his own actions, and reactions, when near her, were completely out of character.
Muttering a resigned curse, he opened the carriage door and stepped down to the pavement. Pretending he couldn’t hear his footman’s unrestrained amusement, he braced himself and looked up at Laura’s window. And immediately wished to God he hadn’t.
Laura’s upper torso looked to be suspended in mid-air as she leaned out, far past the window ledge, and waved her robe-covered arms in complete disregard for either propriety or her own safety. Her robe was pulled open across the stretch of her chest and, though he couldn’t see through her night rail, he could easily imagine those two unrestrained breasts, full-grown and luscious, squashed down onto the timber ledge.
His heart skipped a beat and words stuck in his throat, partly from the image she presented, and partly from fear of her tumbling if he yelled. He glared at his open-mouthed footman, who stood shoulder to shoulder with him in front of the fence, silently ordering him to drop his gaze from the spectacle. But Peter, his coachman, had joined them and paid no heed to his master’s annoyance. The ex-boxer looked skywards, enthralled by the sight of Lady Jamison, well-regarded by all his servants due to the free curatives she dispensed to them or their families, hanging from an upper story like a Vauxhall acrobat.
Why, oh why, did Laura never think before she acted? Not only was Peter enjoying the sight of her dishevelment, she was hanging, like meat in a butcher shop, in full view of the sterner inhabitants of the area. He shuddered to think of the newspaper headlines the next day. They’d be forced to marry, quickly and sneakily.
“Go. Back. Inside.” His enunciated words sounded louder than Laura’s hissed whisper. He waved his arms, in between snatching glances around the square to ensure nobody was watching. The stubborn woman either didn’t understand or was ignoring his order, because she leaned even more of her body across the sill. He circled his arms like a lopsided windmill, while praying she’d retract her torso before his heart stopped. The image of her toppling to the ground and smashing her beautiful face sent a shudder down his spine.
“Winchester, stay there,” she called in a cheerful and oblivious way. “I’m coming down.”
Damn the woman. Damn her impetuous nature. She ought to be locked up. If his family emblem on the side of the coach hadn’t highlighted his identity before her neighbors, calling out his name would have informed them who the peer was standing on her footpath and dancing around like a man possessed.
Whatever had possessed him to come anywhere near Jamison House at this time of night? He glanced around. Thankfully, no curtains twitched in the upper story windows of her closest neighbors. He ordered his coachman to drive slowly and quietly around the square and wait for him at the furthest corner. He walked up the steps and stood in the darkest corner of her porch. By the time she pulled open the door a few minutes later, he’d recovered a little of his composure and was rehearsing his sermon. This time he was fully prepared to berate her, to have his sternly-delivered ultimatum stun her into obedience. This time, he’d make her swear she’d stop putting herself into precarious situations and stripping any more years from his life.
How dare she think so little of her reputation or her physical well-being that she’d dangle from her bedroom window and brazenly open her door at this time of night? Yes, he’d tell her this sort of recklessness was behavior overlooked in a child running tame in the country. But it was not acceptable for a debutante who attended balls and routs in London, ostensibly to catch a suitable husband.
Laura stood clad in a nightgown and an ankle-length lavender satin wrapper, past which barely-there matching slippers showed. For the second time, she robbed him of breath and his rehearsed lecture flew from his mind as quickly as a feather caught in a wind gust.
Dark luxuriant hair shone in the gaslight like the blue-black of a raven’s wing. The tresses spilled over her shoulders and flowed down her arms, and swung at waist level as she moved. He swallowed. They stood in full view of eagle-eyed aristocrats returning after their night on the town. To merely stand on her doorstep and stare was blighting the rules of proper conduct.
He pulled in a deep breath, relaxed his clenched fists and nudged her inside. Standing on this vixen’s doorstep and gawking at her far-too-tempting body, like a randy sailor on shore leave, was becoming a pattern. Risky behavior that he, as the more experienced of the two, must ensure never happened again. He tugged the door closed behind him, remembering at the last moment to not slam the door and wake her servants. Or worse, rouse her aunt or sister.
She stood in a shadowy recess and watched him, head tilted to the side in that assessing way she had, obviously unaware that the candle-light from the wall sconce behind her illuminated her form in the shiny robe. Each dip and curve of her barely-concealed figure was clearly visible to him and warmth radiated from her bed-time body, her night-time musky scent teasing his nostrils. He inhaled deeply. He’d watched many females arise from bed after a sweaty bout of sex and knew the variations in a woman’s scent, from her first light stir of interest in a bed partner to the heavier aroma of dampness and satiation after their hot and energetic romp between the sheets.
Laura’s fragrance hinted at an an
xious woman, whose senses were heightened and passion stirred as she anticipated the return of her lover and imagined how their reunion would proceed. And despite them not being lovers, Richard could easily imagine Laura rising from his bed. When they collapsed in exhaustion after making love, over and over, she’d look at him like this, soft and dreamy, but her naked body would shimmer and the smell of satisfaction would emanate from her in waves. In his fantasy, though, he’d lay his lover on the newly-washed linen on the bed in his house and they’d hide in their love nest away from her family, and his, and their never-ending troubles with the Consortium.
It was even easier to visualize her inquisitive nature pushing her to try, enjoy and master every exotic position he suggested. The lucky man who married Laura would never tire of sleeping with her naked in his arms, nor of waking her by kissing each secret place on her body. She’d wiggle and squirm, awaken fully aroused and eager, and squeal with delight. And she’d probably demand more, and even more. Oh, yes, it was so easy to imagine thinking himself drained to the last drop and Laura, hair swinging, leaning over him and doing things with her mouth that would leave him begging. But what would happen after they were lovers?
His affairs never lasted long; they burned out and died a natural death within a month or two. Laura would be different. He couldn’t picture ever becoming bored with Laura as his lover. But she was a termagant. A defiant and passionate lady, whose wild nature couldn’t be subdued enough for her to fit comfortably into his well-ordered household. He shook his head. No, her nature would prevent her ever becoming a staid wife, and she’d be hopeless at chaperoning his sisters. She was still reckless enough to need her own chaperone or constant attendant, to stop her leaping feet first into difficult situations.
Richard cursed his ancestors. If he hadn’t inherited these blasted chivalrous traits from a long line of Winchester forbearers, he’d be free of a conscience. He could make love to Laura without being wracked by guilt, and accept any flirtations she offered in the same way he accepted the advances of wanton widows. If Laura had the voracious appetites of those women, the only sort he dallied with as they understood any affair between them would be temporary, scratching their mutual physical itches, with neither party mentioning a long-lasting relationship.
Oh, yes, if Laura wasn’t a debutante, he’d taste her lips over and over, delve into her wet mouth and titillate every sensitive niche on her body. The irony wasn’t lost on him. If he adhered to the rules of a true gentleman, he’d ban Laura from his dreams and forbid his mind to dwell on any erotic images, most especially those of undressing her, button by button.
All his focus should be on the welfare of his sisters, and his thoughts for the future fixed on increasing their family wealth so he could provide for them in the present, and his countess and children in the future. Until now, he’d thought the best time to bring another woman, a wife, into his sisters’ lives would be in two years, perhaps three. The way his emotions and yearnings were at the moment, he’d be stupid to postpone taking a bride to his bed for that long. His physical needs were well met through casual affairs, yet this craving to have a woman in his bed, only one woman, had become like an itch he couldn’t scratch. This unfamiliar yearning tossed all his carefully thought-out plans out the window and left chaos in their stead.
No, a rational man must choose a sane and safe path. And if he didn’t pass his conflicted attitudes on to Laura, she’d continue to walk her own path to marriage. Eventually she’d choose one of those ungainly and socially-awkward scientists she favored and he’d be the devoted husband she deserved.
Again he opened his mouth, ready to deliver that scathing lecture, but instead his attention locked on her hand. With a careless movement, she ran her fingers through her long locks and tossed the curly ends back over shoulders, uncaring when they fell in a haphazard tangle. His mouth dried and he could feel the pound of his heart against the wall of his chest.
The last time he’d seen that glorious hair, flying as free as the raven she resembled, they’d been young enough to take summer swims together in the lake. Governesses and tutors had strictly supervised their adventures and Laura’s body had been well-covered, her hair caught back with a ribbon at the start of their swims. Due to her tomboyish ways and her determination to copy their dare-devil leaps into the lake, she had invariably ended their swims with strands flying every which-way and her head of hair as unrestrained as her nature.
Now, her magnificent mane flowed over her shoulders and swung to the sides at each movement. His body had tightened and his willpower was evaporating faster than a mist melted by a summer sun. More than taking his next breath, he yearned to touch her hair and discover if the texture was as silky-soft as it appeared. The urge to run his fingers through her luxurious dark strands was so compelling, that he was barely conscious of his actions when he used his teeth to tug off his gloves and carelessly tossed them towards a table.
He lifted a curl and was mesmerized by the way it twirled around his bare fingers, trapping him as easily, as she had, unwittingly and unwillingly, secured a place in his heart. Curling strands trailed across his hand and drifted back into place, while he stood and watched and felt himself be carried away by the current and unable to regain his footing. He shook his head, determined to clear the haze of lust from his mind. Determined to halt before he was lured further down this dangerous path. They were headed for the point of no return and she, the novice, would be both mortified and regretful in the light of day. Apart from the consequences if her aunt came down the stairs and discovered them together. A shot-gun wedding wasn’t what either of them was looking forward to. He shuddered and dropped his hand.
“Are you completely insane? Do you never consider the consequences of your reckless actions?” His tone was sharper than he intended, but he felt like a yacht tossed off course by an unexpected change of weather, and wanted to rock her foundations as well. Her eyes widened and she took a step back, though his rudeness had one beneficial consequence: she'd put an arm’s length between herself and his sudden and annoying surge of lust.
He didn’t want to frighten her but she was well-read and a devotee of the natural sciences, so surely she knew how a man, any male, would react to the picture she made, illuminated by candlelight in figure-hugging nightclothes. Her body was more enticing than any flamboyant display of flesh from a Covent Garden courtesan. His hands reached out, desperate to hold her, to run his hands up and down her barely-covered curves and carry her upstairs and back to her still warm bed.
He’d undress her, step by slow step. Her robe would slide away from her pale-skinned shoulders, allowing him to kiss each exposed inch of bed-warmed-flesh. Her nightgown was already pulled across her abundant bosom so, aroused by his longing look, her nipples would contract and pebble. He licked his lips, imagining their shape and taste when he sucked through the fabric. They’d be as round as one of her perfume bottles and would smell and taste like her skin, of fine honey and the dew of arousal.
He sucked in a deep breath, a pathetic substitute for an aroused nipple drawn slowly across his teeth and into his hungry mouth. Good Lord, he needed to stop. One more minute and he’d be matching actions to his fantasies. With a great deal of reluctance, he forced himself to turn and study one of several paintings of old Roman sites that covered the walls.
With his back to her, he said, “Don’t you know better than to open your door at this hour of night? Where’s your damn butler?”
“The poor man is suffering terribly again with his rheumatism. We never allow him to wait up till this hour.”
He heard her move, tiny rustles of linen from behind him, and his cock jumped in response. He cleared his throat, trying to sound strong and dignified. A footman, then? That rude one who thinks he rules the roost?”
“Ah, well, he has enough trouble remembering his manners after a decent night’s sleep. If he’s awake all night, goodness knows how he’d speak to visitors the next day.”
He tu
rned towards her, raising one eyebrow. “Have you ever thought of hiring a better type of servant?”
“And leave more thieves on London’s streets? No. At least here they have an alternative to their previous occupations.”
“Ha! You mean you hide criminals in Jamison House, removing them from the long arm of the law? Knowing a constable won’t come knocking on an earl’s door?”
“Perhaps.” She grinned and shrugged, her wrapper slipping down her shoulder and causing another jolt to all his male parts. “And though you criticize my impetuousness, I am not a lack-wit. I’d never answer the door unarmed at night.”
He hated that Laura continually misconstrued his need to rein in her impetuous nature. She imagined he wanted to tame her wildness by caging her, and that was far from the truth. Even when they’d been children, he’d tried to damp down a little of her girlish brashness. Though not to gain control of her as she thought, but to stop the top-lofty owners of the manors around their home villages labeling her ill-bred or to prevent any gossip about her behavior. In his eyes, Laura’s refusal to conform to rules made her unique. And the potions she mixed, with so much care and love, to cure ailments, set her far above those women who called for smelling salts if any family or servants fell ill. Laura always put the well-being of others before her own safety, and he wished she would lose a little of her independent nature and, in turn, let him care for her safety.
Something prodded his hip and he looked down, only to curse his distraction, because he’d been so focused on Laura’s face and hair he’d not looked down at her hand. A naïve mistake for someone who could walk any street in this unruly city without having his pockets emptied. A gent who was alert enough to avoid being coshed on the head.