Bess would never have allowed it. But he and Bess had never been more than fond of one another, never been more than friends. Even when she had allowed him to bed her, he knew she did so only out of a sense of marital duty. Despite his repeated attempts to make their relationship more than the arranged marriage it was, there was always the shadow of what Bess had suffered before their wedding.
Although she claimed to love her firstborn, Andrew always wondered if Henry was a constant reminder of how her life had been ruined because of one despicable man and one awful night.
Well, her firstborn was off at university now, bestowed with the Burroughs surname and, he hoped, still unaware of his true parentage. Henry was also rather protective of his younger brother and sister, a trait Andrew decided would be useful considering Sophia was due to have her come-out in a few years.
There was much to do between now and then. A house to finish, a wedding to arrange, and a life—two lives—to get back on track. In the meantime, he wanted nothing more than to spend one night alone with Jane.
Andrew allowed an expression of appreciation as he gazed at Jane. Nearly naked—she wore only her stockings—she continued to stare at him as if she were still trying to make a decision, her feet surrounded by the puddle of clothing he had removed from her body.
My very own Venus, he thought, imagining the clothes were an open clam shell.
My very own pearl.
Jane angled her head to one side, replaying Andrew’s last words in her head. Rather surprised he knew anything about her father’s fortune—Richard Vandermeer had been an investor in Worthington’s early steam ships—Jane realized she really shouldn’t have been. Andrew was a banker. He had been working in Sir William’s office the day her father had placed almost all of his fortune—at least, all but her dowry—into an account in her name. For the day you’re left a widow, he had said as he placed his hand on her shoulder. Or for your children, should you precede your husband in death.
Well, she was a widow with no children. The money is mine to do with as I please.
She hadn’t yet touched the funds. For twelve months, she had deliberately avoided going to the Bank of England for fear she would clean out the account and simply disappear from London. I could have gone to the Continent. To the United States. To India. To a cottage in Devonshire. To Italy.
Jane stared at Andrew. “Is that why you wish to marry me? For my fortune?” she asked, her voice kept as impassive as possible. She had a thought to rail at him. To scream and accuse and feel as hurt as she had felt when she thought he had kissed another, but a part of her believed Andrew truly did love her, and not because of her fortune.
Jerking as if he’d been slapped, Andrew shook his head. “I am heir to one of my own,” he answered simply, doing a poor job of hiding his hurt at her supposition. “Although I have spent a good deal of it on this house,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “I have seen to it there is an inheritance for my three children when I die.” He took a steadying breath. “My biggest fear this past year was of you leaving London. Using your inheritance to go somewhere … where I had no hope of finding you,” he whispered, his breathing suddenly more labored.
“And now? Are you having second thoughts?” Jane asked as she suddenly wrapped her arms over her bare breasts. He knew about the papers. Knew what she had agreed to, even if she didn’t know at the time.
Andrew blinked and quickly shook his head. “God, no. Jesus, Jane. I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to get myself out of bed every day when all I’m going to want to do is spend them in bed with you,” he replied in mock despair.
A bit relieved by his response, Jane slowly lowered her arms. “Oh,” she murmured with a nod. “Well, all right then.” Stepping out of the puddle of clothing at her feet, Jane moved to stand before him. Placing her hands on either side of his head, she regarded him for a long time before reaching up to settle a kiss on his forehead. “Then thank you for finding me when you did,” she murmured. “I had half a mind to leave London the day after Lord Weatherstone’s ball.”
His arms were around her waist in an instant, his face pressed above one breast as he pulled her down onto the bed with him. She let out a squeak of surprise when he suddenly had her flat on her back, his body suspended over hers. “I would have found you,” he vowed as he dipped his head to kiss her. “I would have brought you back and made you sign papers promising you would never leave me,” he continued, his kisses continuing down the column of her throat.
“Papers?” Jane managed to reply before his lips once again captured hers, his chest lowering so the graying crisp curls tickled her breasts.
Lifting her knees to his hips, she shivered when she felt the length of his engorged manhood press against her quim, and shivered again as it slid along her honeyed folds. She broke the kiss when she felt the wet tip at her opening. When Andrew didn’t move to enter her—Jane realized he seemed torn between claiming her or continuing his foreplay—she moved her hands to his buttocks and lifted her hips, guiding him into her until she could pull him hard against her.
Andrew let out a curse, the growl rumbling through his body before he could lift himself a bit. “A marriage certificate, of course,” he managed to get out, the words forced out between gasps for air. “But first, I’m going to practice one of the Roman arts,” he murmured between kisses to her jaw and the hollow of her throat. “To be sure you’ll never go to Italy without me.”
Roman arts?
Jane’s eyes widened. Her entire body shivered despite not knowing exactly what he had in mind to do to her. She mewled her disappointment as he pulled his manhood out of her, forcing her to let go of his hips as he moved down her body. He left soft kisses in his wake. He covered each breast with his mouth and worried her nipples with his tongue and teeth until she writhed beneath him. He continued to move down her body, kissing and nibbling, until his head was between her thighs.
Not exactly sure what he intended to do, Jane nearly shrieked when his hands slipped beneath her bottom and lifted her hips. When his lips suddenly kissed her most private place, she clutched the bed linens in an effort to anchor herself to the bed. When his tongue flicked across the swollen bud of her womanhood, Jane was sure she saw stars before her eyes. “Max,” she murmured several times as the second, third, and forth flicks of his tongue had her chest rising from the mattress, her breaths coming in gasps as darts of pleasure shot through her lower body. A kind of tension built up within her, as if a spring were being wound tighter and tighter.
So when his lips captured the bud and suckled it, his tongue circling as if to wind the spring even tighter, she felt herself on the edge of sanity. Suddenly, the tight spring inside her body seemed to break and unwind in every direction, her entire body exploding into a release of pure pleasure, her vision filled with flashing lights, her cry of “Max!” filling the bedchamber and probably every room in the west hall. Her body shook and shivered and shook again when he flicked his tongue across her womanhood one last time.
Reveling in the sound of his nickname, Andrew pushed himself up from between her legs and drove his manhood into her slick haven, claiming her in one deep thrust that had her screaming his name again.
Gasping at how tight she gripped him, at how her body drew his manhood in even deeper, Andrew realized he wouldn’t last long. A few more thrusts, and he was forced to allow his own release, the orgasm consuming his ability to hear or see or feel anything but pure pleasure and the sense of contentment that seemed to settle over him like a warm blanket once it was over.
He wasn’t aware of how he ended up flat atop Jane’s body, of how his head ended up next to hers on the only pillow they had managed to toss onto the bed.
When awareness finally found him again, Jane’s fingers were sliding up and down one side of his body, tickling his ribs as her lips suckled the top of his shoulder. Her legs had lowered so they were no longer wrapped around his thighs, but his manhood was still tucked i
nside her warm folds.
“Are you all right?” she wondered in a whisper that caressed his skin.
Andrew managed a chuckle that seemed to cause his entire body to vibrate. Although he thought to lift himself from her body, he felt boneless. “I apologize, my lady, but I do not think I can move,” he whispered, despite one hand sliding up her arm so his hand could clasp her shoulder.
“Then don’t,” she murmured, her eyes half-closed. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching as his body lifted slightly and then lowered in turn.
“I’m crushing you,” he countered.
“And keeping me warm.”
In a move she wasn’t quite sure how he managed, Andrew flipped over so Jane suddenly found herself atop him. In another move, the bed linen wafted over the top of her and settled onto her back.
“So glad I didn’t tuck that side in,” he murmured before he closed his eyes and drifted in and out of consciousness.
Chapter 31
An Earl Unveils Himself
When did we know it was time to reveal our identity? At some point, one realizes they shouldn’t have been hiding in the first place. The results, of course, are unknown to me at this time. ~ The editor’s final article in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 14, 1818, the last day of scheduled meetings
Felix Turnbridge regarded his image in the looking glass, rather startled to see how old he appeared. He rarely gave a thought as to how others saw him, but now he knew exactly what they must be thinking.
He’s old.
Old and without a wife. Without an heir.
Flipping the glass so that it no longer reflected his image, Felix sighed. I’m not even thirty, he thought with a bit of derision, rather shocked when he realized he would soon be thirty.
Or was he already? And about to be one-and-thirty? He shook his head, aware if he gave his age another moment of thought, he would have a headache.
The problem with taking a wife at this stage was finding one willing to marry him, he supposed.
Well, finding a willing woman probably wasn’t that difficult given there were dozens of available chits that had made their debuts not more than a few month ago, most of whom would be more than happy to accept the suit of an earl.
But young women who were well under twenty years of age were of no interest to him.
He wanted one who was a bit more mature. A bit more worldly. One who could do him proud when it came to entertaining. When it came to overseeing his household.
When it came to sharing his bed.
He had one in mind, of course. Had for nearly two months. One he would welcome with open arms and an open …
Felix shook his head. Now was not the time to be considering how he might feel about a particular woman. Not when he knew how much she must have come to despise him. Hate him, even.
If he approached her as Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, rather than his alter ego, Mr. Frederick Pepperidge, he knew she would figure out fairly quickly that he was the one who had made her life rather uncomfortable these past two months. And she would do so despite his repeated attempts to court her. Despite his attempts to make her realize just how much he wanted her.
How much he liked her.
Loved her.
Felix shook his head again, wondering from where that last thought had come. He really was fond of her, of course. How could he not be? She could have divulged all manner of awful information about her fellow aristocrats. She could have saved herself weeks of meetings with him had she just given him a bit more in the way of juicy morsels. Morsels that would have released her from his blackmail. Released her from the made-up prison he had created in an effort to keep her close.
Instead, she had only provided the least damning information, the least hurtful and least scandalous news during their weekly meetings. And what had seemed rather juicy had been about aristocrats he had never heard of, members of the ton whose identities were completely unknown to most Londoners.
From where had that information come? he wondered. Some of it was identical to what The Gossip Goddess had sent to him. Was she The Gossip Goddess? He shook his head.
She had spent four years in Switzerland. Perhaps she was merely familiar with a different set of the haute ton.
Still, her gossip hadn’t been the least bit damning.
To know there was a woman out there—an earl’s daughter, no less—who wasn’t driven by petty jealousy to embarrass her fellow aristocrats was somehow a relief. To know there was someone who wasn’t a gossip, wasn’t a bully—even when given the chance to be so anonymously—gave him hope that not all in the ton were vicious.
Why, the regard she showed for her peers was enough to make him fall in love with her.
He dared a glance at the long pasteboard box that had been delivered only a few moments ago. The florist had assembled a collection of bright red hot-house roses and had arranged them with greenery in a white tissue wrapper. When he removed the lid to verify they were indeed red roses, the scent had wafted over him like a soft caress, much like her scent did whilst they sat on the bench in Hyde Park. Like it had that very first time he had approached her in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens.
Ah, Lord Weatherstone. The man had to know that by growing a myriad of hedgerows and beautiful plants and flowers, by commissioning a fountain and importing all manner of statuary, by displaying one of the best renditions of Cupid, the end result would be a magical environment in which to fall in love.
How could he not? Lord Weatherstone had probably proposed to his own wife in those very gardens!
Well, today Felix would join Lady Emelia on the bench in Hyde Park as he had done every week for the past seven weeks, but he would not be wearing his usual disguise. No awful wig and bulbous nose and mustache and gold-rimmed spectacles. Nor would his manner of dress suggest he was anything other than an earl. He had a new top hat from Fitzsimmons and Smith, one with a crown that wasn’t quite as tall as the one Mr. Pepperidge sported. His valet had polished his Hessians so they practically reflected his image. Nankeen breeches were perfectly cuffed below the knee, and his pocket watch hung from a chain pinned to his pale gold embroidered waistcoat pocket. The deep green topcoat, made of superfine and tailored to perfection by Jeffrey Garth, had been delivered only moments before the roses.
Daring a glance at the mantle clock, Felix realized he had been woolgathering for far too long. Having dismissed his valet after the man had finished shaving him, Felix pulled on his top coat and glanced out his window to find a stableboy had already pulled Juno and his phaeton around to the front curb.
Lifting the box of roses in one arm and then his cane in the other, Felix made his way down the stairs and out to the equipage, feeling as if he was either entering his next stage of life or walking to his death. For at that moment, they both felt the same.
Emelia sighed as she regarded the park bench. Still damp from the early morning fog, it wasn’t exactly inviting. She pulled her handkerchief from her reticule and wiped the slats before taking a seat. The last time, she thought with a bit of relief. Today would be the last time she would ever sit on this bench. Even if she was given a chance to do so in the future, she rather doubted she would ever voluntarily sit here again.
The crunch of boots on crushed granite had her eyes lifting. The well-dressed gentleman who approached carried a long box in one arm and dangled a cane from the other hand. Everything he wore suggested he followed the dictates of current fashion, dictates made by some commoner named Beau Brummel, if the rumors were to be believed.
Emelia tore her gaze away when she realized she was almost staring at the man as he walked toward her.
Feeling a bit alarmed—no one had ever walked by the bench during her other meetings with Mr. Pepperidge—she forced herself to simply nod in his direction and act as if she was merely enjoying a morning in the park. But when he suddenly stopped and bowed before her, Emelia was forced to look up. She was a
lso forced to put out her arms when the man offered her the pasteboard box.
“What …?”
“Good morning, Lady Emelia,” Felix said as he removed his hat and bowed again. “I’ve a message from Mr. Pepperidge. You have completed your task, and your assistance is no longer required.”
Emelia stared at Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, at once stunned at how handsome and at how perfectly perfect he seemed. She was quite sure she had never seen him like this before, though. Certainly not in the daytime. Certainly not when he fetched her for their weekly rides in the park.
But she suddenly realized he looked ever so much like the man in her sketch pad.
“Please. Do open it,” he encouraged her, indicating the box with a nod. He moved to take the seat next to her, much like Mr. Pepperidge would do.
Emelia blinked before lowering her gaze to the box. She pulled off the lid with one hand as she held the box in the crook of her arm, gasping when the arrangement of bright red roses appeared in their tissue and blanket of greenery. “Oh!” she managed to get out, inhaling deeply when she smelled the heavenly scent. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered, turning her attention to the man who sat next to her.
Felix was regarding her with a look of uncertainty, as if he had something to say but wasn’t sure if he should. Emelia recognized the look immediately. Recognized it because it was the look Mr. Pepperidge had given her the last time they had met, just before he took his leave of her. As if he regretted having to leave her side.
The look she had captured in the image she had drawn in her sketch pad.
“Felix Turnbridge,” the man said, removing this hat and setting it off to his right at the end of the bench. He turned his body on the bench slightly, so he was angled in her direction.
“The Earl of Fennington,” Emelia said quietly. “Or do you prefer Mr. Pepperidge?” she asked, attempting to keep her voice as impassive as possible.
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 23