At that moment, she wasn’t sure if she was incensed with the man or relieved he was finally revealing his true identity.
The man visibly swallowed, the motion of his Adam’s apple apparent beneath his cravat. “Damnation,” Felix muttered under his breath. “Fennington, actually. I rather hoped you wouldn’t recognize me so quickly,” he managed to get out then. “Give me a chance to explain before you have the opportunity to either slap me across the face or …” He stopped then, realizing she looked as if she really was going to slap him. Or mayhap punch him as she had done to the man at Warwick’s when he had attempted to kiss one of her classmates. She had left the bounder with a broken nose and a shiner that lasted several weeks. “Go ahead then. I deserve it, I know,” he said with a nod, lifting his face so she would have a clear target for her open hand. Or closed fist.
For a moment, he thought his perfectly straight nose was about to be realigned.
Emelia stared at him for a moment, the urge to slap him suddenly replaced with a feeling of pity for the man. He seemed so sorrowful, as if he knew very well that what he had done was wrong and wondered how he was going to make it right.
Lifting one gloved hand to his cheek—she had to suppress a grin when she saw him wince and nearly close his eyes in anticipation of the hit—she merely lay it against his clean shaven face and then reached up to kiss him on his other cheek.
Although he barely moved, she felt him give a start at the unexpected gesture. Pulling her hand away, she was about to return it to the edge of the box when his gloved hand suddenly caught it and lifted it to his lips. He stared at her before swallowing. “Thank you,” he murmured, kissing her knuckles.
“Oh, no. You don’t get off that easily, my lord. You owe me an explanation,” she replied with an arched eyebrow, her voice sounding as reasonable as she could make it. She still had a mind to wallop the man, perhaps with a fist to his perfect, never-been-broken nose, but then he would bleed all over his snowy white cravat and beautifully embroidered waistcoat, and, well, that wouldn’t really be fair to his poor valet.
Nor would it do his nose any good.
She rather liked his nose just the way it was.
“I do,” he agreed with a nod. “I hardly know where to start …”
“At the beginning, of course,” she interrupted, noticing just then her hand was still held in his and pressed against his chest, her fingertips grazing the bottom folds of his cravat. A diamond-tipped cravat pin winked in the early morning light.
Felix blinked at her words, realizing how reasonable they sounded. “All right, then,” he said with a nod, not giving up his hold on her hand. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it out. “I used to look forward to attending the entertainments of the ton. The balls, with all the beautiful gowns and jewels and lit candles. Soirées. House parties, where we would engage in card games and spend the evenings dancing and playing charades,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Used to?” Emelia repeated, noting how the recollection did not seem to bring him any joy.
He nodded. “I soon discovered that my fellow aristocrats seemed to take perverse pleasure in the foibles and unfortunate circumstances of others. They did so in the form of gossip. Sometimes in the most cruel way,” he explained quietly. “And almost always at the expense of someone who didn’t deserve it.”
Emelia regarded him with a look of confusion. “And yet, you are the publisher of The Tattler,” she countered, wondering how he could find fault with others who started gossip when his news sheet printed it so all of London could read about it.
Holding up a hand, as if to halt her comment, Felix gave her a nod. “I started The Tattler for two reasons. I needed an income. Because of my father’s excessive gambling, I inherited an earldom deep in debt. I also saw the publication as a means to spread gossip about those who were the worst purveyors of it,” he added with a nod. “And I made sure that the other gossip—the stuff that wasn’t really so awful or, most importantly, wasn’t true at all—was given short shrift or proven impossible.”
Frowning, Emelia considered his words. It was true the most vicious of the news wasn’t always so very newsworthy. That some of the gossip wasn’t really gossip at all but rather tidbits of information anyone could obtain from simply paying a call and being invited into a Mayfair parlor for tea.
Some of it was downright amusing.
Foibles, indeed.
But nothing that truly did harm to anyone who didn’t deserve it. “And being kissed in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens is … somehow awful?” she countered with a shake of her head.
Mr. Pepperidge had threatened her with printing an article about her. Printing a mention of her being in the gardens at Lord Weatherstone’s garden party—with Lord Fennington—him, no less—kissing. A mention of how the earl had escorted her around a hedgerow, and without so much as a may I kiss you? or a would you do me the honor of a kiss?, he had simply lifted her chin with one gloved hand and kissed her senseless. Kissed her until her insides had melted and her reason had left her. Kissed her until she would have done anything he asked. Kissed her until she would have responded with a “Yes,” to an offer of marriage or to an offer of bedding her, her ability to make a decision having left her brain long before her ability to say, “No,” to being kissed in first place.
“You were the one who kissed me!” she added just then, realizing how scandalous it would have seemed to anyone who saw the two of them hidden behind the hedgerow.
She’d been so stunned, so shocked, she could do nothing more than allow the kiss. It had been so very pleasant, the sensation of excitement coursing through her body in an instant, her pulse racing at the thought that Felix Turnbridge, he of the dark blonde hair, blue-blue eyes, and never been-broken-nose that made him far more handsome than he any right to be, had decided she was worthy of a kiss.
She could only imagine what it might have been like to have been kissed in those same hedgerows in total darkness. To not know it was Lord Fennington who kissed her. Even in the daylight of the garden party, she had allowed her eyelids to fall in an effort to concentrate on what his lips were doing so that she might follow suit.
His height was all the more apparent as he had kept his hand along her jawline to hold her head at an angle as he continued to kiss her, continued to slide his lips over hers and suckle them gently, to nip her lower lip and then take her lips again at a slightly different angle, only pulling away when the kiss was complete.
And then he had the audacity to apologize.
I am not a rake.
She hadn’t seen his expression as they returned to the party. Didn’t know if his face was as flushed as she knew her own to be. But his scent had enveloped her, filling her nostrils with a most delightful combination of spice and amber. The warm scent she smelled now. Well, the scent that wasn’t being drowned out by the lovely roses that rested in the pasteboard box that lay across her lap.
“Yours was my first kiss,” she whispered, turning to stare at him. “Only kiss. But … but why?” she asked, one brow furrowing in confusion.
Felix blinked, rather surprised by the question. “How did you figure out I was Mr. Pepperidge?”
“Your cologne,” Emelia replied simply. “And from your face without the awful mustache. I did a drawing of you,” she added as she indicated her sketch pad. She opened the pad to the page with the drawing, the fake mustache still stuck in place.
“Oh,” he replied, his breaths suddenly becoming shorter. Labored. “Damn,” he added under his breath. Well, at least my favorite fake mustache wasn’t completely lost. Seeing it on the drawing made him realize just how hideous he looked wearing it, though.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she accused.
“I was overcome by your loveliness.”
Emelia made a sound not unlike a snort. “Is that what you tell all the chits you kiss during your assignations?” she countered.
Felix stra
ightened, a hurt expression displaying as he shook his head. “You are lovely. And I have never before kissed a woman quite like …”
“I am old enough to know that cannot be!”
Rather surprised at her response, he furrowed his brows. “How old are you?” At her quelling glance, he added, “I only ask because I fear you and others will accuse me of cradle robbing. I am actually younger than I look. Not quite thirty.”
Emelia sighed, remembering he was the same age as her oldest brother, Adam. “I am three-and-twenty. My brother, Alister, has been married to Julia for … for two years, and she’s the same age as me!”
Well, at least I guessed right, he thought. “He’s a groom in her father’s stables,” Felix countered, knowing Alister was really in charge of the Harrington House stables, but that still made him a groom. “Besides, it’s not as if you’ve been available for courting. You’ve been off at school in Switzerland,” he countered.
“Yes, but I haven’t had so much as a single offer … ever!” Emelia finished, obviously a bit incensed.
Felix held up a finger. “About that,” he said quickly. He paused though and allowed a long sigh. He couldn’t exactly ask for her hand on the same bench he had used to gather information for his publication. She would probably deny him on that basis alone.
Bad karma and all.
“Would you come with me on a ride in Park Lane? We could walk there, but …”
“I’ve no chaperone,” she replied with a shake of her head.
The earl angled his head, realizing she spoke the truth. “I shan’t do anything untoward, I promise,” he replied as he stood up from the bench and turned to assist her by putting the lid back on the box of roses and taking the box from her. He offered her his other hand.
“But what if we’re seen?” she wondered as she allowed him to lead her away from the bench and toward the carriageway beyond the hedgerow.
“I rather doubt there will be a mention of it in The Tattler,” he responded with a shrug.
Emelia blinked, realizing he had a point. “Where are we going?” she asked as his phaeton and horse came into view. The gray mare tossed her head at the sound of their voices, and she knickered softly.
“To the … to the scene of the crime, so to speak,” the earl replied. He placed the box of roses on the back of the phaeton and turned to lift her onto the bench, ignoring her startled gasp when she was suddenly forced to place her hands on his shoulders when she was airborne. A moment later, she was seated on the high-perch phaeton and staring down at Felix.
A glimpse of her stockinged ankle had Felix stilling his movements.
Jesus!
He might not make it to his thirtieth birthday if he couldn’t get himself under control.
He had a brief glimpse of Mark Comber, Earl of Aimsley, meeting him at Wimbledon Commons, a dueling pistol aimed in his direction.
“What is it?” Emelia wondered when she realized he was staring at her foot. She adjusted her position on the bench seat and made sure to shake out her skirts so they covered her half-booted feet.
“Just as I imagined, you have a lovely ankle,” he said as he bounded up to take the seat next to her on the bench. Juno, tossing her head again, lurched forward even before Felix had the reins secure in his hands. “And Juno is more anxious than me,” he added as the horse was off at a quick trot toward the gates.
Not ever having ridden on a phaeton, Emelia struggled to hang onto something—anything—to keep her from flying off the bench. The anything turned out to be Felix, whose arm was suddenly offered for hers to wrap around. Gingerly, she did so, reminding herself there wouldn’t be an article in The Tattler about this. About how close her thigh was to his on the bench. About how there was no chaperone—not that there was room for anyone else on the conveyance. They had only ever ridden in a curricle on their weekly rides in the park, where there was plenty of room for her maid. The phaeton was barely large enough for two people!
“This is rather invigorating,” Emelia managed to get out as Juno took the turn onto Park Lane, nearly galloping as she made her way.
“Yes,” Felix replied with a nod, his own breaths coming faster as he considered what he was about to do. “Yes, it is. I do hope you’ll be amenable to what I have to say,” he managed before the mare was once again under his control and racing down Park Lane. “I wanted to speak with you the very same day I kissed you in the gardens, but your father wouldn’t allow it.”
At the mention of her father, Emelia gasped and turned to stare at the earl. “Why ever not?”
Felix managed a shrug as he handled the ribbons. “He wanted to be sure I had given it a great deal of thought, I suppose,” he answered. “Which I did. Now I expect he’ll make you do the same.”
Frowning, Emelia wondered at the man’s words. In just a few minutes, she would learn whatever had him driving them far too fast down Park Lane.
Chapter 32
A Sleepy Household Comes Alive
Circumstances find us once again having to apologize for not learning more about our widow, Lady S, and widower, Mr. A. Burroughs. Seems they have taken their leave of London and perhaps of their minds. Bedlam, anyone? ~ An article in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 14, 1818 at Merriweather Manor
Bird song had Jane’s eyes opening to the sight of her fingers resting in salt and pepper curls. Blinking, she realized her head was nestled into the small of Andrew’s shoulder. One of her legs was between his, and her entire torso was pressed against the side of his body. The crisp curls on his chest were dimly lit from the only window in the room, their position changing as his chest rose and fell with his even breathing.
Listening intently, Jane was sure she heard voices, although she couldn’t be sure if their owners were inside the house or somewhere outside. A horse whinnied. The wheels of a dray cart squealed in protest.
When Andrew’s breathing suddenly changed, Jane gave a start as she felt his manhood suddenly lengthen and harden against her hip. She moved her hand down through his gray curls, her fingers seeking to stroke the velvety softness.
The thought of how it had felt deep inside her just hours ago had her insides turning molten, her core throbbing in response. The way Andrew had claimed her—there could be no other word to use to describe how he had thrust himself into her—had her so aroused, she wanted nothing more than to relive the experience, although a bit more slowly given the early morning hour.
Remembering his reaction to what she had done only a week ago—had it really only been a week?—she pushed herself up onto one elbow. Her gaze raked up and down Andrew’s body as her fingers continued stroking the length of him. Although his eyes were still closed, an expression of contentment appeared as he allowed an audible sigh.
Moving the leg that was between his so it was on the other side of his body, Jane climbed atop his body, straddling him. His manhood—hard and wet at its tip—seemed to know its mate was near as she lifted her hips and rubbed her warm, wet folds along the length of him.
At the sound of Andrew’s groan—his eyes were still closed, but he seemed to be enjoying a rather erotic dream—Jane guided his manhood inside her and slowly, very slowly, lowered herself onto the length of him. Her breath hitched several times as she opened herself to the welcome intruder, lifting and lowering a bit more until he was completely seated inside her.
Leaning over his body, her breasts barely touching the crisp curls on his chest, she splayed her hands into the mattress on either side of Andrew’s body. She was about to lift her hips to pull off of him when his hands suddenly grasped her hips and held her in place.
“Do you realize I was dreaming of you doing this?” he murmured, a huge grin lighting his face. “This very moment?”
“Because you wanted me to be doing this?”
Andrew blinked away sleep and grinned. “Aye.”
Jane gave a slight shrug. “Dreams do come true, I suppose,” she whispered, a lock
of hair falling to cover part of her face.
Using a hand to push away the blond curls, Andrew lifted his head and leaned forward to kiss her. “They do, indeed, my lady,” he murmured, settling back onto the bed. Using the palms of his hands, he pushed her up so she was sitting upright as his knees bent a bit behind her. “Especially if you put your hands on my thighs.”
Her eyes widening at his suggestion, Jane gasped as she did what he suggested and felt him move inside her. Although she could barely move her hips, Andrew suddenly pushed up against her, surprising her with his upward thrust. “Dreams really do come true,” he repeated as he lifted her hips with his hands and then pulled them down to meet his next upward thrust.
Her back pressed against his thighs, Jane was about to agree but found she couldn’t put voice to her words. Closed eyes meant she missed the move that had Andrew using his thumb to press against the space where their two bodies merged, the pressure and slight circular motion setting off a series of skittering orgasms that built to a crescendo of tension and a cataclysmic release so sudden, Jane could barely breathe. Pleasure beyond her imagination took hold, forcing her back to arch against his thighs before her suddenly boneless body fell forward onto Andrew.
One last thrust had him stunned. His own release, beyond his ability to stop, started just as he caught Jane’s falling body. He barely had her settled atop him when his seed spilled into her, his groan so loud he was sure the birds heard him and stopped their incessant singing.
He felt more than heard Jane’s burble of laughter, forcing a smile to his face even before the last vestiges of his pleasure had begun to subside.
“I do believe we shall have the very best marriage,” he whispered as he stroked her back, his forefinger tracing the bumps of her spine, first up one side and then down the other. “For the rest of our lives, but then, I believed that eighteen years ago.”
Jane lifted her head and regarded Andrew for a moment, the lock of blonde hair once again covering one of her eyes. “Are you to be the master of this house?” she wondered in a whisper, once again aware of the sounds down below. Goodness, how long had they slept?
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 24