Although she’d certainly been exposed to such language in her years at Andersen Hall Orphanage, she made it her business never to curse just in case she might accidentally use it in front of the children. But tonight she made an exception. Because tonight had been an exceptional night.
Her eyes traveled down to the white rounded mounds of her derrière, reminding her of the feel of the mysterious stranger’s hands clutching her flesh in fiery passion.
She shifted her bare feet, her skin hot, her body agitated. It was as if once roused, her desire had no wish to slumber once more. She should be exhausted, yet instead she felt vital, her every sense awake, her mind filled with wonder.
Her perception of her body and what it was capable of feeling had immeasurably changed. She’d never understood why certain women longed for coupling. She’d never comprehended that special secret that they’d already known—that at the hands of a skilled lover, breathtaking, mind-spinning sensations were achievable.
She’d never known that her body was capable of such an amazing symphony of passion. With the mysterious rescuer conducting every canto with a master’s hand, every part of her body had sung in a harmony of pleasure.
Phineas Byrnwyck had taken her virginity, yet he’d never shown her the satisfaction possible for a woman when bedding a man. Her stomach churned with mortification as she recalled what an innocent fool she’d been. Willing enough, certainly, to try to please the man she loved—but she hadn’t truly understood what he’d been about. She’d gone along without truly grasping the consequences of her actions.
And Phineas hadn’t appreciated the fact that she was wholly without understanding of what went on between man and woman. He’d taken advantage of her ignorance and had pressed her to show her affection physically before she’d been ready.
He should have been more chivalrous.
“Chivalry is for poems and fairy tales,” she murmured as she gently rubbed the soapy cloth down her back. “Not twenty-year-old bucks who’ve had everything they’ve ever wanted handed to them on a silver platter.” She winced in pain as the rough cloth swept over the raw spot above her buttocks.
She couldn’t think back on her relationship with Phineas or that time without being angry at herself for playing such a fool. Stupidly she’d assumed that his sweet words of adoration would last her a lifetime. She’d trusted his assurances that he’d cherish her and never do anything to harm her. She’d believed him when he’d sworn that he would move mountains to marry her.
But those declarations had disintegrated to dust the moment he’d had to face his wretched father and cousin. For Phineas, a mountain might have been easier to move. Lord Byrnwyck and his foul nephew Silas had made sure that Abigail was without a job, without references, and definitely without a husband.
So she’d been ruined. Her heart broken. Her life in disrepair. And for what? Now she realized Phineas had been incapable of the kind of love she’d longed for. He’d been too cowardly to stake a real claim for her heart. And stupidly she’d given him the one gift that could never be returned.
Now, to add insult to injury, she realized that he’d been a lousy lover, too!
Compared to what Abigail had felt with her rescuer tonight—well, being with Phineas would be like comparing days-old milk to fine champagne. And her rescuer was definitely the fine tipple.
Exhaling, she turned to face the mirror and rubbed the cloth up the column of her neck. She was decent-looking enough, certainly no diamond of the first water. Her eyes were the same as her father’s had been, rounded and a pale blue that sometimes appeared gray in certain light. Her nose was upturned and uninspiring, but certainly not ugly. Her skin was fair, a good complement to her blond hair just like her mother’s. Nodding, she decided that she was adequately pretty.
She tilted her head, examining her body in the candlelight with a critical eye. Rounded high breasts, each about the size of a grapefruit; a small curved waist that flared into reasonably sized hips. They weren’t quite what Mrs. Nagel, the marm at Andersen Hall Orphanage, would have called “birthing hips,” but they were enough to balance out her hourglass shape. All in all, she wasn’t bad off in the physical way of things.
Wistfully she wondered, if she hadn’t met Phineas, if she hadn’t been ruined, would she have ever married? Would she have ever found true love?
The soapy cloth had grown cold in her hand, she realized with a start. She dipped it in the tepid water and squeezed, the scent of heather soap filling the air.
Purposefully she pushed all foolish thoughts of a different future, a family of her own, from her mind. She couldn’t repair the past. She could only trudge onward, playing the hand of cards she’d been dealt.
As she rubbed the wet cloth over her breasts, her mind drifted back to the mysterious rescuer. It was dangerous, what she’d done. Trusting her body to a total stranger, throwing caution so far to the wind.
Of its own accord, her hand grazed her belly. What if she became with child? Slowly she shook her head. Somehow she just knew it would not be. Part of her longed to know the feeling of a babe inside of her, part of her knew that it would be the end of her job, of her career. And some deep inner instinct told her that it was not meant to be. She’d been with Phineas many times and nothing had come of it.
Had she been with child, would he have married her? Somehow she doubted it. Part of her wondered if she was barren, and that idea had a certain ironic ring to it. Maybe the good Lord was watching out for her in some odd way, and the thing many women found to be a curse, for her could be a blessing?
Still, her conduct tonight had been reckless in the extreme. But coupling with that stranger had been one of the most astonishing experiences of her lifetime. She couldn’t regret it. Couldn’t imagine wanting to live her life without knowing. It would have been a tragedy to die without experiencing the passion that her body was capable of feeling. The fiery sensations inspired by the masked rescuer’s hands on her burning flesh, the feel of his fingers driving her to madness, the force of his member filling her deep inside her core.
In her reflection, Abigail watched in wonder as her skin flushed pink, her nipples hardened to high pebbles, and her womb pitched with warmth.
Slowly she ran the cloth over her breast, raising bumps across her warming skin. Stirring images flashed in her mind—the masked man touching her, pressing against her, thrusting inside her…
A bird cried out in the distance announcing a prelude to the dawn. Abigail knew that she hadn’t much time. Understood that soon she would be called upon to perform her duties.
But not yet…
She wasn’t ready for this exploration to end. She wanted to know more, wanted to relive those feelings.
The sound of movement echoed in the silent house, coming from behind the closed door connected to the master’s chambers. Lord Steele must be rising. The day beginning.
Quickly she dropped the cloths into the basin and reached for her dressing gown, fear and guilt making her movements jerky.
No one could know about her sinful conduct! No one could ever guess at her wicked thoughts! Thank the heavens that the masked man did not know her identity!
If anyone found out, she’d lose her position, her income, her future. She didn’t think she could face being ruined again.
Tying the sash of her dressing gown so tightly that it pinched, she rushed to the wardrobe to dress. She’d be the perfect governess. An exemplary employee.
Yanking open the wardrobe door, Abigail selected her most sober gown of gray wool, with long sleeves and a high collar. Then, in contrast to her high-heeled black boots of last night, she selected flat, worn slippers of faded brown.
Exhaling, she tried to calm her apprehensive heart.
No one would ever know that underneath this prim costume she was a scarlet woman, even more so because she couldn’t wait to sin again.
Chapter 15
Hours later, Abigail eyed the bright afternoon sun through the open window, ca
lculating how long it might be until dark. The boys went to bed about eight, and she would be freed from her duties by nine. She had Lord Steele’s permission to visit her ill friend, so no one would question her if she went out.
Anticipation coursed through her, which she quickly tried to hide by burying her nose in the pages of the book she was reading, so the boys wouldn’t notice.
Seth sat on the window seat, the sun shining gold in his hair while he read a leather volume of poems. His brother reclined on a sofa across the sitting room, an irritated frown on his face, as he obviously didn’t like his reading selection.
Seth suddenly looked up from his book and shot her a sweet smile.
Instinctively she smiled in response, her heart warming.
Guilt twisted in her middle; did her nocturnal activities make her unworthy of teaching these sweet lads? She bit her lip, objectively pondering the question without merely trying to justify her behavior. She was a good governess. She understood and cared for Seth and Felix. She was capable and smart and more than a bit competent. What she did at night was her own business. So long as no one knew.
She recognized that she’d never intended to be so wicked; she’d simply been trying to find her brother. Still, she wasn’t deluded enough not to realize that if she went out again tonight she wouldn’t be able to help but look for him, and not just Reggie.
Thinking of the masked man, she chided herself mentally, He’s a distraction you do not need.
She might not need the diversion, but she certainly yearned for it. Again. And again and again. She was like a slave to her longings, her good sense and usual caution dissipating faster than steam from boiling water.
“Why do you keep checking your watch, Miss West?” Seth asked. “Are we going somewhere?”
Tucking her timepiece back into the folds of her skirt, Abigail forced herself to look at the open pages of the book in her lap. “I’m simply checking to see how long we’ve been reading.”
“Is it long enough?” Felix asked, his tone irritated. “I hate poems. They’re for girls and softies.”
Seth pouted. “I like rhyming.”
“My point exactly.” Felix sneered. “Softies.”
Standing, Seth stomped his foot. “I am not a softy!” He turned to Abigail. “Felix called me a softy!”
Abigail frowned at her elder charge, disappointed that he would use the derogatory play yard term toward his brother. At Andersen Hall Orphanage. calling another boy a softy usually ended up in an exchange of blows. “Apologize to your brother, Felix. There shall be no name calling.”
“I didn’t call him a softy,” Felix defended with his chin in the air. “It was a statement of a general sort, not necessarily directed at him.”
“What a fine legalistic argument.” Lord Steele moved into the salon, his masculine vitality filling the small space with an energy that charged the air. He was dressed in a coat of the finest Weston cut, of a flattering royal blue that made his ebony hair and dark eyes shine in great contrast. He wore tight ivory breeches that matched his high-collared ivory shirt, and tall black boots that squeaked slightly as he crossed the chamber and settled on the window bench beside Seth.
Abigail couldn’t quite contain the sudden racing of her heart and the warmth that seeped into her cheeks. She had hoped that her late night excursion would have cured her of these sudden rushes of heat when she encountered her employer, but she supposed that was too much to count on.
In fact, the awareness Abigail felt for Lord Steele was suddenly much more discomforting because Abigail worried that he might somehow, through some magical ability, be able to detect her newly sinful state.
She looked down, adjusting her somber gray skirts and praying that she didn’t have some sort of sign on her forehead branding her a strumpet.
Just remembering that the savior was unknown to her and that her identity was unknown to him made her feel a little bit better. But still, she coughed into her fist and made a business of settling a ribbon to hold her place in her book before meeting Lord Steele’s eye.
Felix sneered. “See, even Lord Steele says I didn’t call you a softy.”
Lord Steele shook his head. “On the contrary, I said that it was a fine legalistic argument, but your message was quite clear. You insulted your brother. Quite plainly, and quite intentionally.”
“I did not!”
Lord Steele fixed Felix with a look that begged no contradiction. “Apologize to your brother.”
Felix’s eyes narrowed.
“Apologize.” Steele’s gaze was commanding enough that Abigail had to bite her tongue to keep from apologizing herself.
Felix looked away, muttering, “Fine, I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Steele asked, his tone exacting.
“Fine. For calling him a softy.” Felix scowled.
“Don’t tell me.” Lord Steele jerked his chin toward Seth. “Tell him.”
Seth looked up at his brother expectantly.
Felix’s scowl deepened. “Fine. I’m sorry.”
Steele nodded. “Good. You should know I have little patience for bullies.”
Abigail frowned. “As I was just telling the boys, we don’t engage in name-calling. Besides, Felix is not a bully.”
Steele raised one of his dark winged brows at her questioningly.
She lifted her shoulder in a faint shrug. “It was a bullying moment. Every boy has them.”
His brow lifted higher, and Steele’s gaze was filled with amusement. “How would you know? Have you ever been a boy?”
“No, but—” Abigail bit her lip, stopping herself from blurting out that she’d had firsthand knowledge from having a brother.
“I am not a bully!” Felix crossed his arms, his face contorted and his eyes shiny with unshed tears. Clearly his feelings were hurt. Abigail was reminded once more that he was only eight years old.
Sighing, Abigail set aside her book, stood, and walked over to Felix. Wrapping her arm around his shoulders, she was glad that he didn’t shrug her off. Another year or two and he’d hardly have patience for her contact. “I know that you’re not a bully, Felix. We all do. But what you said was hurtful to your brother. You do recognize that, don’t you?”
His small shoulders lifted slightly. “Maybe.”
Abigail licked her lips, speaking softly. “Sometimes I know you feel like lashing out, and the desire is sometimes too great to resist. But you have to understand that the injury you inflict with words cannot be healed with a simple ‘I’m sorry.’ Once the insult is out there, it can never be taken back. So you must think carefully before you lash out.”
Felix pouted.
Lord Steele tilted his head. “Felix, how would you feel if I called you a softy?”
Sniffing, Felix muttered, “I wouldn’t care.”
Seth jumped up, his small fist raised in anger. “You take that back! My brother’s not a softy!”
Lord Steele’s lips lifted, but he worked hard to conceal his smile. “Are you defending his honor?”
“Yes!”
Lord Steele nodded to Seth. “Defending your brother from insult is quite admirable.”
Abigail gave Lord Steele credit for not poking fun at Seth. A few of the fathers she’d known would have taken no care to save a boy’s feelings when he was making such a display. With some men, the drive to compete sometimes reared its ugly head even with children. Abigail was glad that Lord Steele seemed above that.
Seth shook his fist. “I said, you take that back! Felix’s not a softy!”
Felix’s eyes fixed on his brother, and warmth and confusion and guilt washed over his face in a flash. Abigail’s heart went out to him. It wasn’t easy being the older sibling.
Lord Steele’s dark gaze flitted to Abigail, and when their eyes met, her belly flipped. “Since I know you’ve been taking lessons in swordplay from Miss West, I have no desire to meet you at dawn.” The amusement and admiration in his eyes warmed her in places that her employer had no ri
ght even knowing existed. “I sincerely take back my insult and apologize.”
Swallowing, Abigail ripped her gaze from his, her heart pounding and her mouth dry as a bone.
With his eyes fixed on Seth, Felix repeated, “I am sorry, little brother.”
“I know you didn’t mean it, Felix,” his brother replied with an air of worldliness.
“How?”
Seth shrugged. “Lord Byron likes poetry, and so does the Prince Regent. So I know you wouldn’t call them softies.”
Felix turned to Lord Steele, his face inquiring. “Do you like poetry?”
Steele scratched his chin. “I suppose it depends on the poem. Some poetry is inspiring, some thought provoking…Some is simply…insipid.”
With a serious expression on his small face, Seth turned to Abigail. “And you, Miss West? How do you find poems?”
“I find that poetry is best appreciated when one has a full stomach and a good night’s sleep.”
Lord Steele smiled. “I can heartily agree.”
“Why?” Seth asked.
“I venture I’m easily distracted. When I’m supposed to be thinking of rustling leaves and busy byways, I think of my rumbling belly and buttered biscuits.”
Both boys smiled, and the mood in the room lightened.
The new butler, Dudley, stepped into the room. Thank the heavens Lord Steele had seen fit to find Carlton another position in a household sans children.
Lord Steele stood. “Yes?”
“A Mr. Nigel Littlethom is calling.”
Lord Steele’s dark brow furrowed.
Dudley turned to Abigail. “For Miss West.”
Steele could not quite contain the flash of displeasure in his gut. Miss West had a gentleman caller. He told himself that it was because she was in his employ and her time was spoken for—for the boys, of course.
He turned to the pretty young governess, realizing that his plan to lessen his attraction for her was failing miserably. Despite the amazing encounter the night before, his appetite had not been sated. In fact, he felt particularly susceptible to the swell of her breasts, the curve of her slender waist, and the slope of her shapely hips. No matter how much she tried to hide them beneath her astonishingly dull attire. Except for her face and her hands, every bit of her skin was covered in cloth.
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