by Sophia Nash
“She never rises before noon,” she whispered.
“Then we have time.”
“For what?” she asked breathlessly.
“Your bath.” He nodded toward the copper tub in the corner, and the steaming pails of water he had retrieved from the other side of the door earlier.
Her modesty had returned with the daylight and she nearly became as red as a lobster when he insisted on tending to her, soaping her back, her shoulders. She grabbed the cloth from him as he tried to wash her breasts.
When she rose with a rush of water, he quickly took her place, soaping and sluicing water down his tall frame while she made use of the toweling. Before she had time to dress, he was behind her, grasping her to him. “No…” he whispered. “Not yet.”
She nearly dissolved in his arms. She had hoped, but had been sure he would not.
He disengaged her fingers from the toweling, and let it drop to the floor. “You’ve forgotten dessert,” he whispered in her ear. “You. The one person who always insists on it.”
His seductive words made her shiver. “Dessert?”
“Strawberry Fool,” he said, and she could feel his smile on her neck.
“Whatever do you mean?” she whispered. “There’s no custard. Only a dish of…”
Before she could say another word he picked up a plate of strawberries from the tray and was backing her up to the bed, his arm preventing her escape. A moment later she found herself sprawled on the disheveled bedclothes looking up at him. He wore a length of toweling about his waist—his desire for her quite evident beyond it.
She was so very flustered as she looked into his dark and dangerous face. “Let me guess,” she said, awkwardly.
He joined her on the bed, his dark, wet hair sleek against his noble head. “Yes?”
“Those are the strawberries, and I’m…the fool?”
“You’re very quick,” he murmured as he began lining the tiny wild strawberries down the center of her body. “And, yes, you are indeed the fool for scaring ten bloody years off of my miserable life yesterday.” He perched a small, hulled strawberry at the tip of her breast and immediately covered it with his lips.
She groaned as he nibbled at the fruit and then at her tender flesh, tormenting her with his obvious expertise. His hands trapped her hips as she tried to move. “Oh no,” he whispered. “Don’t move. My table manners might go begging.”
As the minutes ticked by and the berries disappeared one by one between his wicked forays, he swept his head lower and still lower, nibbling, licking, completely absorbed in his task. She could do nothing but feel like the innocent fool that she was, as her hands moved restlessly on the bed linens.
But then, before she could say a word, before she realized his intent, he dared to dip far below the last delectable piece of fruit. He tasted her with his tongue. She froze in shock, a garbled sound in her throat.
“Delicious,” he purred as he rearranged her legs and fit himself more snuggly between them. “Mmmm…” His was the murmuring of some sort of dark, wild, beautiful animal of the night.
He was so very gentle with her despite the ironlike grip he used to hold her trapped. He seemed to be trying to soothe the raw ache of her by teasing the maddening peak he would not quite touch.
Soon, very soon, her shyness fled. She just didn’t care what he did to her. She just wanted more of him. More time with him.
She dared to raise her head only to see his head nestled between her thighs. Passion welled deep within her, pulsing stronger with each movement of his lips, his mouth, his hands. The ache pulled her higher and higher to some great and mysterious place that seemed too lofty to scale. And then he paused and expertly plundered her peak, pushing her forward to the pinnacle. She was suddenly flying…and yet it didn’t feel like it had the night before, when he had been within her. Now, she was all alone.
And his subsequent refusal to allow her to ease his own obvious desire felt like some sort of penance he was determined to pay, unearned as it was.
He left her with the greatest reluctance. And only after extracting a promise that she would not leave the cloisters. It was still early; only the dairymaids and a battalion of footmen scurried in the secret pathways of the lower classes. If Pymm was like most gentlemen and ladies he knew, he would lie abed until the sun reached the middle of the sky.
He had plenty of time to see to the closed carriage for her and for a last word with Joshua. If she had doubted his intention to see his plans through, Elizabeth Ashburton was about to find out that when his mind was set, not the Prince Regent himself could sway him.
Little did he know that there was one dowager duchess, who, despite an orchestra of grumbling, rose with another lady who had no trouble rising with the chickens. And when three women put their combined minds together, one man stood not a chance of getting his way.
My dearest,
I had hoped you would wait for me outside last night. But no. I can’t express how much this event troubled me. And I cannot bear the gossip—or the sight of you with another.
I return to London and shall make further plans. I cannot tolerate the endless minutes which divide me from you. But soon this will be over and I shall be with you, my angel.
P.
Elizabeth wanted to shred into a hundred pieces the newest missive from Pymm she had found waiting for her in the Helston carriage. But since she was not alone, she resisted and simply refolded it, the eyes of Luc, Ata, and Sarah regarding her with curiosity.
“The same?” Sarah’s voice was soft.
“Always,” Elizabeth replied. “I don’t know why Pymm delights in leaving me these sentimental notes.”
“Poetic drivel never helps a gentleman’s suit. A change of heart, my dear?” Luc enquired, without a hint of surprise.
She twisted her gloved fingers, avoiding everyone’s gaze.
“You are not to put her on the spot like that, Luc,” Ata said. “You of all people know these sorts of things must be handled delicately.”
Her friends had not a notion of how deep and wide the flood of complicating factors truly was. In the heavy silence, Ata rearranged the plumage of her enormous black hat, while Sarah gave Elizabeth’s hand a comforting squeeze.
Luc tilted his head to one side in an attempt to peer at Ata’s face, half hidden by her hat. “What were you thinking to wear that platter of crow’s feathers in the carriage?”
“I’ll have you know these are from the rare Australian black cockatoo.”
The duke batted at one particularly large offender.
“I’m certain you know very well why I am wearing this,” Ata said quietly, very unlike herself. It was obvious to Elizabeth that Ata was still distressed by the cool manner with which Mr. Brown was conducting himself of late.
“Actually, I’m not certain I do. I’ve been hearing the most outrageous stories. Unlike others, however, I prefer firsthand accounts,” Luc ground out.
“What happened?” Elizabeth asked, relieved she did not have to address their questions.
Sarah quickly shook her head in silent warning and Elizabeth wished she had not spoken.
“Yes, do tell us,” Luc insisted, iron coating his words.
“Well, I decided I should employ this era’s modern ways if I am to find happiness. There was very little to it, I assure you. I’ve no idea why such a fuss is being made over my posing a simple question to a long-standing acquaintance.”
Luc’s expression turned thunderous at her words.
“Elizabeth is a prime example of what females should do,” Ata continued.
“I beg your pardon?” Elizabeth squirmed under Luc’s hot glare.
Ata leaned forward in the carriage and patted her knee. “You do what you want and ignore all the trivial things standing in your way.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You kissed Rowland Manning in public,” Ata replied.
Luc shook his head. “Yes, but she had the intelligence to do it while wearing
a disguise. You, however, cornered Brownie in the middle of a ballroom.”
“It was behind a potted palm,” Ata insisted.
“You kissed Mr. Brown?” The shock of it sent a giggle to Elizabeth’s throat.
“Of course I did not!”
“The Lady Home had a great deal to say about your conversation with Mr. Brown behind that potted palm.” Luc sighed. “And she is recounting it to everyone who will listen.”
“Proving she is the greatest gossip plaguing the earth.”
“So, is it true?” the duke asked casually. “Did you, ahem, ask for Brownie’s hand in marriage?” By his cool expression it was clear he did not believe it for a moment.
The dowager duchess’s usually sallow complexion flushed. “Honestly, Luc, you have no idea how brazen the Countess is. Did you not see her dance with him three times? It’s as if she is doing this to spite me.”
“You think she is brazen?” Luc shook his head. “Well, I beg to differ with you. Never saw a man so flustered last evening. Thought Brownie was about to cock his toes. And I see you have not answered.”
Ata snapped her fan into place and flapped it erratically. “He refused,” she rushed on at the sight of their shocked expressions. “So that is that. And I’m for Cornwall as soon as Elizabeth and Sarah are settled. It’s far too hot and unfashionable to be in town during the summer.”
“Oh, Ata,” Sarah said, sympathy washing over her grave face.
Elizabeth took up the older lady’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Luc looked as if he had been struck on the head, he was so dazed.
Ata waved away their concern. “It doesn’t matter. Really. I’m delighted the matter is finally resolved. And Luc? I will thank you, if you truly care about me, to never speak of this again. I should like to change the subject.”
The duke, always the most private of gentlemen, stared at his tiny grandmother, and for the first time ever, did exactly as she bade. He pursed his lips and then turned the full force of his personality on Elizabeth. Such graciousness was not usually at the fore-front. “You are to be congratulated again for your courage and pluck during the race yesterday. Indeed, I must thank you.”
Ah, she remembered. He had not had to forfeit the small fortune to Pymm. She bowed her head and nodded, unused to this man’s praise.
“You must invite Mr. Manning to dine with us tomorrow,” Ata said, struggling to regain a smile.
“But what of General Pymm?” Sarah frowned. “He was very unhappy last eve when he could not find you, Elizabeth. He is to stay at Windsor with the Prince Regent for several more days. But he said he would pay a call at Helston House the day after he returns—to take a turn about Hyde Park in the afternoon.”
She swallowed. “And I shall go.”
Luc cleared his throat, discomfort evident in the line of his posture. “And what shall you tell him?”
Yes, that was the question, wasn’t it? It was just too bad that she did not possess an easy answer. She itched to act. And so far, waiting for a solution to present itself had only mired her further and deeper until she feared she would be swallowed up by the tide of events.
Elizabeth gazed at the concerned faces of her friends in the carriage and took her decision. She would go to Hyde Park with Pymm when he returned to town and she would finally out and out ask him if he had killed her father. Of course he would lie if it was true, but perhaps she could discern the truth by his mannerisms. Even if it was her undoing, she had to confront him. And then she would go to France just as Rowland suggested.
It was too bad fate had other plans.
Chapter 14
Rowland had never been so furious in his life. With himself. He should know better by now. Since when did Elizabeth do anything a man ever bade her to do? He should have dragged and shackled her to the inside of the carriage bound for the coast.
No, he should have done all of the above and gone with her himself. Why, she would have twirled that lackwit Joshua Gordon around her fingers within three miles of London’s outskirts.
As he rode away from Windsor with the myriad of horses and carriages from his enterprise following his lead, he pondered the dilemma of Elizabeth Ashburton, only to be called back to the monumental concerns behind him. Literally.
At the top of the rise, he turned to survey all the men riding and leading his race horses as well as several drivers in his signature blue-and-gold carriages. The weight of this world of his rested on his shoulders alone.
He searched desperately for a solution. These men and so many others faced certain destitution. With the flood of soldiers now returning from the battlefields of France and Spain, positions in great houses were scarce. If his enterprise collapsed, where would they all go?
Oh, he would survive. He was too bloody stubborn to do anything else. Whether it be at a workhouse, the docks, or maybe even on the high seas, he would survive.
He would start all over again.
But before he considered any of it, he would send Elizabeth Ashburton to France. He would do it before the week was out.
She supposed she had always secretly known the reason she preferred campgrounds to London’s ballrooms. The former were far less daunting and the latter far too dangerous.
She understood men and their ways. She would never understand the foibles of the fashionable beau monde.
In so many ways, Rowland Manning reminded her of an officer who endured every obstacle in a never-ending slog of battlefields—never complaining, only enduring with grim determination.
As she approached the entrance to Manning’s, she fidgeted at the memory of him. She had not seen him for two days and an ache had moved to the vicinity of her heart.
Had all of what had passed between them really happened? It seemed a dream now. Had she really screwed up her courage and rode Vespers to victory? And had she had the audacity to share one perfect night with Rowland Manning?
She missed him.
She missed his starkly beautiful face—even the black scowl he wore nine tenths of the time. If this was not evidence of love, what was?
She had decided to go to him before he came to her. It would go better if she attempted to catch him off guard. She would endure his certain censure for leaving Windsor with the others instead of escaping to France, and then…How was she to explain it to him? How could she make him understand that she didn’t want to run away just yet—that she had to confront Pymm before she did anything else?
Lefroy’s old, wise face was the first one she saw when the carriage halted in front of Manning’s stables.
“You’ve just missed ’im, lovey. But I’d wager ’e’ll return quicker than a bug on a frog’s tongue.”
She nodded and held out a box wrapped in brown paper.
“Wot’s this? Dids you bring old Lefroy a present, then?”
“Payment as promised.”
Mr. Lefroy’s face cracked into a rare smile as he sniffed it. “’Tis us who should be thankin’ you for winnin’.”
A slew of stable hands gathered around, the pungent, sweet scent drawing them like bees to summer blooms. Within moments the dark brown squares of gingerbread disappeared. The feeling that she was useful—was needed—brought her fulfillment.
She had missed that. For the last two years, gratitude had been her prime sensation—for Sarah’s loyalty and for the dowager duchess’s extraordinary generosity in providing for them.
The men drifted away save for Mr. Lefroy. She brushed at a speck of dust on her practical green walking gown while she stood in the shaded center aisle. “Is he very angry?”
One side of Mr. Lefroy’s mouth curved. “Aye. Angrier than a baited bear.” He scratched his head. “Thought ’e would toss me out on me ear.”
She waited.
“He’ll not forgive me for letting you ride Vespers—even if’n you did show Tatt wot’s wot. Only wish I’d ’a seen it for meself.” He shook his head with a smile.
She leaned the empty box against the s
table wall and then crossed two stalls away, where she knew she would find Vespers. She caressed the velvety muzzle and the mare nickered softly. Mr. Lefroy joined her.
Her heart thudded in her chest. “Where is he?” There was no need to say his name. They both knew whom she meant.
“Havin’ another go with someone at the war office.”
The hair rose on the back of her neck. “Who?”
“Some addlepated lieutenant, or a swell wiv more influence, if ’e can manage it.” He paused. “It’s ’is last chance, lovey,” he said under his breath.
She was careful to keep her voice steady, her eyes on Vespers. “His last chance?”
When he didn’t answer her right away, she was forced to meet his eyes.
He shook his head. “No reason te keep it from you. ’e canna keep it a secret from anyone much longer.”
“I would never tell anyone.”
Mr. Lefroy’s old eyes appraised her. “The blunt’s all gone. Creditors are nippin’ and the war office won’t take the cavalry horses they asked the master to provide. Horses they won’t take now what wiv the frogs hangin’ up their swords. And the creatures be not pretty ’nuf for lords and ladies.”
Vespers draped her head over Elizabeth’s shoulder, in search of a treat, no doubt. “How many?”
“Eight hundred twenty,” he replied. “That’s seventy thousand quid.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. “So many. So much.”
“They’s pastured in the countryside. Cheaper there.”
Her heart felt like it had dropped into her heels.
“I should not ’ave tolds you, lovey,” Mr. Lefroy murmured.
“No. I’m glad you did. And I already promised I would not betray your confidence.” She stared at the weathered face of a man who had more honor and character in his little finger than Leland Pymm had in his entire body. “I’ve got to return to Helston House. Will you tell Mr. Manning that I called? I came to apologize for—well, for so many things.”
As the carriage wended its way back to Portman Square, Elizabeth knew with every beat of her heart that the rules, indeed the entire game, had just changed. Now it was only a matter of how much time she had left and how much she could take away from the table.