Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Slipping her shoe off, then untying her garter and pulling her stocking free, he placed her foot on his shoulder and moved his mouth to her bared calf. She tried to struggle away from the indecent position, but by the time his open-mouthed kisses reached the back of her knee, her head fell back against the chair. Her struggle to keep her groaning to a quieter whimper made him long to loose a scream.

  “Your knee, your thigh. I have wanted to taste your thighs since the night we met.” His mouth moved with purpose from one landmark to the next. At her inner thigh, she again began to writhe, more so when he moaned against her, his tongue tip gathering her nectar.

  “You can’t! It is not—”

  “It is heaven, my love,” he growled, rubbing his cheek against the tender flesh between her leg and her feminine treasures.

  As his tongue slipped against her folds, her voice turned to a high-pitched keen and she fell back as the breath left her body, all objections lost. Bronze tresses tangled behind her head as she twisted against him, flailing hands finally finding purchase in his golden strands. When she pulled, he responded by lashing her sweet flesh harder, demanding her pleasure reach a peak she had never before known.

  “Please, Nick. Oh, God, please.” The inarticulate begging thrilled him. He knew she had no idea what she asked, and he had never felt so proud of anything as satisfying this need.

  With his lips wrapped around the center of her pleasure, his tongue mimicking the motions his cock had been anticipating for months, he felt her body jerk toward him then away, her wails and moans and rapid breath intertwined in a tempestuous symphony of release. Hands at the ready, he kept her pressed tightly to his mouth and tongue until the riotous thrashing and shuddering fell quiet, then ceased, her fingers falling motionless across the chaise.

  Breathy whispers caressed his ears. “Oh—I—I never—”

  With one final, slow stroke of his tongue against her, causing a quick spasm, his voice rumbled, “How pleased I am to be the first.” As he moved back up her body, he pulled more, softer shuddering and moans from her body, first one, then two fingers keeping her desire hot. “Might I be the second, too?” he asked.

  “Second…?” her voice trailed off into a near-sob while his free hand moved up her stomach underneath the chemise, stopping only to caress her breasts with rough fingertips, tease her nipples as he drove her higher. Her body rose to meet his touch, instinctively learning to take control of her own pleasure, not that she would need to in his bed.

  Falling forward, one elbow braced against the sofa, kissing her with a gentle touch of his lips tracing from the corner of her mouth to her ear.

  “I shall take you to my bedchamber now, my dear, Blakeley be damned, so I may remove the pretty dress and begin anew.”

  “Anew…?” she sighed. “But I…”

  Tugging her skirts down, he rose on shaky legs, offering his hand to bring her to her feet, smugly assuming, but not commenting, that her legs would likely buckle and he would carry her.

  Before she could rise or he could sweep her into his arms, a loud tapping on the door stopped their movement. They both stood as still as frightened deer, hoping to hear no comment on the unseemly noise they had been making. After only a moment, Bella straightened, eyes wide, and pulled her dress back onto her shoulders, shaking hands trying to put her hair in order.

  “Your Grace?” Blakeley called out.

  Nick stayed her nervous hand with his own.

  He was sure his servants, especially Blakeley, would never be so foolish as to remark on his behavior. Still, he had never before engaged in such activities in this house. Nor had his brother, whose only affair was of long standing with a widow who lived a few miles from Wellstone, or his father, who would never think to bring one of his many lightskirts to a home shared with his wife.

  “Go away, Blakeley. There is nothing in the world I need to address right this moment.” He whispered to Bella, “But for you,” and she relaxed back onto the chaise again. Her trust made his stomach flip but his heart melt another few degrees.

  “I’m afraid there is, Your Grace. I am terribly sorry, but it cannot wait.”

  “It will have to if you mean to keep your position.”

  “Please, Sir. You may discharge me presently, but I really must insist you speak to me now.”

  Nick whispered low in Bella’s ear, “No more than five minutes. When I come back, I vow we shall finish in my bed. This was only meant to whet your appetite, my love.”

  He reluctantly pulled his fingers away, using his handkerchief to tidy himself as best he could, which put a blush on Bella’s face a brighter red than he had ever seen, so he ran his hand down her cheek until she calmed. Buttoning his high-waisted coat provided a semblance of orderliness, although it couldn’t cover his still-rampant arousal. He threw open the pocket door just as Blakeley was about to knock again.

  “What is it?” he hissed.

  Blakeley stepped back, so Nick followed him into the hallway, shutting the door.

  “Your Grace, I cannot express how sorry I—”

  “I am certain of that. Tell me what you want so you need no longer apologize.”

  “It’s the Earl of Huntleigh, Your Grace. He has… slipped away. Lady Huntleigh’s maid is here to take her home.”

  Nick held himself up against the doorjamb. “Dear God. Oh, dear God.” He ran his other hand through his messy hair. “How am I supposed to go in there and tell her… right now?”

  There was no way Bella would ever overlook him seducing her with her husband on his deathbed. She cared too much for Huntleigh’s good opinion of her, so would feel the guilt of this the rest of her days. If only the man had chosen better timing. Nick could have waited the year of mourning if it meant he would have her afterward, but this might put paid to even his best intentions.

  “She’ll never speak to me again.”

  Blakeley straightened his shoulders and his face tightened. “Your Grace, if you will show yourself to another room, I will manage Lady Huntleigh.”

  Nick patted Blakeley on the shoulder. “No, old man, but thank you. I may regret it every day for the rest of my life, but this is for me to do. If you would just make sure Lady Huntleigh’s maid has her things, I’ll bring her downstairs in a few minutes.”

  He went back into the library, closing the pocket doors very quietly behind him. After pouring a brandy at the sideboard, he pulled a chair over to Bella and sat.

  She was intensely shy again, having had a few minutes to consider her conduct, and looked away, blushing the bright pink he found so enthralling, matching the ribbons he had just seen underneath her dress. Dragging himself back from his wicked contemplation, he was more than a bit horrified at continuing this line of thought when the woman’s husband was lying dead a twenty-minute carriage ride away.

  He handed her the drink, then ran his hand through his hair, trying to think how to end her confusion without breaking the connection that had finally seemed secure.

  Hand steady on her shoulder, he requested, “Bella, sweetheart, look at me. No, not at my shoes.” He took her chin in his hand and tipped her face up. “Bella, it’s Myron. He’s… gone to his reward.”

  She yanked herself away. “What?! He was perfectly well an hour ago! He told me himself to come here, though I’m sure he didn’t mean for—oh, no. Oh, no.”

  “I’m afraid he is not well now. Your maid is waiting with your carriage.”

  She stood and stumbled to the mantelpiece, trying to arrange her hair by her reflection in the pier glass, but unable to see through the tears welling up. He walked up behind her and turned her into his arms, holding her against his chest as she began to cry in earnest. At least he now had a vague idea what to do.

  “He can’t be—how could—”

  “Hush, sweetheart. I can take care of everything, but we must get you home. Here, let me tie your hair up.” While she stared at him in the mirror with a broken-eyed expression, he found a black ribbon in the drawer of
his desk and used it to pull Bella’s tangled hair back into a queue and hid it under the back of her dress. Suddenly, she turned and looked at him, then the chaise on which she’d been sitting. “Oh, no. I can’t believe I—”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “There is nothing wrong with two friends having tea, my dear.”

  “Tea?! Is that what you call it? Stay away from me.” She backed away toward the door, face frantic.

  “Bella, let me come with you.”

  Her face and voice hardened in a way he had never expected, had never even seen, no matter how angry she had been. “You may call me Lady Huntleigh, and no, Sirrah, you will not attend me again.”

  He pulled himself up to his full height and utilized his most intimidating ducal voice. “I am coming with you.”

  She responded with the tone that she had used to get her own way with hostile provincials worldwide. “Absolutely not. I will see you in Hell first.”

  A light tapping on the door proved to be Blakeley, whose hand had been forced by Michelle, following right behind.

  “Madame, you must come now. I have your pelisse and have brought a hairbrush to make you tidy in the carriage, but you must come before there are questions about where you have been.” She turned very briefly to drop a shallow curtsey in Nick’s direction. “Your Grace, please forgive the intrusion.”

  “No,” Nick said with no inflection. “Of course you had to come.” He took a second look at the maid, wondering where he had seen her, sure it was not at the Huntleigh house, but there could be no worse time to start asking meddlesome questions.

  Michelle clearly wasn’t sure if she should keep speaking, mouth open, but emitting no comment, so he prodded, “Yes?”

  “Your Grace, if you will forgive, I had not meant to hear, you understand, but it is best you do not come with Madame. There have been… insinuations. It will be best to give no one reason to think poorly of her.”

  Nick agreed, “You are right, of course.”

  Bella hissed, “Who has been—”

  “Madame, we must go now.”

  Blakeley motioned to Bella and Michelle, preparing to lead them to the front door.

  Nick waved them all away, and as their footsteps grew faint down the hall, Nick called quietly, under his breath, expecting and receiving no response, “Anything you need, Bella. Anything at all.” He watched out the window as they strode to a town coach halfway down the street.

  He walked heavily to the sideboard, feeling twice his age, and Blakeley had already returned and was pouring a brandy.

  “We have gin?”

  “Of course, Sir.” Blakeley found it after a search and poured. “Might I say…?”

  “Yes?”

  “You did ask, should this occasion present itself, I remind you of your last encounter with Old Tom.”

  “Did I?” Nick raised an eyebrow. “Was I drunk?”

  “As a wheelbarrow, Sir.”

  “Then we shall take no notice of such a foolish request.” He reached for the glass.

  As he handed his employer the gin much more slowly than Nick would prefer, Blakeley tried once more: “Sir, might I just point out, you heard your brother yourself. He did stipulate I should—”

  “You may point out nothing. Especially anything my brother had to say about my drunkenness. I prefer gin to brandy tonight, even if I have to go to Seven Dials to find it. Anything you have stocked in my cupboard must be better than the flash-of-lightning I would find there, and I shan’t leave the house before tomorrow, in any case.”

  He downed the drink in one swallow and held out the glass. “Another, please. Three fingers. And pour yourself something. We will recall our various adventures tonight, beginning with the story I will finally have from you: how you kept the riverboat gambler from killing me in New Orleans. No, Blakeley, I insist. I prefer not to think of myself as so piteous I must drink alone.”

  Chapter 24

  “Madame, the carriage is this way.”

  Michelle led her to a waiting town coach. Not a broken-down hack, but neither the crested landau and horses she had purchased, displaying the brand-new coat of arms the earl had been granted, nor the curricle Myron kept for his personal use or the phaeton for hers. Nor was there a footman to help her into the carriage, and the coachman just sat atop the box facing forward, not even touching the brim of his hat. Focused only on those questions associated with her husband’s demise, however, she climbed in the door when Michelle let down the step. Her maid followed, and they were off.

  Bella tried, with the quickening pace of her toe tapping, to drive the coach forward faster, to already be home, past this feeling of being in a world separate from any of the people crowding the London streets. The sounds of street sellers and the ever-present smell of city sewage seeped through the padded door and around the edges of the covered window. Bella reached for the oil lamp, not willing to invite sunshine into such a black day, mostly out of guilt that her behavior had turned it so. The lamps, though, were empty: wicks, oil, and glass shades removed. So she sat in the dark.

  Myron would be so distressed to think of her closeted with Wellbridge during his last hours. Bella should have been at his bedside offering succor, not a base betrayal. She could never see Wellbridge again. She could never allow anyone to think that she would—

  Her actions were unthinkable.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to warm herself against the cold air whipping into the carriage around the ill-fitting doors. Wherever Michelle had acquired the conveyance, it had not been designed for the comfort of a countess.

  “Have you brought my black?”

  “Non, Madame. I did not stop to think of mourning clothes, only to retrieve you before questions could be asked.”

  Bella paled. “Yes, quite right. Thank you for that. I can change my dress once we are home.” She bent over slightly, trying to relieve the pain in her chest and the upset in her stomach, swaying against the rocking of the coach. “Does anyone—”

  “Madame Jemison was to send for Lady Firthley, and the doctor is attending Lord Huntleigh.”

  Michelle moved to the seat next to Bella and gently turned her. The maid took out a hairbrush and, even with the coach rumbling, managed to arrange Bella’s hair in a simple twist.

  “I have explained you are shopping, and have brought a selection of items which you may present as your purchases.” She indicated a closed basket on the back-facing seat. “As I have only brought them home this morning, they have not been seen by any who might betray you.”

  She was lucky to have such an astute maid, Bella thought, but continued deception relied on Bella’s ability to lie, which had never been her strong suit. Charlotte could make anyone believe anything, but Bella had never learned how.

  The coach slowed, then stopped. “We are here already?” Bella asked, voice as small as her sense of honor, wanting more than anything to avoid the censure she would face when everyone found out she had been—

  “Oui, Madame, we have reached our destination.”

  Her hands shook at the thought of preparing her husband’s shroud. Surely a countess could order the task carried out by someone else.

  Bella stood, head bent to clear the ceiling, and rattled the latch on the door, but it held firm. The blind over the window only opened an inch before it stuck, but that was enough to see it had gone dark, as though they were indoors, and no tiger had appeared from the boot to help her out.

  Michelle scrambled out of the coach on the other side, slamming the door in Bella’s face. When Bella was finally able to force the shade open and looked out of the window, she saw a brick wall, close enough to the carriage that she couldn’t open the door and jump out. A key turned in a lock opposite her, just before the carriage started moving again.

  “Michelle! What is happening?! Where—?! My husband is—”

  A sharp turn sent Bella flying backward against the unforgiving door lock, a sharp pain screaming in her shoulder and the back
of her neck. She was still conscious, facing the back end of the coach, dizzy, but she ascertained no bones were broken nor muscles torn. She would not be impeded by any irreparable injuries.

  Bella seated herself safely on the facing seat, staring into the horrible depths of God’s judgment for her depravity with Wellbridge.

  Mind jumping from fear to dread to panic, she had no control of her hands trembling, teeth grinding, knees shaking. Her husband was dead, and she was being carted around all over London in an unmarked, locked coach for some unexplained, likely nefarious, purpose, with no weapon on her person. Nothing good was going to come of this.

  And everything was entirely her fault.

  At that thought, her hands dropped like lead weights at her sides, not even grasping at other possible explanations.

  The coach stopped again, once more in a narrow alleyway, the locks no more yielding. Until the door rattled and she was nearly yanked out of the carriage when it swung open.

  Like a bad dream she should have predicted, Malbourne shoved her backward onto the floor, taking up all of the doorway and much of the small, enclosed space. She scrambled back into the corner, not even rising to take a seat on the bench, finally whimpering when her shoulder hit the opposite side of the carriage, much as her retreat had been stopped by the tree trunk a few nights before.

  He slammed the door once inside, turned a key in a hidden lock, and pocketed it. Dragging her none too gently off the floor, he banged his fist on the roof, then slid onto the seat right next to her, boxing her in. The more she tried to make herself small, the larger he loomed.

  “What do you want? What are you doing here?”

  “I want you, ma chère, ugly as you are.”

  He ran the back of his index finger down her cheek, and when she turned to bite him, he pulled back and slapped her face so hard her head hit the padded squabs. The rusted iron taste of blood flowed into her cheek, quickly swallowed as she gulped back a scream. The smell of bergamot, which a week ago teased her senses and incited fascination, would now, ever after, give her nightmares.