By the time Elissande returned to the dining room, Lord Frederick was gone. She did locate him in the billiard room fifteen minutes later, but the room was full of men—everyone except Mr. Conrad, it seemed.
“Miss Edgerton, would you like to join the game?” Lord Vere asked cheerfully.
The other gentlemen chuckled softly. Even without any experience to guide her in the matter, Elissande understood that she could not possibly accept the invitation. It would give Lord Frederick quite the wrong impression of her character—an accurate one, that was, and that would not do.
“Thank you, sir,” she said with what she hoped was a lighthearted tone. “But no, thank you. I was only passing through.”
She still had dinner, during which she would have Lord Frederick next to her.
Alas, the next blow came precisely then. Lady Kingsley had prepared the seating chart the evening before, since Elissande had never dealt with rules of precedence. Elissande fully expected the seating to remain the same. To her dismay, however, Lady Kingsley produced a new seating chart for the evening, a chart that placed Lord Frederick three seats away from Elissande.
She hardly ate. The squeeze in her throat prevented any kind of meaningful swallowing—a whole day gone by, and she’d made no progress at all. Her uncle’s return, edging closer by the hour, was a chill between her shoulder blades, a chill no coat or fire could dispel.
The only silver lining was that Lord Vere had also been seated away from her. A very fortunate thing for him. If she caught him staring at her bosom one more time, she might just brain him with the epergne.
After dinner, the company played charades until quarter to ten. When her uncle was at home, this was usually the time when Elissande would gratefully bid him a good night and escape to the sanctuary of her own room. Last night, the ladies, after the ordeal of the rats, had retired at about the same time. Lord Vere, however, was determined to change things.
“The night is yet young,” he said. “Let us play something else.”
Miss Kingsley immediately took up his cause. “Oh, yes, do let us. May we, Auntie dearest?”
Lady Kingsley appeared hesitant.
“Oh come, Lady Kingsley,” wheedled Lord Vere. “There is no rule written in stone dictating that ladies must be in bed when the clock strikes ten.”
Elissande ground her teeth. She seemed to do that whenever Lord Vere made his presence known.
“Quite so. I say we play something else.” Miss Beauchamp joined the campaign.
“Well, the decision is not up to me,” said Lady Kingsley. “We are here at Miss Edgerton’s gracious hospitality.”
A chorus of pleas came at Elissande. There was not much she could say, other than, “Of course we can play something else. But what shall we play?”
“How about Pass the Parcel?” asked Miss Melbourne.
“We don’t have a parcel prepared,” said Miss Duvall. “I say La Vache Qui Tache.”
“La Vache Qui Tache makes my head hurt,” complained Lord Vere. “I can never remember who has how many spots. Something simpler, please.”
“Sardines,” Mr. Kingsley suggested.
“No, Richard,” said his aunt. “Absolutely not. No one is to run about the house disturbing Mrs. Douglas.”
“I know. Let’s play Squeak Piggy Squeak,” said Miss Kingsley.
Mr. Conrad quickly seconded the idea, followed by Lord Vere. The rest of the guests also voiced their consent.
“Well,” said Lady Kingsley, “it’s not something I truly approve of, but I suppose with both myself and Lady Avery present, you can’t get into too much trouble.”
The young ladies clapped to be allowed to stay up late. The gentlemen rearranged chairs. Elissande, who was unfamiliar with parlor games in general, asked Miss Beauchamp, “I’m sorry, but how does one play Squeak Piggy Squeak?”
“Oh, it’s quite simple,” said Miss Beauchamp. “We sit in a circle. One person is blindfolded and placed in the center of the circle. He is the farmer, and the rest of us are pigs. Someone spins the farmer three times around, then the farmer has to make his way to a pig and sit on the pig’s lap. The pig squeaks and the farmer guesses the identity of the pig. If he succeeds, the pig becomes the farmer. If not, the farmer goes on for another turn.”
“I see,” said Elissande. No wonder Lady Kingsley required two chaperones. For so many unmarried young men and women to be taking turns sitting on one another’s laps was, if not outright unseemly, at least a great deal less than decorous.
Mr. Wessex volunteered to be the first farmer. Mr. Kingsley blindfolded him and turned him about not three times but at least six. Mr. Wessex, who’d had a good few glasses of wine at dinner, wobbled dangerously. He stumbled toward Miss Kingsley. Miss Kingsley squealed and put out her arms to stop him from crashing directly into her person.
Mr. Wessex deliberately leaned his weight into her hands. Miss Kingsley squealed again. The other young ladies giggled. Mr. Wessex, suddenly not quite as unsteady, turned and sat down on Miss Kingsley’s lap.
“All right, my dear piggy, oink for me.”
Everyone laughed, except Elissande. It was one thing to hear the game described, quite another to see it in action. The extent of the contact between Miss Kingsley and Mr. Wessex dumbfounded her. The suddenly risqué atmosphere in the drawing room made her both unhappy and strangely curious.
Miss Kingsley squealed one more time.
“Hmm, yes, I know this little piggy. But a part of me wants to be the farmer for a bit longer yet.” Mr. Wessex crossed his legs and mused. “Dilemma, dilemma.”
Miss Kingsley laughed silently into her hands. Mr. Conrad forcefully opined that others deserved a turn to be the farmer. Mr. Wessex gave in to the pressure and identified Miss Kingsley, who, as the new farmer, promptly fell into Mr. Conrad’s lap and there stayed what seemed endless minutes, pondering her choices.
Good gracious, it was indecent.
And Lady Kingsley and Lady Avery allowed it? They did. The two of them sat a little behind Elissande, away from the game circle, Lady Avery talking animatedly, as she always did.
“…years ago, in a game of Sardines, she was hiding and he found her first and squeezed into the cupboard with her. They must have either thought her hiding place impenetrable or entirely forgot themselves. You should have seen her state of undress—and his!—when I went into the cupboard myself. So of course they had to marry.” Lady Avery sighed. “I do love a good game of Sardines.”
Elissande nearly screamed when somebody suddenly sat down on her lap. It was Miss Beauchamp, who tittered as if she’d been given an unhealthy dose of laughing gas.
“I can already tell it’s not a gentleman,” she said between bursts of mirth.
“How do you know?” asked Lord Vere, in all sincerity.
Behind Miss Beauchamp’s head, Elissande rolled her eyes.
“Silly, sir. Of course I know. My back is cushioned magnificently. I’m quite certain I don’t even need this piggy to make a noise to identify her. Such a marvelous bosom could only belong to our hostess. Miss Edgerton it is. Am I right?”
Elissande had to answer. “Yes, you are right, Miss Beauchamp.”
Miss Beauchamp leaped off Elissande’s lap and ripped off her blindfold. “I knew it.”
Now the blindfold went over Elissande’s eyes. She was spun, or so it felt, four and a half times to the left and then two and a half times to the right. So she should be facing more or less the same direction as she had when she first stood up from her chair.
Directly across from her was Lord Vere. She most certainly did not want to head that way. She turned tentatively to her right. A little more. Yet again a little more, perhaps? Would that be where Lord Frederick was?
What good sitting on his lap would do, she had no idea. But she’d rather land in his lap, if she must land in somebody’s lap.
Gingerly she set out in her chosen direction, her hands stretched out before her. But after a few steps, she stopped. The f
ireplace had crackled. The sound came from directly behind her, which meant that she was not headed for Lord Frederick.
She made a quarter turn to her left. In front of her someone whistled and to her right a woman chuckled. Did that sound like Miss Kingsley? If she were headed toward Lord Frederick, shouldn’t Miss Kingsley be more to her left than her right?
She scooted back a step or two. Was she returning to the center of the circle? She took another two steps—and stumbled backward over someone’s foot.
She gasped. And gasped again as a pair of strong hands caught her lightly by her waist. Deftly he righted her—it was a he; of that much she was sure. She was not built like a bird; none of the ladies present would be able to handle her weight so easily.
“Thank you,” she said.
There was no reply, but from somewhere Lady Avery said, “Now, now, Miss Edgerton, you can’t simply walk away like that. You were headed for his lap. And no disputes, sir. She was headed for your lap. You cannot redirect her.”
Lady Avery was in motion, walking about. Elissande could not decide where her voice was coming from. She stood in place, uncertain what she should do next.
“Oh, come, sir. You know what you ought to do,” urged Lady Avery.
He apparently did, for he lifted her bodily, as if she weighed no more than a kitten, and set her down not on his lap, but on the chair itself, between his legs.
She swallowed with the alarming sensation of being so close to a man, her thighs pressed against his. There was a physicality to him, a quality that went beyond the mere amount of space he occupied, as if his body would effortlessly engulf hers if she did not take care to preserve herself.
She spread out her hands, looking for the armrests of the chair. But she touched only his hands, bare and warm and already occupying the armrests. She yanked hers away. That motion jerked her body backward against his chest.
She was wrong; it was not that his body would engulf her, but that it already did. She was surrounded by him, by his silent, still presence, while she fidgeted and fumbled, unable to treat their contact with the flirty lightheartedness expected of her.
He touched her again, his hands on her upper arms, steadying her. Steering her torso away from him, in fact.
Perhaps she had stumbled upon Lord Frederick after all. He could, she felt, be depended upon to maintain his sense of dignity and propriety amidst such pointless ribaldry. To help him in that effort, she scooted her bottom forward.
Only to almost fall off the chair. She hurriedly scooted back—directly into him.
She could not even gasp this time. Behind her bum he was, dear God, he was…
Hard.
Her cheeks scalded. Further understanding failed her. She froze in place: She could not think, could not speak, could not move a single muscle to extract herself.
Again, it was he who took charge of the situation, lifting her up, and this time, when she came down, she came down on his lap, somewhat away from the part of him that gave her fits.
But not nearly far enough, not with the sensation of his strong thighs so vivid upon her posterior. Really, whose idea had it been to get rid of bustles?
“What…what am I supposed to do now?” she beseeched.
“Say, ‘Squeak, piggy, squeak,’” said someone.
She could say nothing of the sort to the man behind her. It was ridiculous enough under normal circumstances. In this instance it would be just dreadfully wrong. She would have to guess his identity without any other clues.
He seemed rather on the taller side, which would eliminate Mr. Kingsley. And most likely he was not Mr. Wessex, who used a highly aromatic cologne that preceded him. The man behind her smelled only of a whiff of cigar smoke and, beneath that, shaving powder.
“I think Miss Edgerton likes being on this piggy’s lap,” said Miss Beauchamp, chuckling.
Miss Beauchamp’s voice was very close, to Elissande’s immediate left, in fact. And to Miss Beauchamp’s right had been—
“Lord Vere,” she mumbled.
And rose immediately. He started to clap before she even reached for her blindfold.
“How did you know it was me?” he said, still clapping, with a smile so densely guileless that it might very well have been one of hers. “I haven’t even squeaked yet.”
“A good guess,” she answered.
Miss Beauchamp had been correct: She had liked the startling, alien, mortifying, but not entirely un-pleasurable sensation of being practically in his embrace. But now she was repulsed—by him, by herself, by the blind sensuality of her body.
Revulsion, however, did not stop her renewed awareness of him. Of the softness of his hair when she tied the blindfold for him, the width of his shoulders as she spun him about, the tightness and muscularity of his arms as she stopped him from falling back onto her, so hard did he wobble from her spins.
The game went on, reaching its loud and boisterous conclusion at eleven o’clock, with Miss Beauchamp seated firmly on Lord Vere’s lap and both of them laughing as if they’d never had such a good time.
* * *
At half an hour past midnight Elissande finally left Lady Kingsley’s room. Lady Kingsley had stumbled a step as they’d ascended the grand staircase together and Elissande had caught her. She had not complained of anything, but Miss Kingsley had whispered anxiously to Elissande that Lady Kingsley suffered terrible migraines from time to time and perhaps the jollity of the evening had been too much for her.
So Elissande and Miss Kingsley had sat with Lady Kingsley until the latter at last fell asleep. Then Elissande escorted a continuously yawning Miss Kingsley to her room. She herself yawned too, as she walked toward Aunt Rachel’s room at the opposite end of the house.
She stopped mid-yawn. Someone was singing, heartily slurring the rousing chorus of a ludicrous song.
“‘Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! bow wow! Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! bow wow! I’ve got a little cat. And I’m very fond of that. But I’d rather have a bow-wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow.’”
She turned the corner. Lord Vere. Of course. He bobbed and weaved and caught himself against the wall just outside Aunt Rachel’s door.
“‘We used to have two tiny dogs,’” he sang, “‘such pretty little dears. But Daddy sold ’em ’cause they used to bite each other’s ears.’”
She fought to unclench her teeth. “Lord Vere, please. You’ll wake everyone.”
“Ah, Miss Edgerton. How lovely to see you, as always.”
“It’s late, sir. You should retire.”
“Retire? No, Miss Edgerton. It’s a night for song. Don’t I sing wonderfully?”
“You sing splendidly. But you can’t sing here.” And where was Lord Frederick to bail her out this time?
“Where may I sing then?”
“You should go outside if you must sing.”
“Fair enough.”
He stumbled forward some distance and reached for her uncle’s door. She sprinted after him and yanked his hand off the door handle. “What are you doing, Lord Vere?”
“But that’s the door for going outside.”
“That most certainly is not, sir. That is my uncle’s room.”
“Is it? Beg pardon. I don’t usually make such mistakes, I assure you, Miss Edgerton; I normally have the most impeccable sense of direction.”
Oh, he did, did he?
“Perhaps you could show me the way out?” he asked.
She inhaled deeply. “Of course. Follow me. And please be quiet until we clear the house.”
He did not break out into song, but he did not really remain quiet. He talked as he zigzagged beside her. “Was it not the most wondrous fun playing Squeak Piggy Squeak tonight?”
“I’ve never had a better time.”
“And I shall always treasure the sensational memory of your bottom on my lap.”
She did not treasure the memory of his hardness against her bottom; in fact, she disgusted herself with the flash of heat the remem
brance brought to her face. How could she have felt even the remotest quiver for him? Such stupidity as his should have been obvious via touch, unmistakable like a fever. Or leprosy.
She walked faster. Somehow he kept up. “Why do you suppose the memory of your bottom on my lap is more sensational than that of Miss Melbourne’s, for instance?”
If she had the least indication that he spoke with deliberate vulgarity, she’d have turned and punched him. Perhaps even kicked him. But he was steeped in that grating obliviousness so particular to him, and it would be like hitting a baby or thrashing a dog.
“No doubt because my bottom is twice the size of Miss Melbourne’s,” she said tightly.
“Is it? Marvelous. Now why did I never think of that?”
They reached the front door of the house. She unlocked it and led him outside some distance. The moment they stopped, he began to sing. She turned to leave.
“No, no, Miss Edgerton. You can’t go. Let me perform for you, I insist.”
“But I’m tired.”
“Then I shall perform for you under your window. Is that not romantic?”
She’d rather stick sharp objects into her ears. “In that case, I’ll stay here and listen.”
He sang interminably. Long enough for a Hindu wedding. Long enough for a snail to scale Mont Blanc. Long enough for Atlantis to rise and sink again.
It was windy and chill—the temperature was in the forties. She shivered in her inadequate dinner gown, her bare shoulders and arms prickled with cold. He was loud and drunkenly off-key. And even the night sky conspired against her: no rain to force him back inside into his bed, and too much cloud haze to offer any stargazing.
Suddenly he stopped. She regarded him, astonished: She’d already accepted the possibility that he’d never stop. He bowed—nearly falling over in the act—and then looked at her expectantly. Apparently she was to clap. She did. Anything to get rid of him.
Her applause made him happy and he did not hesitate to tell her so. “I’m so glad to be a source of enjoyment to you, Miss Edgerton. I shall sleep better knowing your life is richer and more beautiful for my voice.”
His At Night Page 7