Lady Disdain

by Michelle Morrison

  “I beg your pardon, what is ‘slumming?’”

  The left corner of his mouth lifted in a half grin that made her pulse race. The man was ridiculously handsome, there was no denying it.

  “Slumming. You know, like visiting the slums. Going somewhere low-brow, but for fun.”

  She frowned, trying not to be distracted by the dent in his cheek—was that a dimple?

  “But I live in the slums, Mr. James. There’s really no place ‘lower’ for me to go. I don’t understand.”

  His grin turned sheepish. “I suppose it’s more of an American turn of phrase. Lost in translation.” He paused and glanced at the traffic jam of people in the receiving line behind him.

  “Must you greet all these people?” he inquired.

  “Cousin Elizabeth—Lady Chalcroft—asked me to.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Not a one,” she admitted.

  “Then you can show me where the refreshment table is. I’m famished and too American to figure it out myself.”

  She fought not to smile, she really did. But he was so absurd and so absurdly good looking, and so very…him, that she found herself taking his arm and guiding him out of the crush of people trying to enter the room.

  “I know just where the refreshments are, Mr. James, and if we’re lucky, there will still be lemon cream left. I’ve been given to understand it is a particular specialty of the Chalcroft’s cook,” she said as she navigated him through the growing crowd.

  “Are you recovered from our, ah, adventures of the other day? That was an unusually eventful afternoon.”

  Sarah smiled at him over her shoulder. “Unusual, Mr. James? Perhaps for you. For me, it was simply another day in The Mint.”

  “Yes, and why is it called The Mint?” he asked.

  “Because they used to mint money there back in Henry VIII’s day.”

  “Hmm. Pity they don’t still make money there.”

  She smiled.

  They reached a table loaded with finger foods and desserts. A footman waited with silver tongs to fill delicate china plates for hungry guests.

  “Oh we’re in time. Here,” she said, handing him a small bowl of lemon cream and a spoon.

  “Is this to see if I like it?” he asked, scooping half of the bowl’s contents into his mouth.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, taking a dainty nibble of the tart and sweet dessert. She closed her eyes briefly to savor the taste. Delicacies such as this were nonexistent in her daily life.

  “Is this a taste to see if I’ll like it and then you’ll give me a real serving?”

  She giggled—giggled! She couldn’t remember the last time she had giggled.

  “Ah, no,” she said. “That’s the serving.”

  “Pity that,” he said, affecting an English accent as he looked at his empty bowl.

  “Here,” she said, handing him another.

  “If the other day was typical of your work, how many times have you been held up at knife-point?”

  She thought for a moment, watching him devour his second lemon cream with obvious relish. “Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen?” he asked with raised brows.

  “Thirteen if you mean knife point specifically. One time a broken bottle was involved.”

  His surprise turned to a scowl. “Were you ever hurt?”

  “Oh, no,” she said breezily, though in truth every incident had left her shaken. “Sometimes my assailant or someone nearby would recognize me and I’d be left alone. There is some reward in serving a community for five years. Other times, I just let them take my basket. There’s generally nothing of any value in it—a few herbs, some bandages, perhaps a small packet of food. I either find the basket dumped nearby or someone recognizes it as mine and returns it.”

  Mr. James’ scowl had deepened.

  “Twice I fought them off.”

  “You what?” he exclaimed so loudly that a few people turned to stare.

  “Shh!” she said, and depositing their empty bowls on a servant’s tray, took his arm and urged him to stroll about the room. She paused in front of a large portrait and pretended to be pointing out the artist’s skill.

  “One time there was a young man whose family I’d helped for years. I suppose he thought I’d be an easy mark because I would still wish to help him.”

  “He was wrong, I take it?” Mr. James’ scowl had diminished and Sarah felt a warm glow at the admiration on his face.

  “He was. I batted his knife away with my basket, grabbed him by the ear, and marched him back to his mother.”

  “Ah, a fate worse than prison, no doubt,” he said with a smile.

  “Indeed.”

  “And the other incident?” he prompted.

  “Ah,” she prevaricated. “That was the time a broken bottle was the weapon of choice, though for once I was the one so armed. I’d just returned from the city and my basket was full of some rather important medicines—things too costly for the local apothecary to carry.

  “I was in a foul mood—I’d had to walk most of the way because the supplies had cost more than I’d anticipated and I had no money left for a hansom cab. I was hot and a bit frazzled and my arms hurt from carrying the basket.

  She glanced at Mr. James and paused. There was an intense look on his face, one she was at a loss to describe. It seemed worried, caring, and even a bit outraged. She stared at him until he said, “Go on.”

  “Oh! Well, I decided I wasn’t going to give up my hard-won supplies. He made a grab for my basket and knocked my bonnet askew.” She smiled ruefully. “Something inside me snapped. I was so furious, I quite lost whatever self-possession I had. I dropped my basket, tore off my bonnet, and grabbed a full bottle of brandy out of the basket. I smashed it against the side of the building and advanced upon my would-be assailant with my own makeshift weapon.” She laughed, still a bit surprised at herself, even a year later.

  “What did he do?”

  “He turned tail and ran. I still regret losing that bottle of brandy, however. Especially since I’d lugged it around all day!”

  He smiled at her and she felt it like a caress on her face—on her entire body, really.

  “I need to kiss you. Now.”

  “I beg your—what?”

  “You heard me.” He took a step toward her and she quickly backed up.

  “Not here!” she hissed.

  He smiled, a wolfish grin. “Then where?”

  She glanced around and saw the open French doors that led to the gardens. He followed her gaze and said, “Go. Now.”

  Her every nerve was stretched taut by the time she made her way across the room. She felt a quiver of anticipation deep in her belly…and lower. She was convinced that everyone in the room knew where she was going and why, but a quick look around showed her that the party was in full swing with champagne and conversation flowing like water. No one spared so much as a glance at the misfit cousin of the Chalcrofts.

  She hurried outside, unsure if Mr. James was right behind her or intending to follow at a distance. Her heartbeat was so loud in her own ears, she could scarcely hear anything else. She practically ran across the wide verandah and down the shallow steps into the torch lit gardens. Her borrowed slippers crunched on the gravel path as she raced between flower beds and sculpted hedges. At the end of one path, she paused, unsure of which way to turn. A sudden awareness ran up her spine and she spun around to see Samuel James stalking purposefully toward her.

  She opened her mouth to say something—she knew not what—but in that instant, she was in his arms and his mouth was claiming hers.

  As if they’d choreographed the movement, his arm slid around her waist as hers entwined around his neck. His mouth was hot against hers and there was no awkwardness as their heads found the perfect angle to seal their lips together.

  She inhaled and recognized the familiar scent that was distinctly him. Champagne flavored his tongue tonight instead of brandy, but the hot wet slide of his
tongue against hers was just as delicious as it had been before. Her fingers grazed along his neck to stroke his cheek; he’d clearly shaved just before coming tonight as there was no fine prickle of stubble beneath her fingertips.

  He pulled her tighter to him and she willingly pressed her body against the length of his, absorbing the imprint of his long, muscular body separated from hers by only a few layers of fabric.

  A rush of blood pounded in her ears, sent tingles to her extremities, awoke sensations in private areas she’d long ago banished: all proof of her body’s excitement. And yet, despite, or in addition to, that excitement, Sarah felt the greatest sense of comfort, of ease. As if she’d finally found her place in the world.

  The notion was disconcerting and she drew her head back to look at him. His intensely blue eyes, inky dark in the torchlight, glittered beneath passion-drowsy lids. His lips, as hers must be, were swollen and damp from their kisses. He slid a hand up to cup her face, his thumb playing across the sensitive skin of her lips. She let the weight of her head rest in his palm and he supported it easily, his gaze steady upon her.

  After several long quiet moments, she lifted her head, tilting her chin up. He slowly bent down. This kiss began tentatively, slowly. A gentle exploration rather than a combustible passion. He nibbled gently at her lower lip and she delicately traced the corner of his mouth with her tongue. Her pulse, so frantic a few moments ago seemed to slow to a steady pounding rhythm, and as her fingers trailed to the pulse in his neck, she realized her heart was beating in time to his and the awareness made her body sink more completely against him. They were pressed together from knee to shoulder, her entire weight dependent on his support. The sweet perfume of a late summer garden was a subtle counterpoint to the intoxicating scent of Sam’s skin. Sarah buried her face in his neck above his cravat, drawing in his scent like the bouquet of a fine wine. Her tongue darted out, sampling the taste of him and finding it just as delicious, she latched her mouth on to his neck, nibbling and kissing and sucking. His fingers clenched convulsively against her back, pulling her even more tightly against the hard length of his body. The evening air had held a slight chill when they had first come outside, but Sarah felt as though she were standing at the edge of a huge bonfire, for heat radiated off of Sam in delicious waves that enveloped her.

  A delicate throat clearing registered in Sarah’s ears, but lost as she was in Sam’s kisses, her brain tried to believe he had made the sound. It was only when an “Ahem” followed that Sarah drew back. Sam’s mouth followed her but she turned her head and saw Eleanor and Lord Reading standing a discreet dozen paces away, their gazes carefully averted. Sam’s lips grazed over Sarah’s jaw, nestling in the hollow beneath her ear.

  She pushed against his chest and his attention immediately snapped to.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “We have company,” she said, nodding in Eleanor’s direction.

  He moved to put Sarah behind him, attempting to shield her from further scrutiny. She smoothed a hand over her hair but had no way to know if she was presentable or a complete mess.

  “Sarah, will you help me?” Eleanor called out. “I, er, seemed to have torn a flounce on my dress.”

  “Of course,” Sarah murmured, stepping around Sam and crossing quickly to her cousin. They made their way back to the stairs and at the top, Sarah turned to see Eleanor’s fiancée talking with Mr. James.

  “I hope Lord Reading doesn’t feel it necessary to, ah, defend my honor.”

  Eleanor glanced over her shoulder. “I imagine he is tearing into Mr. James quite deservedly.”

  “But—“ Sarah began, but Eleanor continued.

  “For usurping the best spot in which to steal a kiss. Do you know how difficult it was for the both of us to disappear unobtrusively? Really, Sarah, of all the thoughtless gestures.”

  They were near enough the windows that Sarah could see Eleanor’s face and knew she was teasing. She laughed in relief.

  “Yes, well, you might give me a bit of advance notice next time. Perhaps we should establish a schedule of elicit assignations to avoid mishaps like this in the future.”

  “Sarah Draper! Was that a joke? And a rather risqué one at that! I’ve never heard you tease before.”

  “What? That’s not true! I have a sense of humor.”

  “Oh I know you do,” Eleanor said, leading the way back into the brightly lit drawing room. “But you’re always so serious. You’re never the one doing the teasing. I must say, my estimation of Mr. James has increased.”

  “Why?” Sarah asked.

  “If he was able to break through to your teasing nature, buried as it was under five years of a too-serious life, he is indeed a man of great fortitude.”

  Sarah felt she should argue some point, but her lips were still puffy from Sam’s kisses and her fingertips well remembered the fortitude of his muscular arms and shoulders and back. Besides, she didn’t want to argue. She wanted to relish the memory of their assignation. Oh very well, she thought. If she was honest with herself, what she most wanted was to return to that torch lit garden and resume what had been interrupted.

  The drawing room seemed overly bright after the soft ambiance of the torch lit garden and the noise of conversation and music quite bombarded Sarah. She paused a moment to get her bearings, then slowly followed Eleanor to join the small group gathered around Lady Augustus—the head of the Ladies’ Compassion Society who provided the majority of Sarah and Eleanor’s funding.

  Eleanor responded brightly to Lady Augustus’ comments and answered the other ladies’ questions about their life in Southwark, but Sarah was only able to nod and smile. She felt like this sparkling atmosphere was ethereal, like a dream, and her true reality was outside in the garden.

  Or rather, entering the drawing room with Lord Reading. Sarah’s heart thumped extra hard. He was making his way toward her.

  “Ah, Lord Reading,” Lady Augustus cooed as the two men approached and made their bows. “Your lovely fiancée was just telling us some fascinating stories of her work with the indigent. Are you quite sure you approve of such a vocation?”

  “Not only do I approve, I support her completely. Lady Eleanor and Miss Draper’s work is of vital compassionate importance.”

  “What a refreshing and…enlightened view,” Lady Augustus said, clearly a bit surprised by his response. She was trying very hard to be ingratiating to Lord Reading. And no wonder, thought Sarah. A few weeks ago when Lord Reading was simply Alexander Fitzhugh, Lady Augustus would not have given him the time of day. Now, however, as he was the heir to an earldom, she was most effusive in her treatment of him.

  Sarah’s observations of Lady Augustus’ and Lord Reading’s interactions happened on the periphery of her awareness, however, as the skin on her neck, each breath she drew, even the fine hairs along her arms were intensely sensitive to the tall man who stood next to her, his jacket sleeve brushing against her in what she knew was no accident. She felt as if her entire body was vibrating with awareness of him.

  With a start, she realized that Lord Reading was introducing Mr. James to Lady Augustus.

  “And I believe you know my fiancée, Lady Eleanor Chalcroft, and her cousin, Miss Draper.”

  “I have been so honored, yes,” Mr. James said, entirely too properly. He bowed over Eleanor’s gloved hand, but when he took Sarah’s, he squeezed it meaningfully and glanced up at her mischievously. She was sure her cheeks were scarlet, but she was unable to tear her gaze from his and when he finally released her hand and straightened, she felt a bit off kilter.

  Conversation continued around her. At some point, a glass of champagne was pressed into her hand and she sipped automatically. It was the most disconcerting feeling for a woman so accustomed to being in control, not only of herself, but of her surroundings, to feel so utterly consumed with sensation. Mr. James—really, shouldn’t she think of him by his given name after that garden encounter? —stayed at her side, to all appearances engage
d in conversation with Lord Reading, Eleanor, and those partygoers who flowed through their conversation. If he stood a bit too close, his sleeve brushing her arm, his fingers occasionally stroking hers, it could be attributed to the closeness of the room, packed as it was with guests. If he had to bend his head close to speak in her ear, his breath tickling the fine hairs of her neck, his lips almost skimming her sensitive skin, it could easily be because the noise in the room made conversation a challenge. And if her complexion flushed when he murmured that he could still taste her on his lips, well, the stuffy heat of the room could surely be to blame.

  At long last, Mr. James departed, though it was only at Eleanor’s insistence.

  “Much as my cousin and I enjoy your company, Mr. James,” she said, her voice low, though she smiled and waved at an acquaintance. “In England it is unseemly for a gentleman to spend an entire evening in a lady’s company. It might be best if you circulate a bit.”

  “Of course,” he said immediately, and executed another round of proper bows before leaving.

  “Goodness, the man is enamored,” Eleanor exclaimed when it was just the three of them.

  “Reminds me a bit of myself, actually,” Lord Reading remarked, gazing at Eleanor with a grin. Eleanor responded in kind, her exquisite face somehow growing more beautiful as a smile that seemed to radiate from her soul lit her features.

  Sarah suddenly felt like an intruder in their private moment and buried her nose in her champagne glass.

  The rest of the evening passed rather uneventfully. Sarah shadowed her cousin as she moved about the room, visiting with everyone. Eleanor was one of those people who could talk to anyone. Young or old, male or female, she had the uncanny ability to draw a person into talking about himself. Combined with her radiant golden beauty and elegant carriage, it was no wonder she had the ton eating out of her hand. The people of Southwark loved her too, Sarah reflected, because Eleanor treated them the exact same way she treated dukes and countesses, with a sincere interest in every detail of their life.