In the Barrister's Bed

by Tina Gabrielle

  “I do enjoy you, Bella,” James said.

  His voice, deep and sensual, sent a ripple of awareness through her. “I’m glad I can entertain you, Your Grace.”

  She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips, for his eyes raked her form as if she wasn’t fully dressed, but naked for his pleasure.

  The door opened and Anthony Stevens arrived with Bobby.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Sinclair.” Anthony’s pitch-black eyes studied Bella. “I was told you are in need of a judge.” Anthony started forward, and Bella noticed that despite his tall, broad-shouldered frame, the barrister moved like a panther across the room.

  James rose; Anthony occupied the chair behind the desk.

  “Anthony sits in the judge’s perch.” James moved a small chair beside the desk. “And this is the witness stand, where you are to sit as the first witness.” He held the chair for Bella.

  “What am I to do?” she asked.

  “Pretend I am on trial for a crime,” James said. “Let’s say theft and burglary, which occurred two months prior.”

  “That will not be difficult.”

  “Good. You are to play my lover.”

  “I will not!”

  “You are acting, Bella. This is for educational purposes, remember? To help Bobby.”

  Bella liked Bobby, and from the excited, eager look on his young face, she could not refuse without disappointing the lad.

  By the mischievous grin on James’s face, he knew it as well.

  Evelyn’s words came back to Bella: You challenge him, Bella, and it is driving him to distraction, making him helpless. Bella smiled a secret smile. She’d love to drive James to distraction and make him helpless right now.

  Bella nodded her consent. “All right, Your Grace. We shall be lovers. For Bobby.”

  From the judge’s perch, Anthony Stevens chuckled.

  James’s smile cracked a bit. “As I was saying. I’m on trial for theft and burglary. As my lover, you are my alibi at the time of the crime. Bobby is my defense barrister.”

  “He is not the Crown’s prosecution?”

  “No. As defense barristers, our job is to present the best possible defense for our clients and to ensure a fair trial against the Crown’s prosecution. Bobby is to obtain testimony showing that we were together at the time of the crime. You are Mrs. Lovelace, and I am Mr. Smith.”

  Bella sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap. “Very well. I’m ready.”

  Bobby walked up to the mock witness stand and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Lovelace, is it true you are Mr. Smith’s lover?”

  James jumped to his feet. “Remember what I taught you, Bobby. You are not permitted to ask leading questions on direct examination of your own witness. Leading questions are allowed on cross-examination only. A good prosecutor would object.”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot,” Bobby said.

  “It’s all right, lad,” James said. “Think of another way to ask the same question of your witness.”

  Bobby cleared his throat again and looked at Bella. “Mrs. Lovelace, what is your relationship with the accused, Mr. Smith?”

  “We are lovers,” Bella answered. “We have engaged in all types of sordid and lustful acts.”

  “I see,” Bobby said. “And as lovers, how much time do you spend together?”

  Bella batted her lashes. “Ah, well, we used to spend every night together. But I’m afraid Mr. Smith’s performance has declined over the past three weeks. To be delicate about it, his advanced age has affected his manhood’s performance, you see, and as a woman of great appetites and urges, I’ve had to supplement my bed sport with younger, more virile men.”

  There was a roar of laughter from Anthony Stevens.

  Bobby stared, agape.

  “You’re diverging from your script,” James snapped.

  Bella gave him a look of pure innocence. “I wasn’t aware of any script, merely that we are lovers.”

  Anthony pounded his fist on the desk. “Let her be, James. Her speech is perfect, just the sort of unexpected and damaging testimony barristers are often faced with from their own witnesses on the stand. It’s a good exercise for Bobby. See how the lad handles it.”

  Bobby snapped to attention and continued with his line of questioning. “So your testimony is that you have taken other lovers because of Mr. Smith’s”—Bobby pointed to James—“lack of performance?”

  “Oh, yes,” Bella said.

  James looked like he wanted to throttle her.

  Perfect.

  If a challenge could unnerve and distract him, then she needed every advantage.

  “But your testimony is that you have only recently taken other lovers over the past three weeks, correct?” Bobby asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And the alleged crime had occurred two months ago. So were you with Mr. Smith that night?”

  “Yes, I must have been.”

  “Bravo!” Anthony Stevens shouted. “See how well you turned Mrs. Lovelace’s damaging testimony around? You still showed that she is a solid alibi for your client.”

  Bobby’s face spread into a smile like a child given a new toy. “I hope to be half as good a barrister as both of you one day,” Bobby told James and Anthony.

  James slapped Bobby on the back. The lad departed with Anthony, leaving Bella alone with James in the library.

  “You tutor Bobby. Why?” Bella asked him.

  “You mean why would I waste my time on a servant?” James said.

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Bobby’s a bastard whose father never gave a fig about him. I believe the status of one’s birth shouldn’t dictate his life. He’s a bright boy with a lot of potential.”

  “You see yourself in the lad.”

  James shrugged nonchalantly. “I suppose.”

  Bella wasn’t fooled. He had to feel greatly on the matter to take the time to tutor the boy. Was he reminded of his own father’s abandonment?

  “I’d like to help,” she said. “I’m not fluent in Latin, but I am a solid writer. I can tutor Bobby in grammar.”

  “You are full of surprises, Bella. What do you write?”

  The letter from the Times was still in her skirt pocket. She had briefly forgotten about it when she had walked in the library, but now the urge to tear it open and read the editor’s response was overwhelming.

  He was studying her intently, as if her response meant a great deal to him, and she found herself wanting desperately to confess her secret. What was it about this man that unnerved her so?

  He took a step closer. “You’re fidgeting. I’ve had years of practice reading witnesses’ physical responses, and I suspect there is something of the utmost importance you are bursting with the need to tell me. Please do not leave me in a state of suspense.”

  She stared into the blue enigma of his eyes and wondered if he knew the effect he had on her. Taking a breath, she spoke in as reasonable a voice as she could manage. “I’ve written a political piece and submitted it to the Times.”

  “On what topic?”

  “The Cotton Factories Regulation Act that was passed on February seventh of this year. The act sets forth that children aged nine to sixteen years are limited to working twelve hours per day—seventy-two hours per week. No system was devised, however, to enforce the Act.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  At the eager gleam of interest in his eyes, she gained confidence to continue. “My article points out that there is not much difference between this act and the Factory Act of 1802. The working hours imposed on our young children are abominable. Without the benefit of schooling, the children will never better themselves and will continue to be slaves to the factory owners. Most importantly, without governmental inspections to enforce conditions or internal supervision to ensure the laws are followed, how can parliament expect any factory owner to follow the law?”

  “Fascinating,” he said. “Utterly fascinating.”
/>   She eyed him warily. “The truth is I’ve never been published.”

  “So?”

  “You do not think it inappropriate for a woman to write such a political piece?”

  “To the contrary, I think it commendable,” he said. “I also find the fact that you had the courage to submit your work to the Times admirable. Many writers are plagued by self-doubt and rarely send out their work for fear of rejection or criticism. So you must tell me, did they agree to publish it?”

  She felt a thrill of joy at his words. Whatever hesitation she had felt at reading the letter in his presence vanished. She pulled the envelope out of her pocket. “I received the editor’s response today, but haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  “I had hoped to read it in private.”

  “I shall leave at once,” he said.

  “No. Stay. If it is a rejection, I’d like to share a drink with someone.”

  His voice was calm, his gaze steady. “I have faith in you.”

  She tore open the envelope and read out loud.

  Dear Mr. Adams,

  Upon reading your submission, we would like to publish your article in our opinion section. I am enclosing a draft in the amount of ten shillings, our standard payment for a first article. We would also be interested in seeing any future opinion pieces. It is my understanding that your health prohibits you from traveling to our London office. Kindly advise in writing if pursuing an arrangement with our newspaper would be open to discussion.

  Ludlow Harper, Editor-In-Chief

  “It sold!” Without thinking, she threw herself in his arms and kissed him on the cheek. As she stepped to move back, his arms tightened around her, and he held her against him. Her breath caught in her throat at the hardness and warmth of his embrace.

  But just as quickly he released her and looked into her eyes. “The only surprising item in that letter is the use of your pen name, Mr. Adams. As a professional writer, could you not think of something more creative?” he asked.

  “Such as?”

  “Mr. Roundbottom or Mr. Beeswax or Mr. Longtooth comes to mind.”

  She giggled.

  “How about a celebratory toast?” he asked.

  “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

  James went to a sideboard in the corner of the room.

  Bella watched as he poured two glasses of amber-colored alcohol. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and the taut line of his shoulders strained against his white shirt. She was acutely conscious of his tall frame, his movements both graceful and virile. Even his hands were beautiful, long-fingered and strong. She remembered his hands and the way they had made her tremble as they explored the hollows of her back, her waist ... her breast.

  He turned and handed her a glass. “A toast,” he said. “To your first of many publication credits.”

  She looked at the glass. “What is it?”

  “Fine scotch whiskey. Try it.”

  She took a sip. The alcohol burned her throat and every inch of her esophagus on the way down. She sputtered and coughed.

  He laughed a deep rich sound. “I apologize. I did not bring any champagne with me from London.”

  “No matter. I’m celebrating!” A warm glow flowed through her; whether it was from the whiskey or her current happiness she couldn’t tell. She knew only that she was blissfully happy, fully alive, and she was sharing the moment with a handsome duke who had surprised her with his words of praise and encouragement.

  “Did your late husband know you were a writer?” James asked.

  “Yes, but he did not approve.”

  “Then he was a fool.”

  Her pulse leapt at his words. Never had she expected a man to approve of her writing endeavors.

  “While you are in a celebratory mood,” he said, “there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Please tell me you will not ruin the moment by bringing up property ownership.”

  He grimaced in good humor. “I wouldn’t dare. The old duke hosted an annual fair during the first week of June for Wyndmoor’s tenants and servants. It was the only holiday for them other than Christmas. The servants may be new, but they have been working hard, and I’d like to follow the tradition.”

  “Which servants? Yours or mine?”

  “Both, my dear. In addition, my colleagues and the Hardings must return to London. They are busy barristers with full dockets. Their brief visit, no matter how delightful, must end. I would like to host the fair at the end of the week before their departure.”

  She eyed him above the rim of her glass. “Don’t you also have your own cases waiting in London? From what you said, your claim to the title was unexpected.”

  “Anthony, Brent, and Jack have agreed to take on my caseload and ease the transition for my former clients. But truth be told, I had thought to return to London by now.”

  If it wasn’t for her remained unspoken.

  At her silence, he prodded, “Come now, Bella. We could all benefit from a day of games and fresh air.”

  “I suppose you are correct, Your Grace. The servants have been working hard.”

  “Shall we agree upon a temporary truce for the games then?”

  She found herself smiling. “Yes. A truce.”

  “You should have been there! Bella called James’s manhood into question. She even went so far as to say his ‘advanced age’ affected his sexual performance,” Anthony said.

  Brent let out a bark of laughter. “I’d pay to have been a fly on the wall.”

  “I was also in the billiard room with Anthony. Why didn’t you summon me to be the judge for your mock court?” Jack asked.

  James glared at his friends. He had met Anthony, Brent, and Jack at the Twin Rams that night, and James had known the moment he set foot in the tavern he would be fodder for their teasing.

  A barmaid sidled over and hovered near Brent Stone. She smiled coyly at him and brushed her large breasts against his sleeve. Brent barely glanced at her, and said, “Four tankards of your best ale.”

  For years James had thought women’s attention to Brent a waste, until he realized his friend was not as uninterested as he appeared. The signs—a tenseness of Brent’s jaw and a quick sideways glance at the barmaid—were slight and one needed a keen eye to catch them. There was a mysterious element to Brent Stone. A dangerous undercurrent that he suppressed behind his façade of hardworking patent barrister. Whenever anyone brought up Brent’s past, he would immediately clam up. James had never minded as he never wanted to speak of his own past.

  The tankards were delivered, and Brent spoke up. “I never thought the day would come. A woman James Devlin can’t seduce.”

  “More than that,” Anthony said. “She has a splendid sense of humor, and she stands up to him.”

  “Evelyn is quite enamored of Bella,” Jack said. “My wife says Bella remains adamant about her ownership of the property.”

  James shot Jack Harding a dark look. “Your wife would represent her in court if she could,” he said dryly.

  Jack turned his smile up a notch. “She’d probably be victorious, too.”

  James raised his tankard and drank. He wasn’t surprised that Jack supported his wife. Evelyn was friendly by nature, but what James hadn’t anticipated was Bella’s genuine warmth and hospitality toward Evelyn.

  After that first night, when Bella had stormed down the stairs and accused James of bringing a ladybird into the house, she had instantly changed her behavior and had welcomed the Hardings with open arms even though they were close acquaintances of James’s. Bella wasn’t the cold, bitter widow he had initially thought. In fact, nothing about her was what he had initially believed.

  “I warned you not to treat her like one of your London doxies,” Brent said.

  “She has a spine,” Anthony said. “If I could stay and witness the outcome of this battle of wills between you two, I would. Unfortunately, Lord Stafford is disgruntled by his conspiring
wife and mother-in-law, and I must return to chambers and work on his marital dilemmas.”

  “Good grief, Anthony. Why do you insist on practicing the type of law you do?” Brent muttered.

  Anthony turned hard eyes on Brent. “I told you before. I enjoy it.”

  Anthony’s clipped tone, massive size, and menacing expression spoke volumes, but Brent wasn’t the least disturbed.

  “Don’t be an ass, Anthony,” Brent said. “How can you enjoy the strife between squabbling spouses? You should stop before your disgruntled clients drive you completely mad.”

  James spoke up before the bickering between two friends turned into a full-blown fight. “We’re holding an annual fair this Friday at Wyndmoor.”

  Three pairs of eyes turned to him.

  “I thought to celebrate with my friends before you leave, and the spring fair was a tradition of the old duke’s,” James said.

  “And Bella agreed?” Jack asked.

  James shrugged. “I mentioned it when she was in a celebratory mood.”

  “Pray tell us, what was she celebrating?” Jack asked.

  “She sold a political piece to the Times,” James said.

  Brent leaned forward in his seat. “She’s a writer?”

  “Yes, a professional writer, now,” James found himself saying.

  “The Times, you say? I know the editor. His hide is as tough as a rhinoceros. It’s quite an accomplishment on her part,” Anthony said.

  A vivid image came to James of Bella tearing open the envelope and the joy written on her face after reading the news, and then, as she threw herself into his arms. Suddenly, it had felt like a blazing-hot August afternoon. But even more dangerous than her luscious curves pressed against his body had been her jovial laughter and delight over her first sale of her work. When she had lifted her face and revealed her dazzling smile, he had felt her happiness as if it were his own.

  He had wanted her dream to become a reality, and it had taken every ounce of willpower not to pick her up and twirl her about.

  Ridiculous.

  Why should he care? Was he losing his edge, his firm resolve, when it came to Bella?