by Cheryl Holt
“I could bring a warming pan for the sheets.”
“No! Thank you!”
Lydia smirked and left. She never curtsied to Jane Hamilton, and if she was being disrespectful, Hamilton was in no position to complain.
Who would she speak to? Mrs. Seymour?
Ha! The prospect was laughable. Seymour hated her and would never listen.
She descended to where she could see the foyer, to where she could watch the front door. If Lord Hastings came in, Lydia would waylay him and initiate the tryst that was long overdue. She would restore herself in his life, while gleaning enormous satisfaction in stealing him back from Jane Hamilton.
He arrived much sooner than she might have predicted. After tiptoeing in, he scanned the area, checking that he was alone, then he started up the stairs.
Lydia moved into his path, tugging on the bodice of her dress, unbuttoning a button or two to reveal more cleavage. As he rounded the corner, he practically bumped into her.
“Well, well,” she greeted, “if it isn’t my favorite earl.”
“Lydia, you’re up late.”
“I’m finishing my chores.” Her gaze meandered to his crotch, and she was thrilled to note the bulge in his trousers. So he was glad to see her.
“Is there anything I can do for you,” she seductively said, “before I retire?”
Her message was clear, and he definitely received it. She stepped closer, not touching him, but near enough that she could feel his bodily heat.
“I just came inside to retrieve a warmer coat from my bedchamber,” he lied. “I only have a few minutes.”
“If memory serves,” she teased, “we only need a few minutes.”
He smiled. “I don’t think so. Not tonight.”
“The parlor behind you is empty.”
“Is it?”
He peered over his shoulder, staring, considering.
“I know what you like better than anyone.” She recalled how often she’d sucked him into her mouth and was confident that he recalled it, too. “Should I refresh your memory?”
“My memory is extremely vivid.”
He hesitated then pulled away, his interest waning like water rushing down a drain. “I’m tempted, but I can’t,” he insisted, though he did take a naughty swipe across her breast.
What could she say? She couldn’t argue or beg.
She shrugged and grinned, hoping she looked flirtatious and bored.
“Maybe next time,” she breezily said.
“Yes, maybe.”
He walked on, and she headed for the stairs as if to go down, but as soon as she safely could, she spun and sneaked after him.
As she’d suspected, he proceeded directly to Jane Hamilton’s room, and once he was inside, there was no need to dawdle. She knew what was happening.
Her fury soared. How dare he spurn her! How dare he choose Hamilton!
Lydia was less restrained than Hamilton and more amenable to doing what he liked. What could skinny, fussy Jane Hamilton give to him that she, Lydia, could not?
Lydia had been patient, had kept his secret, expecting he would tire of Hamilton and focus on Lydia again, but his insult was too great to be borne.
He didn’t realize that his fixation with Hamilton would bring disaster and scandal, and he had to be protected from her. Hamilton had to be exposed, then sent away. For Lord Hastings’s own good.
The only question was: Who should first learn of the affair, and how could Lydia inflict the most damage?
Chapter 17
TRISTAN slipped into Helen’s bedchamber, and she was over in the window seat, staring out at the stars. Her auburn hair was down, and she wore only her robe.
A frisson of lust shot through him, his cock hardening. The unruly rod knew what would transpire, how exquisite it would be, and he could scarcely stand the notion of any delay, but delay there would be.
He wouldn’t jump on her like a sex-starved maniac.
A candle burned on the writing desk, an empty liquor bottle next to it. He clearly recollected the trouble they’d gotten into with previous intoxication. Luckily, he was sober, so one of them would keep a level head.
“Drinking again, Miss Hamilton?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
She glanced over her shoulder. For a moment, he couldn’t read her expression, couldn’t deduce if she was glad to see him or not, but then she smiled, the sight of it lighting up the room.
“What do you enjoy in an alcoholic beverage?” he asked.
“It’s the Woman’s Daily Remedy that Mr. Dubois sells.”
Dubois again? To his relief, he hadn’t crossed paths with the arrogant oaf since he’d punched him at the village dance.
“Must Dubois be part of this conversation? And he’s Phillip Dudley, not Philippe Dubois. He’s an Englishman.”
“You certainly spend an awful lot of time fretting over him. It’s enough to make me wonder if you’re jealous.”
“If I was, I’d never admit it.”
She laughed, and the happy sound had him grinning like a halfwit.
“Are you foxed?” he inquired.
“I don’t believe so.”
It was his turn to laugh. “You’re imbibing, so why lie about it? Tell me why you’re drinking.”
“I was lonely. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“Not come? Are you mad? Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away.”
He pushed away from the door and walked to her. With her on the cushion, on her knees, they were eye to eye, and she wrapped her arms around him, surprising him by pulling him close and initiating a kiss in which he readily participated.
Her body was crushed to his, and he hugged her tight as they reveled in the embrace, hands roaming, torsos shifting.
He lifted her and carried her to her bed, dropping her onto the mattress and tumbling down with her.
The carnal encounter that followed was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Nothing made it especially different from prior trysts. There was no excess of passion, no riotously naughty acts. They simply established an intimacy he hadn’t thought possible between a man and a woman.
He kissed and caressed and nibbled, quickly stripping her of her robe, so that she was nude. Then she did the same to him, removing his coat and shirt, his boots and trousers.
It was the first time she’d seen him naked, and though she was only a few steps beyond her virginity, she handled it well. She fondled and explored with an innocence that charmed and titillated.
As he came over her and their torsos melded, he was overcome by how perfect it felt to be with her. His heart actually ached with gladness.
There were so many words on the tip of his tongue that he was afraid to open his mouth, afraid to hear what might spill out. He wanted to divulge how much he cared about her, but he didn’t dare.
He’d promised to marry her, and he wished he could retract the vow, which was the reason he was leaving for Scotland. He had to get his priorities straight, had to remember what was important and what wasn’t. If they were apart for a while, perhaps she’d cease to matter so much.
Throughout his life, he’d tried to show the world that he wasn’t like his philandering father, that he would never impregnate a woman and blithely walk away. What if he had? Yes, he was a confirmed bachelor, determined never to wed. But what if she was pregnant? What then?
She was gazing at him, patiently waiting for him to say what he was supposed to say, but he simply couldn’t. He’d never pegged himself as a coward, but apparently, he was.
She must have sensed his distress, for she rested a palm on his cheek and murmured, “It will be all right, Tristan. Don’t worry.”
She always knew just how to please him, to calm him. Her affection stirred his masculine instincts, making him eager to conquer, to claim, and he began kissing her in earnest, being pitifully desperate to be inside her. Yet he wanted the coupling to be joyous and romantic, so she would realize how much he cherished her.
He wasn’t good at confessions, couldn’t confide what he was thinking or feeling—hell, he didn’t even know what he was feeling—but he could certainly show her how much she meant to him.
By the time he entered her, she was wet and relaxed, ready for him and the pleasure he would give her.
He started to flex, gradually increasing the pace, their ardor rising. She met him thrust for thrust, her elation evident, her bliss extreme. An orgasm swept over her, and he let loose, too, and they raced to oblivion together. He’d never previously joined a woman in orgasm, and he found it to be the sweetest, most thrilling thing that had ever happened to him.
As his cock softened, he pulled away and tugged her near so she was facing him. She smiled, her fondness washing over him like a gentle rain.
“You’re leaving me,” she said.
“Just for a while.”
“Why?”
“I need to get away.”
His lie had failed to persuade her, and she shook her head.
“Tell me the truth.”
He was ashamed to have discovered that he was too spineless to propose, to follow through, so he wondered what excuse he should give.
He had no idea how to be a husband or a father, and he had a wanderlust that couldn’t be sated. If he bound himself to her, eventually he’d sail away, and he might never return. Who would want such an unreliable man as a spouse?
“I have to go,” he said.
“Swear to me that you’ll come back.”
“Of course I will. I have to. Rose and Michael are here.”
The instant he voiced the comment, he regretted it. Her smile faded.
“Yes, Rose and Michael.”
“You’ll be here, too,” he hastily added. “I could never stay away from you for long.”
Wearily, she chuckled. “You already hurt my feelings. It’s too late to fix it. Don’t try.”
“I’m sorry; I’m not very good at this.”
“I know.”
She rolled onto her back, studying the ceiling, and he hated that he’d upset her. He didn’t understand why their sexual encounters had to be fraught with such drama.
Why couldn’t they just experience moments of passion and merriment? Why was their relationship riddled with emotion?
She reached over and squeezed his hand.
“Would you take me with you to Scotland?”
He was startled by the query, a spurt of ecstasy rushing through him at the notion, but he tamped it down.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“A sailing ship is no place for a lady.”
She scowled and shrugged. “It was worth asking.”
“I wish I could take you. It’s so beautiful out on the water. You’d love it.”
“I’m sure I would,” she agreed. They were silent, then she said, “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“What will I do all day—and all night—while you’re gone?”
“I don’t know, but promise me you won’t spend any time with that Phillip Dudley character.”
“I like that Dudley character. He amuses me.”
“I don’t care if you like him. Just don’t spend any time with him.”
Her smile was back.
“You’re jealous; I’m certain of it.”
“Perhaps.”
She sighed. “It will be so quiet without you here.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Don’t look so surprised.”
“But I am surprised.”
“Why?”
“I don’t believe anyone has ever missed me before.”
At the admission, an odd sorrow inundated him, pricking at the lonely little boy, the lonely young man he’d been.
With his mother deceased and his father barely acknowledging him, he’d never had a family or a home. After he’d matured and was traveling the oceans, his isolated existence had become ingrained.
He’d never dwelled on the fact that he didn’t belong anywhere, that he had no people to call his own, and suddenly, it seemed like the saddest thing in the world.
She leaned over and kissed him. “Will you stay the night with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“I want to be paid ten pounds.”
“Ten! You’re mad.”
Maud glared at Lydia as if she’d escaped from an asylum.
“Plus I want two new dresses, and a new uniform.”
“An outrageous demand.”
“And I want to be permanently assigned to duties upstairs. No more scrubbing pots in the kitchen when Cook needs extra help.”
“Go back to work, Lydia. You annoy me.”
“When you’re so eager to be shed of the Hamilton sisters, ten pounds isn’t much—if it will guarantee you get your wish.”
Maud paused, pondering her reply.
Lydia had a knack for spying, for listening when she shouldn’t and seeing what she oughtn’t. What could she have discovered?
“How do I know your information is worth so much money?”
“It’s worth it, all right. I’ll bet you can have them out of here by tomorrow morning.”
“Fine, then. We have a deal. What is it that you’ve learned?”
“Give me the money first.”
Maud seethed, hating to be bested by a servant and inclined to refuse just on principle, but she was desperate to hear Lydia’s gossip.
She went to her desk and opened her strongbox, extracted the cash, and handed it over. Lydia stuck it into her cleavage.
“Write me a note that I can take to the seamstress in the village,” Lydia pressed.
“About what?”
“About the dresses. Beg pardon, Mrs. Seymour, but I won’t have you claiming you don’t owe them to men.”
Maud gnawed on her lip, wondering if she shouldn’t fire the cheeky girl, but in the end, she dipped her quill in the ink pot and penned the voucher for Lydia’s clothes.
“I can read, Mrs. Seymour,” Lydia mentioned, “so don’t try any funny business. I’ll know if you’ve allowed the sewing or not.”
Maud seethed again. She’d planned to scribble a few sentences of gibberish. How was it that Lydia understood her so completely? They were possessed of the same penchant for deceit, so perhaps Lydia recognized treachery when she stumbled on it.
Maud finished the letter, waiting impatiently as Lydia read every word. Satisfied, Lydia tucked it into her cleavage, too.
“What is it?” Maud said. “I’m all ears.”
“It’s about Jane Hamilton. Where would you like me to start?”
HELEN walked into Maud Seymour’s sitting room, struggling not to appear nervous, but she couldn’t help it. She’d never previously been invited to Seymour’s private quarters, and the summons boded ill.
The furniture had been oddly situated, with Seymour seated in a large, comfortable chair, but another chair—a hard, straight-backed one—had been set across from it. Apparently, an interrogation was about to commence, with Helen the person who would be questioned.
What was her crime? She couldn’t imagine.
Thank heavens Tristan hadn’t yet left for Scotland. She was amazed that—whatever her transgression—Mrs. Seymour hadn’t delayed until he was gone so that Helen would be unprotected.
“Yes, Mrs. Seymour?” Helen smiled, hoping she looked amiable. “You asked to see me?”
The woman gestured to the empty chair, and Helen sat.
“I’ve never been one to beat around the bush,” Seymour began, “so I won’t hesitate to reveal that I never wanted you in this house.”
At the vicious remark, Helen was taken aback. She was silent, grappling with how to respond.
Courtesy won out.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Helen evenly stated, “for I’ve been happy in my position.”
“I’ll bet you have. It’s easy to be content when you’ve glommed on to your better
s like a leech on a thigh. Do you enjoy being a charity case? With your antecedents, it must come naturally.”
Helen inhaled a deep breath, counted to ten, then let it out. She stood.
“If you have a specific complaint, I suggest you discuss it with Captain Odell.”
“I intend to.” Seymour’s tone threatened enormous trouble. “In the meantime, we’re not finished. Sit down.”
“I’d rather not”
She turned to go, when Seymour bellowed, “Sit down, Miss Hamilton!”
Helen was so furious, she was trembling, but she complied, positive that Seymour wouldn’t desist until she said what she was dying to say.
“I don’t answer to you, Mrs. Seymour, despite how you wish it were otherwise. Captain Odell has been very clear that I should only take orders from him, but I try to be agreeable. I will listen to you, but I will not be in-sulked.”
“The captain may be your employer,” Seymour retorted, “but if you think you can stay here without my approval, you should think again. Tell me about your sister’s relationship with the earl.”
The query was so unexpected that, initially, Helen had no idea to whom she referred.
“My sister Jane,” she asked, “and Lord Hastings?”
“Yes.”
“They’re cordial. They’re friends. They ride horses every day. They’ve danced at some of the parties. Why?”
“Is she pregnant?”
Helen came halfway to her feet. “What?”
“Is she? Don’t lie to me. The truth will emerge—sooner rather than later.”
“You have some gall, making unfounded accusations.”
Seymour scoffed. “Was pregnancy your game all along? I’ve been curious about your motive in being here. Maybe I’ve finally exposed it. After all, a bastard baby would bring good fortune to a trio of homeless, disowned females.”
“You believe that we ... that I... that she ...”
Helen was so enraged that she couldn’t complete a thought. The allegation left her dazed. Her legs gave out and she sank into the chair.
“Are you planning to demand a stipend?” Seymour continued. “A trust fund? A house for the little bugger? All at Michael’s expense, of course.”
Seymour’s cruel character—which she typically sought to conceal—was fully unmasked. Helen’s loathing was unleashed, too, and for the first time in her life, she worried that she might attack another person. Her fists were actually itching to land a few blows.