by Anita Mills
"You do not have to toadeat me, sir," she muttered.
Joseph and another footman reentered, one carrying a silver bowl, the other a tray with two cups. "Ye got ter do something about that Frog, miss, 'cause he ain't wanting ter do nothing fer anybody."
"He isn't a Frog," she said wearily. "He is an émigré."
"Well, he's a Frenchy, ain't he? Mr. Rand—"
"I don't care what Papa has called him—I don't wish to hear it."
"Aye." He set down the bowl and took the cups, dipping the heated mixture into them. "Now it's a mite stronger than what ye've had," he warned her. "Graves said ye needed more than as fit fer a lady."
"As I am not a lady anyway, I am sure it will be fine."
Patrick took the cup from the footman and handed it to her, advising her to sip it. As the servants withdrew, she took a gulp and nearly choked. As tears came to her eyes, she croaked, "What is it?"
After tasting his, he decided, "It has honey, rum, and lemons it it—possibly something else also."
She shuddered as the fiery mixture hit her stomach. " 'Tis rather strong, isn't it?" she managed.
"It grows on you when you get used to it," he murmured.
"I very much doubt that."
"Just take it a little at a time, and it will make you feel more the thing," he promised. To demonstrate, he sipped his own again. "See—nothing to it. Go on— keep trying."
"Yes, well—you are a man, and you are supposed to like this sort of thing." Nonetheless, she drank gingerly, making faces at him over the rim of her cup. "It could definitely use more sugar."
"In a little while, you'll feel more the thing," he predicted.
"Unless I drink myself unconscious like Papa, I won't feel much better about anything."
"You need to take your mind off your troubles."
"I cannot. I only wish I might do something useful to help Papa." She took another taste of her punch. Feeling the slow warmth diffuse through her stomach, she added, "You behold a desperate female, Hamilton. I have even considered trying to bribe the justices."
"I wouldn't recommend it."
"No, I suppose not."
"Ellie—"
Glancing up, she was all too aware of the warmth that seemed to lighten his hazel eyes. Rather than acknowledge it, she looked to the portrait of a young man over the mantel. "I cannot ever remember him like that," she said slowly, "but Mama said it was a good likeness."
He followed her gaze. "Who is it?"
"Papa. Sir Thomas Lawrence painted it before he was commissioned to do Queen Charlotte—I think it was shortly after he came to London, in fact." She drank again, then smiled. "Papa says it flattered him."
The young man who stared down at him was actually handsome in his loose cambric shirt and flowing stock, his red hair windblown above his piercing blue eyes. "I should think so," Patrick murmured finally. "But there is a certain resemblance between you."
"Actually, I am rather a compromise between them, I think. He was redheaded, she was blond; he was volatile, she was rather placid—and she was reared quite properly in the vicarage, while he was apprenticed so young he can scarce remember his parents."
"When I first met her, I thought you favored your mother more," he mused, still sipping his punch.
"I am my father's daughter, sir—much more like him than my mother in most things." She studied the painting again. "He had it made for her. Her father disapproved of him terribly, so when Lawrence did Queen Charlotte and became exceedingly famous, Papa sent it to the Binghams with his marriage proposal."
"And that lightened the old gent's objections?" "Not entirely. I think those were dispatched with money."
"Gold is usually persuasive," he murmured. Leaning forward, he refilled her cup, then his.
She looked down at the steaming punch. "I've never been foxed, you know," she murmured. "But I don't want to think about being alone just now."
"You aren't alone."
"No." She sipped, then held the cup in her lap. "I mean, before Ben, Papa and I were so very close that I could say anything to him and he could say anything to me. Then I met Ben at the Lord Mayor's house, and nothing was ever the same. Papa was determined to despise him, you see, and Ben was the kindest, most generous person I have ever known. You would have i bought that after the way the Binghams had treated him, Papa would have been more inclined to tolerance, but he wasn't."
He didn't want to hear about Ben Rose, so he tried to turn her thoughts from the dead man. "Are you feeling more the thing?" he asked.
'I feel like I am somebody else," she admitted, her voice low, husky. "I feel like my mind could float away from my body." She drank again. "But I was telling you about Ben, wasn't I?"
"One man never likes to hear about another, Ellie."
'But you are nothing like Ben. Ben," she pronounced definitely, "wanted to do everything right. He thought if we waited, Papa would come around, but I knew he wouldn't. I begged Ben to elope with me, you see. He considered it dishonorable," she added sadly. Looking directly into Patrick's eyes, she laid, "You have never worried about such things, have you?"
'Not often."
"But then I expect you have never loved anyone like that, have you?"
"No."
"And you cannot have ever hurt like I have, Hamilton. And now I shall lose everything—Ben, Papa— even Mama, for I cannot forgive her, you know." She brushed halfheartedly at wet eyes. "There I go again, Hamilton, feeling sorrier for myself than for Papa," she managed huskily.
"Patrick," he said softly.
She blinked again. "What?"
"My name is Patrick."
Her gaze dropped to her hands. "If I said it, I should have to concede intimacy between us, sir, and I don't know if I am prepared for that."
"Even after last night?" he dared to ask her.
"Particularly after that." Her fingertip traced the punch where he'd spilled a few drops of it. "I feel terribly ashamed, you know. Now I am no better than those women Papa has frequented."
"You are nothing like them, Ellie—nothing at all like them."
"Then why are you here?" she cried. "Did you come for another tumble?"
"I don't know why I am here," he answered quietly. "I was going home until I got into the hackney. Then the words just came out when I gave the driver the direction."
She drained her cup, and her mood changed abruptly. "I think you came to get foxed," she decided solemnly.
"Perhaps I did." She was too tightly strung to press just yet, he told himself. "So—shall we get foxed together?"
Looking across to him, she held out her cup. "Yes— and I shall take some more." For a long moment, her blue eyes were fixed on his face. "You know," she said slowly, "were it not for everything else, Hamilton, I should have liked you. But God ought not to have given you those eyes. It was most unfair of Him."
"Oh?"
"They are far too enticing for a man to have."
"That's not very discouraging, Ellie."
"No, it isn't, is it?" she admitted. "All right, then let us speak of the stage. You did say you wished for the stage, didn't you?"
"When I was fifteen or sixteen, I wished for it more than anything."
"I would that you told me about it."
"Only if you tell me what it was like growing up with all this," he murmured, lifting his hand to sweep the room. "I was a younger son in a house in sad need of repair. And I'd hear of how you came to be a female reformer."
"Is that why you don't keep a fancy carriage or a pair of high-steppers?" she asked, ignoring the latter. Or why you do not have a big house in Mayfair?"
"I don't know. I spend what I want, but my needs have never been as great as the money that came my way, I suppose."
"Well, when Papa spends money he says it is be-cause he never had anything when he was young. I have often thought it could go the other way also— that one might be inclined to hang on to one's fortune if one had but lately come into it."
&nbs
p; "I do have a tilbury and a pair," he admitted, smiling. "But you asked about my acting ambition, didn't you? You may very much wish you had not."
"No, I'd like to hear it." She held out her cup. "After you pour me some more."
They sat together before the fire, talking of nearly everything from his disappointments to her concern for those beneath her. One by one, sleepy servants dutifully appeared to ask if anything more was needed, until Elise finally sent them up to their beds, leaving the two of them quite alone.
As he filled her cup with the last of the punch, he murmured, "I have the distinct feeling that you are getting the better of me."
"How so?"
"You know all my secrets now."
"All of them?"
"Most anyway."
She looked at him, seeing the warmth in his eyes, daring to wonder if this were the way she and Ben would have been if they'd wedded. Two people together in the closeness of one fire-warmed room, sharing hopes and fears so deeply buried it took rum to expose them. And yet beneath everything they'd said, there had been a constant, intense awareness of him, of his every gesture, of the way he moved, the way he held his body.
"Is something the matter?" he asked, reaching to take her hand, holding it.
His skin was warm, almost hot, where his fingers grasped hers, making her want to pull away before they burned her. Afraid he could see the effect he had on her, she closed her eyes to hide it from him. She swallowed and tried to compose her thoughts.
"Ellie—"
"Please—" Despite the rum, she felt tauter than a bowstring now, as though she would break into pieces if he touched her further. "I think you had best go. It grows late, and—and I—"
"Kiss me, and I will leave," he said softly, lifting her up from the chair.
"I cannot"
"I know what you feel, Ellie," he whispered, drawing her into his arms. "I can feel it also."
"No, you—"
She got no further as his lips met hers softly, gently, nibbling at the corners of her mouth, tempting her. His hands moved over her body as though there were no clothes between them. Her own lips parted, and as he possessed her mouth, she knew a hunger greater than any shame.
When at last he released her, his eyes were dark with desire. "Do you still want me to go?" he asked harshly.
The very air between them seemed to crackle. And it was as though every fiber of her being cried out for what he offered. For answer, she twined her arms about his neck, clinging to him as though he were life itself, raising her head for another kiss.
It was still dark when the puppy began licking her hand. As she drew her arm back from where it had hung over the side of the bed, she came awake with a groan. For a moment she lay there, aware first of the ache in her head, then that Patrick Hamilton slept soundly behind her. And everything came back to her with an almost painful clarity—the dog, the punch, the whispered words of surrender.
The puppy whimpered. Easing her body from beneath Hamilton's arm, Elise turned to pick the animal up. It wriggled and snuggled beneath her chin as though it sought its mother. She held it close, stroking its soft fur absently, thinking of the man beside her, remembering the intensity of the passion between them.
She'd not meant to let him stay—that had been the rum, she supposed. No, she wasn't being truthful, and she knew it. She'd wanted him to hold her, to ease the ache of loneliness, the terrible fear she felt. But most of all she'd wanted to feel again the heat of his desire, the ecstasy his body gave her.
She was a sinful, wanton woman. She knew that also. And yet as she'd lain beneath him, panting, writhing to slake her own desire, it had seemed so right to be there. As though that were at least part of what she'd been made for.
Somewhere, a clock broke the night silence, striking the hour of four. Startled, the puppy broke free to fall horn the bed, and it fled to seek refuge underneath. Outside, the watch called out, "'Tis four of the clock!" loudly, repeating it thrice, as though there was someone awake to hear him.
Elise turned over, peering through the darkness into Patrick's face, wondering if his head ached also. Very gingerly, she touched his forehead, then traced downward with her fingertip over his straight, even nose, his sensuous lips, and his nearly perfect chin. His breath paused momentarily, then resumed its rhythm.
"You are awake, aren't you?" she said softly.
For answer, he caught her arms and rolled her over him. She squealed in surprise and tried to pull away, but his arms held her. Very deliberately, he nuzzled her neck, then eased his body lower to afford him access to her breasts. As her hair fell like a silken curtain over him, the warm scent of lavender enveloped him.
She was going to tell him her head hurt, but as his tongue touched her nipple, it tautened, and she forgot everything but the sensation there. His lips closed around it, teasing, sucking. As she shivered from the spreading heat, his hands moved over her bare shoulders and back, his fingertips barely touching her. She arched above him, savoring the feel of his mouth on the breast, his body hardening beneath hers.
"Let me love you again ere I have to go," he whispered hotly against her bare skin. As he spoke the words, his fingers slid between them to find the wet softness there.
"Ohhh," she moaned.
Now there was no heaven nor hell, only the exquisite pleasure centered beneath his hand. As he stroked, her whole body seemed to crave what he did to her. Closing her eyes, she threw her head back, and as he tasted first one breast, then the other, she moved with abandon. And when he withdrew his hand, her cry of disappointment dissolved into a long, low moan as he guided himself inside.
She moved her hips eagerly, taking rather than giving, luxuriating in the feeling of power he gave her. Beneath her, he bucked and thrashed, straining, driving harder to stay inside as she sought almost frantically to ease the unbearable, aching need within her. Her breath came in gasps, and her whole body seemed wet with her effort. Finally, he grasped her hips, holding them while she came, and the shudders of her ecstasy carried him home.
She was still, silent now, and as the lavender-scented veil of hair lay like silk over his face, he sought to regain control of his breath. His arms came up to hold her, imprisoning her over his chest.
She lay there, her head just above his heart, listening to the beat of it, nearly too exhausted to move. One of his hands smoothed her hair where it fell over her shoulder, stroking it tenderly.
"Don't get off," he whispered. "I could stay like this forever."
His words were scarce out when the doorknob rattled, and Molly called inside, "Was ye wan tin' me ter take the dog? I thought I was hearin' the creature trying ter get out." She jiggled the knob again. "Ye got yer door locked, miss!"
Patrick put a warning finger over his lips, and Elise nodded. "It is all right," she called back. "I was but frightened—and I did not want her to wander."
"But yer Button was a-crying—I guess it must've wakened ye."
"She's all right also. Go on back to bed, and I'll take care of her. In a little while, I shall take her outside."
"Aye. I thought she was a-bringing the house down about ye," the maid muttered.
They listened as Molly padded back up the stairs to the servants' quarters, then Elise reluctantly rolled away from Patrick. As he reached for her again, she shook her head.
"If she had any notion, I should die of mortification," she said.
"At least I locked the door."
"Yes, well—" She paused awkwardly, scarce able to meet his gaze now. "You'd best go." As she spoke, she pulled the sheet up to cover her nakedness.
He leaned to kiss her, murmuring wickedly, 'Td say you are a bit late for that now." Nonetheless, he sat up. "This is the part I hate, Ellie."
He had his back to her, and for that at least she was grateful. "I daresay you have had a great deal of experience leaving, haven't you?" she managed painfully.
"I suppose I've had my share," he admitted. "But for what it is worth to say it, there'
s been no one I'd compare to you. No one," he repeated.
"If I am supposed to feel flattered, I don't." She swallowed, trying to hide her embarrassment. "I did it for Papa, you know."
He turned around. "Now that, Ellie, is a lie," he declared flatly. "That was the first time, I'll admit that. But last night and this morning were for you, and you know it."
"And you also," she answered nearly too low for him to hear.
"And for me—I don't deny it." Rising from the bed, he lit a candle in the embers of the nearly dead fire, then searched for his clothes. "Damn," he muttered.
"What?"
"I don't think Button needs to go out." He bent over and picked up his wet sock, holding it up. Smiling wryly, he looked at her. "How does the rhyme go? Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John—one shoe off, one shoe on? Well, my dear, I shall make it one stocking off, one stocking on, I think."
The way he said it made her dissolve into laughter, relieving the tension between them. He regarded her sardonically for a moment, then grinned. "You are a complete wretch, Ellie."
She watched from the bed as he found the clothing he'd strewn in haste but hours earlier. As he sat on a chair to pull on the dry stocking, Button dared to peek at him from behind the safety of a bedpost.
"And you are a wretch also," he murmured. "A damned ungrateful one, if you want the truth."
As if it could understand him, the puppy retreated and came up next to Elise's side, where it attempted to jump onto the bed. Bending over, she picked the small animal up and cuddled it, rubbing her cheek against the small, wet nose. Button's tongue lapped eagerly at her face.
"I'd say by the looks of it, you are up for the morning," Patrick observed.
"I hope not."
"I expect she's hungry, don't you?" "Yes, of course."
"Then why don't you come down to see me out? While Button eats, I shall merely slip out the back door—unless you want me to walk her for you."
"How are you getting home?" she asked nervously. "1 cannot very well have our carriage put to without everyone knowing."
He appeared to consider that, then shrugged. "If my poor hackney fellow isn't still waiting, I shall just have to walk until I can hail another."