The Lies of Lord John (Bonnie Brides Book 5)

by Fiona Monroe

  He had always found a housemaid's plain cotton cap more alluring than the most fashionable feathered turban.

  "Good morning," he said.

  The little figure froze then darted a quick glance back. When she saw that Lord John was awake and sitting up in bed, confusion suffused her pretty cheek. She turned quickly back to her work.

  "You're new, aren't you? Have I seen you around before?"

  No longer able to pretend that her master was not addressing her, the girl got to her feet, dropped a curtsy, and looked at the floor. "No, yes, my lord. I've been in the kitchens, my lord. Mrs. Swankie said I might try out as housemaid this week."

  "Mrs. Swankie has great good sense. What is your name, my dear?"

  "Rosie, my lord. Oh, I mean Spink. I'm Spink, if it please, my lord."

  "It does not please me. Spink, what a foul name. Why should I call you that, when you have another so beautiful as Rosie? What's in a name? That which we call Rosie, would she by her ugly surname smell as sweet? Come over here."

  The maid stood still, like a fawn frozen in the sights of a rifle.

  "Come," said John again, dropping his tone. "Don't be alarmed. I want to see you in the light."

  "My lord, I have to—" She indicated the fire-tending apparatus around her feet.

  "Come here."

  With only a little hesitation more, the girl approached the bed. As she came near, he saw that her cheeks were flaming as red as the flower that was her namesake. She was full in the bloom of youth, plump and lovely.

  She stood on the carpet next to the bed, twisting her hands together, her eyes downcast.

  "Rosie," he said, gently. "Look at me. I want to see your eyes."

  Rosie bit her lower lip in a most charming manner and lifted her gaze as ordered. Her eyes were bright blue, in contrast to the near black of the hair that was still struggling to escape its confinement, and they were full of trepidation.

  But there was a hint of fascination there. She was agitated, she was afraid, but she was also intrigued.

  "Her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright," said John, reaching slowly out to touch her face, "that birds would sing and think it were not night."

  "M-my lord?"

  "Shakespeare, Rosie. The Swan of Avon. Have you read Shakespeare?"

  "I can't, my lord. Can't read, I mean."

  "Tut. You must have heard the Bard read, though, I'm sure."

  "N-no, my lord. My father reads from the Bible on a Sunday night, my lord."

  "All well and proper, no doubt. But what is life without poetry? Wouldn't you like to hear some of the most beautiful words ever penned, Rosie?"

  "I-I should get back to my work, my lord, begging your pardon—"

  "Come closer. Sit here." He pressed the edge of the bed. "Come on. Don't be frightened." He held out his hand.

  She had dropped her eyes once more, a picture of proper modesty and respect, but he knew she was gazing at his outstretched hand. He flexed his fingers, once. After a long hesitation, a delicious few seconds during which John felt his heart begin to thump hard again and his manhood rise to press against the blankets, she reached for him.

  Carefully, holding back his eagerness and sense of triumph through long practice, John caught the soft fingers. Her hand was a little calloused and reddened—of course, it was, but plump and fresh nonetheless. He tugged gently, too gently to genuinely compel, and she came up against the edge of the bed with a stumble.

  "There now, Rosie. You'll be more comfortable here. Sit down, just for a little while."

  "My lord, please, I should go—"

  "No need to go just yet, Rosie. Sit and tell me a little about yourself."

  "It's not fit that I should sit in your presence, my lord."

  "It's fit enough if I say it is. I command you, sit."

  "Yes, my lord." She obeyed abruptly, making the feather mattress dip. Her face was aflame and turned from him. She was trembling, but she had made no move to withdraw her hand from his.

  He sat up further, moving with great care. He could sense that the bird would startle and flee if he pounced too soon. "Tell me, Rosie. Has any man kissed those rosebud lips?"

  "N-no, my lord."

  "Truly?"

  She was silent for a moment too long then stammered, "I am a good girl, my lord."

  "I'm sure you are, Rosie. A very good girl. There's no harm in a kiss."

  He brushed her cheek with the lightest touch, then traced his fingers down its glowing smoothness, held her chin, and lifted her face to his. He gazed deep into those startling blue eyes, saw frightened yearning there, and kissed her mouth fleetingly. Just a swift, sweet taste of its softness.

  A breath escaped her, a gasp that was at once a squeak of terror and a sigh of longing. Her lips parted, a sure sign that she wanted more, whether she knew it or not. He lost no time in pulling her into a full embrace, and she returned his kiss with a willingness that was unmistakable.

  He stole a hand to her bosom, to cup the fullness of one breast.

  "My lord—" She ducked out of the kiss and wriggled as if to squirm from his arms.

  "Hush, Rosie. It's all right. Do these laces come undone? I just want to look, that's all. Just a little look."

  The neck of the housemaid's plain working dress was fastened by a single, hastily knotted cord. With practiced fingers, he released the binding and gave a small downward tug. All at once, her breasts were revealed, two ripe, creamy, wondrous orbs.

  He managed to catch hold of one and squeeze its full, hot softness before Rosie let out a squeal and clutched her dress back together.

  "My lord! For shame!"

  "Shame? There's no shame in obliging your master, is there? Be a good girl, Rosie. Let me look."

  She released her grip on her laces, her lip trembling, and sat still and without further protest as he eased the bodice down once more. He took a moment to admire the sight of her naked bosom, round and full and lovely, then gently pressed her upper body back onto the pillows.

  "Oh no, my lord—"

  "Hush. I'll do you no harm. How do you like this?"

  He took one perfect pink nipple into his mouth and felt it harden against his tongue. He felt, too, the tension in her body begin to melt. She arched her back and closed her eyes, and her mouth fell open a little as he flicked his tongue against the stiffened nipple.

  Without ceasing that ministration, he dared to caress her ankle. She was wearing boots, but below her rough woollen work skirts, her legs were quite bare. No stockings or other undergarments impeded the slow, delicate progress of his hand along her calf, over her knee, up the buttery hot smoothness of her inner thigh. There was, as he had anticipated from the first, no barrier to guard her secret place. It burned against his feather-light touch, and Rosie gasped.

  "My lord, oh, no, please! Please, my lord, you must not—I must not—"

  She subsided into whimpers when his fingers found the nub of her womanhood and caressed it, and she let her legs fall apart as if unconscious of how her body betrayed her words. With great care, he tried to slip a finger into her. She was swollen and moist, but he could not. His finger encountered a slippery, yielding barrier.

  She was a maid.

  John drew back for a moment, his entire body taut with ardour. The canal-water stink of his dream, the lingering of jewel-light from the Venetian chapel, had faded away. This was an unlooked-for delight, a thrilling surprise to console him after the nightmare. The girl was fair, and a blooming, hearty nineteen years at least. That her treasure should be as yet unplundered had not seemed likely; he had taken her tremblings and protests as the usual charade of modesty, but it seemed that her innocence was genuine. This girl had what might be sold for fifty guineas in a London whorehouse, and he could have it now for the price of a few whispered endearments.

  Distantly, he registered the sound of wheels and hooves on gravel as he took the girl once more into his arms and pulled her more entirely into the bed.
She had probably never in her life lain on scented linen sheets, nor on a feather mattress. Her eyes were wide both with fear and wonder and scared surrender. Dimly, he half-formed the thought that it was an unusual hour for a gentleman's carriage to arrive—only visitors for the family would draw up at the front of the house—but almost all his attention was on the girl. He unbuttoned one of her boots and eased it off. The rough woollen skirts and coarse apron he rather liked, but he did not want boots in his bed.

  "My lord, please—"

  Her naked foot, white and diminutive, was charming.

  "In the lands of the Orient," he murmured, caressing it, "men yearn for a glimpse of a lady's bare foot. The ladies there keep them tiny, somehow, like a child's. No need for that here. Yours are beautiful, just as they are." He released the other one and tossed the boot to the floor.

  Now her legs were bare from her toes to her inner delights, and with slow relish, he began to work the hem of her skirts up to her knees.

  She was lying still and did not seem likely to flee, but he leaned across her and captured one arm gently with his to secure her in case she took sudden fright. Again, he kissed her waiting mouth, tasting her excitement and alarm, and again, he set his hand exploring between her willingly parted thighs. He had to suppress a groan of desperate desire as his manhood brushed against her knee through the cotton fabric of his nightshirt. The urge simply to open her legs, lift his shirt, and plunge right into her was almost overpowering. But that would be to rush one of life's rarer pleasures. The taking of a maidenhead was a serious business.

  He stroked the centre of her pleasure and caressed her bosoms, all the while kissing her face and mouth and neck. The greater her transports, the less painful it would be for her and the easier for him. He wanted to batter down the gates then slip triumphantly into a welcoming embrace, not to fight his way in. He could never understand why men would take a girl by force, when it was so much more entertaining to make them gasp and pant and surrender themselves.

  Somewhere deep in the house, a door banged.

  "My lord, my lord—" Rosie could hardly get the words out as he ran his palm again and again over her burning, swollen womanhood. He had not yet feasted his eyes on the treasures between her thighs but only felt the many wondrous folds and the little nub now standing hot and stiff.

  It was time to look. He slid her skirts over the top of her thighs to her waist and spread her knees.

  "Please, no, my lord, no, ohh!" She squeaked in surprise and moaned when he dipped his head to kiss what was revealed.

  "So beautiful," he murmured and tasted her sweetness again.

  She arched herself forward to press against his mouth, still gasping, "No, please don't. Please, my lord—"

  He could bear it no longer. His mind was clouded with the urgency of passion, so that he barely heard the rapid, near running footsteps in the corridor outside his room. He lay over Rosie so that his weight pinned her to the bed and ran his hand back and forth along her now naked thighs.

  "Oh, no—"

  "It's all right, Rosie. There's nothing to be afraid of. I'll be gentle."

  He lifted his nightshirt, and she gave a small cry as she saw him exposed.

  "My lord, you can't—"

  "It's all right," he said again, trying to keep his tone soothing and low, but his voice was thick and hoarse with lust, and he knew he was on the verge of losing control. He had to take her, before he exploded.

  She had closed her legs in a last feeble bid to guard her virtue but offered no resistance as he eased them apart once more with his knee. He captured her mouth with his and kissed hard to distract her from any thoughts of eleventh hour escape.

  On the very point of storming the barricades, when the tip of the ram was rested against the portcullis in readiness for the assault, a voice sounded as if from far away. "My lord, I beg your pardon, I knocked three times but—Rosie? Rosie, is that—get away from there, at once, you wicked child!"

  Groggy and utterly disorientated, Lord John rose to his knees and saw that Mrs. Swankie, the housekeeper, had entered his bedchamber unsummoned.

  Rosie shrieked and rolled off the bed, clutching her dress over her bosom.

  "Good God," said Lord John. His breath felt short; his head was dizzy. He glared at the housekeeper. "Swankie, how dare you come barging in here."

  "I'm sorry, my lord," said Mrs. Swankie, neither looking nor sounding apologetic. She was frowning in outrage at Rosie, who had started to cry. "But it could not wait. His Lordship is insisting that you go to him immediately."

  "At this hour? It's before breakfast!" There was no need to ask which lordship was in question. There was only one man who could have the temerity to summon him in this fashion—his eldest brother, James, the fourteenth Marquess of Crieff. "What in God's name is the matter? Is his lordship ill? Or her ladyship?" He felt a slight qualm of alarm, as it was more likely that his sister-in-law had taken ill.

  Mrs. Swankie caught hold of Rosie's arm and shook her. "Wheest your noise, you little strumpet. Aye, just you wait till your father hears of your shameless conduct. Get about your work!"

  At the mention of her father, Rosie burst into noisier sobs but said nothing as she gathered her boots and slunk out of the room.

  Mrs. Swankie waited until the door had closed behind her, before turning her disapproving gaze back toward him and saying, "My lord, your brother has arrived from town. From London, I mean, all the way from London. He travelled overnight."

  "My brother, which brother? I have five of 'em, Swankie."

  Mrs. Swankie was clearly very agitated. "I beg your pardon, my lord, I mean to say Lord Gordon."

  Just like Gordon, John thought, to interrupt his fun, "And what the blazes is my dear brother Gordon about, doing something so unlike himself as a moonlit dash in a carriage and four?"

  Mrs. Swankie heaved a breath. "My lord, he is hurt. My lord, he says someone tried to kill him. My lord, he says that you are to blame."

  Chapter 3

  Margaret's heart was thundering under her breast as she closed the door to her bedroom and listened. Her uncle's house in the fashionable location of Charlotte Square had a grand central marble staircase, which wound its way up through four of the six stories, and from the landing outside her bedroom on the second floor, she could see all the way down to the black-and-white tiles of the entrance hall. Standing here, it was possible to hear everything that was going on in the main part of the house.

  All was silent, as expected. Her aunt and cousin would be in the parlour behind the drawing room, where they retired after dinner every evening. Her uncle might have joined them, or he might still be finishing his port alone in the dining room. All was tranquil at present. She ducked back as one of the footmen glided across the hallway bearing a silver tray with a decanter of port and a single glass. Her uncle was probably in the parlour, then, and had summoned another drink.

  Margaret had retired immediately after dinner, claiming that she had a terrible headache and was going to bed. Nobody had questioned her, beyond uttering a few words of stilted concern. Nobody, she was prepared to wager, would trouble to check on her later in the evening. They would assume she had gone to sleep and would not disturb her. As long as she could be back in her room before the maid came in the next morning, it would be as if she had never left.

  Her plan was a simple one. She slipped through the plain door set unobtrusively flush to the wall at the back of the landing, one of many which led into the mysterious realm belonging to the servants. She knew that it must be possible to get out of the house via the back staircase and the kitchens without being observed by anyone in the family, but she had never before set foot into the servants' quarters. It felt like a real transgression to step across the threshold into the dark, bare, enclosed stairwell, and the trespass heightened her sense of danger and exhilaration.

  The staircase was dimly lit by a skylight somewhere above, and Margaret was able to make her cautious way down the steep stai
rs by tracing her hand along the wall. Her feet were encased in evening slippers, so made no sound on the wooden steps. She made it to the bottom without encountering anyone and found herself in a stone-flagged passageway with mustard coloured walls and many doors leading off it, all closed. There was a board nearby on the wall mounted with small bells. Margaret peered up at it and saw that the name of a principal room was painted underneath each: drawing room, parlour, study, Mr. Cochrane's bedchamber, Miss Bell's bedchamber. In a noticeably different hand, someone had added 'Miss Rankine's bedchamber'.

  As she stared in fascination, the bell labelled 'parlour' shivered then gave a smart little chime.

  Margaret knew she had to move quickly. She could already hear flat, heavy footsteps thudding behind one of the doors and an indistinct call in a loud female voice. She opened the nearest door and slipped into the dark room behind it, leaving a small crack open to observe what was happening in the corridor.

  Mrs. Guthrie, the cook, emerged from somewhere further down the passage and lumbered up to look at the board. The bell that had rung was still swaying gently.

  "Parlour!" she called in a coarse shout. "Souter! Where are you?"

  She had thought at first that the room she had hidden in was completely dark, but now that Margaret's eyes had adjusted, she realised there was a small window on the back wall letting in a greying light. The enclosed space smelled strongly of cheese and meat. She was in a pantry, lined with shelves packed with stoneware jars, onions, leeks, and truckles of cheese wrapped in cloth, with two huge ham legs and four feathered pheasants hanging from a rack on the ceiling. There was also another door.