Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  “I’m glad you think so. Now then, what do you propose for my hair?”

  “Dressed high up toward the back of your head, miss? With that little pearl band, and some ringlets about your forehead? ’Twould be wondrous cunning.”

  Gwendolyn laughed. “You know how I feel about the curling-tongs! Well, you’ll wear me down eventually, I suppose. But for tonight, perhaps let’s just draw back the front hair with some pins—those pretty ones with the little brilliants on them.”

  “Very well, miss,” said Lizzie, and went about her work, and when she was done, Gwendolyn was pleased with the results. Her gown really was lovely, with its short puffed sleeves and rather full skirt; she liked how it swirled about her ankles when she danced. And Lizzie was a marvel with her hair—it looked so sleek and elegant, with just a touch of pomade to give it an added luster. Gwendolyn did want to look nice for the Earl. In fact, she wanted to look tempting to him. For she had been thinking hard. She wasn’t finished with her scientific experiment.

  On the sofa opposite Christopher, Percy lay half-sprawled, holding in one hand a glass full to the brim with brandy. His neckcloth had loosened and his golden hair was rumpled. “This,” he said cheerfully to Christopher, “is rather more in my line.”

  Christopher glanced around the crowded drawing-room. As they’d ridden away from the Egremont townhouse, Percy had invited him to an evening-party hosted by the Viscount and Viscountess Tarrington in their palatial townhouse in Berkeley Square. Gilding and crystal and mirrors everywhere, the fatty sweet scent of innumerable candles burning, soft rich carpets underfoot, everything suggestive of money liberally spent.

  The Viscountess herself—a self-assured woman in her mid-twenties who spoke in a Scottish accent intermingled with some kind of French patois—seemed eminently suited to such an opulent setting: she was dressed in velvet and silks, and jewels sparkled in her earlobes, her befeathered headdress, on her fingers and at her wrists; around her neck and descending into a daringly low décolletage which showcased a monumental embonpoint. (Her husband the Viscount, on the other hand, looked abashed in his expensive-looking evening-clothes, stared around him as if amazed by his luxurious surroundings, spoke in a stammering mutter, and altogether gave the strong impression of being a fish out of water.)

  As for the gathering, the atmosphere here was decidedly less formal than that which he’d encountered last night at the Duchess’s; it was much noisier. Voices were louder and there was a good deal of raucous laughter. People were drinking, playing cards, helping themselves to a lavish buffet which took up the entire length of a wall; servants circulated busily, replenishing beverages and carrying away empty plates and glasses.

  Christopher looked thoughtfully at the champagne flute he held in one hand. So assiduous were the servants that he could have been well on the way toward being entirely drunk by now. But last night had sufficed on that score, and he was content with the one glass he’d had. Owen—seated next to Percy—seemed to have come to the same decision, and was instead happily and methodically plundering the buffet, just now focusing his attention on an enormous lamb cutlet swimming in mushroom sauce.

  Francis had declined the invitation, saying he wanted to work on his essay about Emanuel Swedenborg, which only made Percy roll his eyes and say, Some dashed dull dog, I’ve no doubt, quite likely moldering in his grave. Come on and join us, there’s a good fellow, Frank!

  Francis had stood his ground, however, and for a minute or two Percy seemed genuinely angry with him. And then Helen had sidled over to where Christopher stood next to his horse and said with what struck him as a kind of nervous intensity, I say, you will come tomorrow, won’t you?

  He had smiled and nodded, and she looked oddly relieved. Disproportionately relieved. For some reason he had felt sorry for her.

  It had felt much more natural to hear Gwendolyn say goodbye to him, to hear her say, easily, Tomorrow then, Christopher, and to see her friendly smile.

  He wondered where she was tonight.

  He hoped she was having a good time, wherever she was.

  “This is nearly as good as a maze, isn’t it?” Gwendolyn said mischievously, provocatively, to the Earl. They had left the Aymesburtons’ ballroom through one of the wide-open French doors and onto a broad stone portico; from there they had made their way into a long, deep garden filled with beautifully tended sycamore, elm, and beech trees as well as a dazzling variety of shrubs and flowerbeds, leaving behind them the bright flickering candelabra, the crowded parquet floor, the music of the orchestra. Now they stood in a remote, quiet corner of the garden, shielded from view by two towering marble planters filled with fragrant white Daphne flowers.

  The Earl looked down at her in the moonlight, smiling. “If I didn’t know any better, my darling, I’d guess you were trying to lead me astray.”

  “Can you, Julian?” Gwendolyn stepped closer to him, her heart beating strongly within her, and her breath coming more rapidly. “Be led astray?”

  “Lead away,” was all he said, before taking her in his arms.

  So far so good, she thought, and reached up to cradle his handsome face between her hands. Here goes. “Julian,” she whispered, “let me kiss you.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “You’re full of surprises, my love.”

  Gwendolyn supposed she was being unmaidenly, or indecorous, or immodest, or brazen, or wanton—or any one of the dozens of words used to describe female behavior in a negative way—but what did she care?

  She would not be judged.

  The heart wanted what the heart wanted.

  And so did the body.

  Flowing all throughout her—legs, arms, breasts, between her legs, everywhere—was a wonderful, warm, pulsing energy, delicious, fiery, demanding. And good. Of that she had no doubt. Goodness incarnate.

  She lifted herself up on her toes and brought her mouth onto Julian’s. His beautiful warm mouth. She wanted it. Wanted him.

  His lips parted, and his tongue was there, wet and eager.

  “No,” she whispered. “Let me.”

  Obediently he subsided. But she could hear, feel, his breath coming faster, too, and was satisfied.

  And now, for the first time, her tongue was tasting, exploring him. A tang of champagne, a hint of chocolate. Yes, delicious.

  She kissed him cautiously. Slowly; unsurely. Then with more confidence.

  He was lovely, this was lovely.

  This was what she wanted.

  The feel of his tall strong body against hers; the smooth, yet slightly rough texture of his warm skin against the soft flesh of her hands.

  Oh, bliss.

  A little happy breathy sound escaped her and firmly she wound her arms around his neck to bring herself yet closer.

  “My love,” Julian murmured against her mouth, his deep voice ragged. “Let me now—let me—”

  One of his hands was between them and at her chest, searching, searching, till it found the curve of her left breast, cupping it, squeezing in a slow deliberate way that suddenly made Gwendolyn think of how one might test a pear for ripeness. And then it was Julian who was doing the kissing now, filling her mouth fully with his tongue, jerking her out of that sweet trance of pleasure as his hand groped for her other breast, finding it, slowly squeezing it—like a grocer in a shop, she thought, and despite herself the image instantly formed in her mind. A scale and a signboard: fruit for sale. Julian the proprietor, enveloped in a big white apron, delicately evaluating the pears while customers stood by, ready with their baskets.

  Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, she sternly warned herself, and tried to focus again on sensation alone, Julian’s warm hand against the thin layers of silk and cambric of her bodice, the lingering kiss which had begun to feel rather familiar—so soon?—and now his other hand sliding down along her waist, around the curve of her hip, to the small of her back and down, quickly, to her backside which he clenched so enthusiastically that she let out a shrill yawp of surprise.

  Oh d
ear, she sounded exactly like Señor Rodrigo whenever someone surprised him in a nap. He’d bolt awake clutching his perch and make just that sound, glaring so comically that it was impossible not to laugh.

  “My darling, my precious darling, I’m so very sorry.” Julian was peering anxiously into her face. “I’m afraid I got carried away—the throes of passion, you know. I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  With supreme effort Gwendolyn banished the memories of Señor Rodrigo looking both deeply offended and extremely indignant, and managed likewise to repress the fit of giggles bubbling inside her. It would be terrible to laugh at such a moment. “No, no, Julian, you didn’t hurt me,” she said, glad that she sounded reasonably composed. “You only—you only surprised me, that’s all.”

  “It’s just that—” He drew her into his arms again. “It’s just that you’re so beautiful, so lovely, and I want you so much, my darling.”

  “I want you too.”

  “My love, my love,” he whispered, and began to kiss her all over her upturned face—quick, light touches of his lips upon her forehead, cheeks, chin, mouth—and next he bent his head to nuzzle at the side of her face, to nibble at her earlobe, to draw his tongue around the perimeter of her ear.

  “Oh my,” murmured Gwendolyn, feeling her body react with a jolt of warm sinuous pleasure. “Do that again, Julian.”

  He did, and Gwendolyn forgot all about pears and giggling and Señor Rodrigo. That warm pleasure within her bloomed and spread, all throughout her, everywhere, till there was nothing but this moment, this man, this goodness—

  “You’re so beautiful, so very beautiful,” Julian said softly into her ear, and she shivered deliciously. “Can you feel how much I want you?”

  Could she? Gwendolyn found herself puzzling over the question. Because he was giving her pleasure, did that mean she could assume he desired her? Also, even though she was inexperienced in these matters, it did sound like one of those questions which presumed an affirmative sort of response. Should she lie and say yes, despite not being really sure? She hated lying. Honesty was something that was so very important to her. On the other hand, she didn’t want to hurt Julian’s feelings. Was this a situation in which a small falsehood would serve the greater good?

  Apparently it was all right not to say anything, as Julian was taking her hand and smiling at her.

  “Let me show you,” he said softly. “Let me show you how much I want you, my love.”

  He brought her hand to the front of his black silk breeches, and gently pressed it to the—well, there was a hard cylindrical sort of thing underneath the silk. It had to be an actual part of his anatomy. What a curious shape, all tube-like. And then it made sense.

  Once, at home, back when she and her brothers had been little and they would take their baths in the kitchen, she had just come into the entry hall and the door to the kitchen passageway was flung open. Out hurtled Francis, stark naked and wet, followed by Percy, also naked and wet, brandishing a piece of toweling which he was flicking at Francis’s bottom, both of them howling with laughter. This was how she’d learned a little bit about the male body and its appendages. Oh, how scandalized Cook had been by the boys’ behavior! Even so, Gwendolyn, Percy, and Francis had laughed about it for months afterwards.

  “You can squeeze it,” Julian whispered encouragingly.

  “What?”

  His hand closed over hers a little more firmly, to demonstrate what he meant. “Go ahead, my love, you won’t hurt me.”

  Squeeze it?

  And right away, there it was in her hideously unruly imagination: the scale and the signboard, only now it read vegetables for sale, Julian in the big white apron, encouraging a customer to test a—a cucumber for firmness.

  Gwendolyn bit her lip, hard. She would not laugh. But neither was she going to squeeze Julian’s body part. Even if it meant she was being ungenerous after he had licked her ear and made her feel so good. Besides, surely that wasn’t the way things were supposed to go? Surely she wasn’t obligated to do things, just because he’d done things to her?

  Suddenly Gwendolyn felt very confused. And tired—not physically, but mentally. Her brain was exhausted. How had life gotten so complicated, and so quickly? She pulled her hand free and stepped back. “Julian, I think I hear someone coming.” Which was a lame, stupid lie. And irrationally, she blamed him for it. She was glad when they began walking back to the ballroom. He was thanking her, thanking her over and over again with sweet earnestness, and she was ashamed by how relieved she was to go on to her next partner, for a quadrille, and to make a little light chitchat with him, and let her mind rest for a while.

  When she was back in her bedroom in the Egremont townhouse, in her nightgown and with her hair plaited by Lizzie into a single long braid down her back, she still didn’t feel physically tired, even though it was very late in the evening.

  “Leave those candles, Lizzie. I’ll blow them out myself.”

  “Are you sure, miss?”

  “Yes indeed. Thank you—and goodnight.”

  When Lizzie had left, closing the door carefully behind her, Gwendolyn wondered what she should do now. Thanks to Lizzie, her room was immaculate and orderly, so there was nothing to tidy up.

  Gwendolyn went to the fireplace and picked up one of the iron pokers with which she idly and unnecessarily jabbed at the cheerily burning logs. The warmth from the fire felt good on her bare toes, but she couldn’t stand here all night poking logs. Maybe she could read for a while?

  She went to the table next to her bed and looked at the volumes there.

  Endymion. History of a Six Weeks’ Tour. Frankenstein. Rob Roy. Emma. Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays. And Katherine’s English Ships Out of Portsmouth: A National Heritage, which Aunt Claudia had illustrated so wonderfully, just as she had for Katherine’s first book, about Liverpool ships. Gwendolyn was nearly finished with English Ships Out of Portsmouth, admiring Katherine’s writing so much, and Aunt Claudia’s drawings, too, but she just wasn’t in the mood to read right now.

  Her eye fell upon the table’s drawer.

  Of course!

  She pulled open the drawer. There was her sketchbook and a variety of pencils as well as Conté crayons in black, white, gray, reddish brown. It was always soothing to draw when she felt restless or troubled.

  Gwendolyn got into bed, propped up her pillows, tugged the covers up around her waist, and opened her sketchbook to a blank page.

  What should she draw?

  A sparkle of crimson abruptly drew her attention to her left hand, to the lovely antique ring Julian had given her; the way the rubies glittered in the candlelight was almost mesmerizing.

  Imagine—Queen Elizabeth herself had held this ring in her hand so many years ago. Julian’s ancestress had worn it, as had so many others in the Westenbury line. Beyond its monetary value, the historical and sentimental heritage of this ring was quite literally priceless. That Julian had given it to her was a clear symbol of his love—his devotion—his trust.

  Julian. Soon to be her husband.

  Gwendolyn used a plain graphite pencil to begin creating a sketch of his beautifully molded head, his hair so fashionably cropped à la Brutus, and strong wide shoulders. When at length she got to his mouth—its firm and shapely lines straight out of classical antiquity—she paused.

  What had she learned so far in her scientific experiment?

  She thought about what had happened today between the Earl and herself, at Richmond and at the ball.

  A little chill went through her, and she pulled the covers a bit higher.

  It certainly seemed as if she didn’t enjoy kissing as much as she’d thought she would.

  There had been moments when she did, but overall today’s experiences hadn’t gone as she’d hoped.

  This was a disturbing conclusion.

  She had tried hard to enjoy it all. And Julian had been very eager. Flatteringly so, in fact.

  What had gone wrong?

  Perhap
s this was a time for brutal honesty. After all, she did value honesty so deeply.

  And maybe the truth was that there was something wrong with her.

  Gwendolyn recalled again the time she had interrupted Katherine and Hugo in Katherine’s study—how happy they looked emerging from the kiss they’d been sharing. And she suddenly remembered her friend Diana, Christopher’s sister, telling her, back in Whitehaven when they were both about fifteen, that she’d let the butcher’s son—a bold, good-looking lad much admired by the town’s girls—kiss her behind the shop. Oh, it was marvelous, Gwennie, and so romantic, I felt as if I was floating, Diana had said. I could have let him kiss me forever if his mother hadn’t come out and found us. I wonder how she knew we were there?

  Gwendolyn remembered being amazed that Diana had thought being kissed behind the butcher’s shop romantic. The smell certainly wasn’t. But evidently kissing was so delightful that one could overlook such sordid surroundings.

  Oh dear, there had to be something wrong with her.

  Gwendolyn blinked and realized that she’d left off Julian’s portrait and had instead drawn a little pear on a scale.

  She looked down at her chest.

  Was the problem that she wasn’t—well, made for desire?

  Her breasts were quite small, nor did she have much in the way of hips. Maybe she wasn’t womanly enough.

  She drew another pear.

  Or maybe she was just bad at kissing.

  She drew two little disembodied tongues holding tiny swords. She gave them fierce faces. And had one of them say, in a stream of words in all-capital letters issuing from its disproportionately large mouth, En garde!

  It didn’t seem as humorous as it had earlier on.

  She wished there were someone she could ask about kissing and so on. If she were at home, she could probably talk to Katherine, who was so kind and clever, and as dear to her as any sister-by-birth could be. But she wasn’t at home, and it wasn’t the sort of thing one could write about in a letter. Besides, this was urgent.