Lord Perfect

by Loretta Chase

  “Mrs. Woodhouse, sir,” said Thomas. He drew closer and lowered his voice, for as Mrs. Edkins had noted, the place was not entirely asleep. The inn yard in particular tended to be more awake than other parts, with vehicles arriving at intervals throughout the night to change horses. Salt Hill was another popular stop.

  “Madam told the landlady that you are Mr. and Mrs. Woodhouse,” Thomas explained. “But I couldn’t make out whether she gave you a Christian name of John or George.”

  “It hardly matters what she christened me,” Benedict said. “We shall be gone in a trice.”

  Thomas cleared his throat.

  Benedict looked at him. The inn yard was adequately lit. Still, it was difficult to read the footman’s expression.

  “What is it?” Benedict said.

  “Mrs. Woodhouse has obtained a private parlor,” said Thomas. “I would have come sooner, but she wanted the fire built up.”

  “And you obeyed her,” Benedict said. “Though you knew it was my wish to be gone as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you afraid of her, Thomas?”

  “I seen her jump right out of the carriage when the men knocked you down,” said Thomas. “She was quicker than I was, or it would’ve been me, like it should’ve been. I couldn’t help thinking she had your best interests at heart. And if it comes to being afraid or not, my lord, I’d just as soon not be in her black books. So I built up the fire, like she wanted.”

  “I see,” said Benedict.

  “She ordered hot water and bandages and food,” the footman went on doggedly. “She says you must eat something—as soon as she tends to your injuries.”

  “I have no injuries,” Benedict said. “Did I not say so?”

  “My lord, meaning no disrespect, but the ladies are always wanting to pill, plaster, or poultice us,” said Thomas. “It don’t matter whether a man needs it or not. He might as well go along, as it makes the lady happy and saves the time of arguing.”

  Though he saw the simple wisdom of Thomas’s viewpoint, Benedict also saw the suicidal stupidity of letting Bathsheba Wingate put her hands on him, even to apply a medical remedy. His self-control was showing alarming cracks as it was: the brawl, the hug in the carriage, the laughing fit. At present he was far from calm and he was growing fatigued, which would not help his self-control a whit.

  If she touched him, if she stood too close for too long while he had no other important task, like driving, to occupy him and take his mind off her, he was all too likely to make a fatal error.

  Benedict could not follow Thomas’s advice.

  He could not indulge Mrs. Wingate’s fears about injuries or her feminine need to nurse.

  His mind made up, Benedict returned the towel to his servant. In lieu of a comb, Benedict dragged his hand through his hair, which he had no doubt was standing up in curly clumps. He was tempted to ask Thomas how bad it was, but resisted the urge.

  It was not fair. He and Rupert had inherited their mother’s coloring, but Rupert’s hair never fell into ridiculous ringlets or sprang up on end in this absurd manner.

  Not that he was in the least envious of Rupert, who was always in one ridiculous scrape or another and whose life was chaos. How the logical, brainy Daphne tolerated the unpredictability, disorganization, and disorder, Benedict would never understand.

  In any event, the state of Benedict’s hair didn’t signify. He was not attending an assembly at Almack’s. He was not on display as a matrimonial prize. He was not trying to find and win the Perfect Wife.

  Furthermore, Duty and Reason both forbade his trying to make himself attractive to Bathsheba Wingate.

  And so, hoping he did not too closely resemble Grimaldi the clown, Benedict made his way back into the inn and to the private parlor, determined to put everything, including Bathsheba Wingate, in its proper place.

  Chapter 10

  BATHSHEBA HAD CLEANED OFF THE WORST OF the dirt, too, but in a more ladylike way, using the washbowl and pitcher Mrs. Edkins supplied.

  The landlady had not provided a looking glass or hairpins, however, and Bathsheba was trying to arrange her hair without benefit of either when the door to the private parlor was flung open.

  “You have corrupted my footman,” Rathbourne said.

  His damp neckcloth had been hastily tied. The collar of his shirt hung limp. His coat and waistcoat were unbuttoned.

  Gleaming black curls dangled over his brow. Here and there others stood up like corkscrews.

  He had not simply washed his face but stuck his head under the pump, she saw with despair. He was wet.

  She longed to drag her fingers through that unruly mass of curls. She longed to peel off his damp clothes and let her hands roam in places where they ought not to be.

  It was the dratted fight in Colnbrook that was to blame. His reaction when the drunkard touched her. . .the way the men had come after him and he’d knocked them about and tossed them here and there and made it all seem effortless . . . the danger . . .

  She’d loved it.

  She’d found it arousing.

  Typical DeLucey reaction.

  She shoved a hairpin into the rat’s nest on her head. “I am a DeLucey,” she said grimly. “We corrupt everyone.”

  “You will not corrupt me,” he said. “You must make do with enslaving Thomas and making him cater to your mad whims. I am not Thomas, however, and I am not accustomed to being dictated to. Come, we must be off.”

  She stiffened. “I am not accustomed to being dictated to, either,” she said. “I refuse to stir from here until I have made sure you haven’t fractured a rib.”

  “I have not fractured any ribs,” he said.

  “You cannot be sure,” she said. “Before, in the passageway, you favored your right side.”

  “I was trying not to laugh,” he said.

  “You walked oddly afterward,” she said.

  “I was dizzy from laughing so hard,” he said.

  She had felt dizzy watching and listening. When he’d laughed, he’d made her heart ache because he looked so much like a boy and so much like a rogue, and so utterly imperfect and human.

  He was human, breakable like anyone else. Those paroxysms might have worsened his injuries.

  “It will only take a moment,” she said. “Can you not indulge—”

  “I am not an idiot, Mrs. Win—Mrs. Woodhouse,” he said. “If I had broken a rib, I should know it. On account of the pain, you see. My being so manly and stoical does not mean I never feel pain. I have wit enough as well to recognize when I am not in pain. I am not.”

  “There is often a delayed reaction,” she said. “Sometimes hours pass before the shock or excitement fully wears off and the pain—”

  “I am not shocked or excited and we are not hanging about here for hours,” he said. “I am going, madam. You may come along or remain, as you choose.” He turned away and went out of the door.

  He expected her to follow, like a sheep.

  Bathsheba folded her arms and glared at the doorway.

  A moment later, he stomped back into the room. “You are being obstinate for the sake of being obstinate,” he said. “You are determined to challenge me at every turn. This is the same as you did in London. Well, you cannot have your way every time.”

  “But you can?” she said.

  “I refuse to remain here arguing with you,” he said. “It is completely absurd.”

  “I will not be treated like a child,” she said. “You may not take that tone with me. You may not ridicule my reasonable concern. Fractured ribs can prove fatal.”

  His expression abruptly softened. “Yes, of course it is a reasonable concern. I should not make light of it.”

  She relaxed, unfolding her arms.

  He moved toward her, face penitent. “You may tell me all about it,” he said, reaching for her hand. “In the carriage.”

  She backed away, but he moved quickly, too, and scooped her up.

  “Oh, no
,” she said. “You will not use these primitive tactics with me. I will not be flung about like a sack of corn. Put me down.” She punched his chest.

  “Look out for my fractured ribs, my love,” he said with a laugh.

  “I am not your love, you overbearing, sarcastic bully,” she said, trying to wriggle free. “You are not my lord and master. You will not—”

  “You are making a scene,” he said.

  “I have not even begun to make a scene,” she said as they came to the door. “Take one more step and I—”

  His mouth came down on hers.

  THE WORLD TIPPED out of balance, went dark.

  He slammed the door shut, fell back against it, his mouth clamped on hers.

  No! No! a voice inside Benedict’s head roared.

  Too late.

  Her mouth instantly yielded and her hands came up and curled tightly on his shoulders.

  She took his kiss and gave him back more, laced with defiance. The same defiance that had flashed in her blue eyes became molten liquid in his mouth.

  She squirmed in his arms until he eased his grasp and let her down, but her mouth never left his. He drank liquid fire while she slid down slowly, the friction of those soft curves against his hard frame setting every fiber and cell of his body vibrating.

  He had to let her go. Now.

  All he had to do was unhook his arm from her waist. But he didn’t. He held her against him while the kiss became a wicked game between them, taunting, daring, demanding.

  Passion.

  Passion was not allowed. Ever. Passion was madness, chaos. He had scores of rules against it.

  NO. Kick me. Step on my foot. You know how to fight.

  She held on to him, one slim hand that might as well have been a vise curled over his upper arm.

  He heard the voices of Reason and Duty shrieking out rules, but she drowned them out with the whisper touch of her fingers gliding over the back of his hand, the hand he’d laid flat against the door, to keep it still until he found the strength to draw the other away from her, too.

  Her fingers curled round his wrist and he couldn’t help but turn his hand to twine his fingers with hers. The intimacy of the touch made him ache and the ache made him angry. She was made for him. Why could he not have her?

  He broke the kiss, burying his face in her neck. He tasted her skin and drank in her scent, and it was all as he’d remembered and remembered despite trying so determinedly to forget.

  Then he could not keep his hands still. He dragged them over her back and traced the curve of her waist and the sweep of her hips. And it was as though he dared her, or perhaps she felt it, too, the same mad need he felt, because her hands moved, too, and made turmoil wherever they went. They slid under his coat and inside his waistcoat and teased over the thin shirt when she knew, she had to know, he needed her hands on his skin.

  He felt over the back of her dress, but the fastenings weren’t there. He found them in front instead, and it was a moment’s work to undo the tapes, to push away the thin fabric of her shift and thrust his hand inside the top of her stays and clasp her breast, skin to skin.

  She sucked in her breath.

  Tell me to stop don’t tell me to stop.

  She pulled away and tugged at the corset, loosening it, and looked up at him, eyes dark and challenging. She brought her hands up to his head and drew him down, and he heard her soft gasp of pleasure when he trailed his lips over the smooth swell of her breasts.

  That was the end of thought.

  After that was only mindless I want and must have, must have and mine, mine, mine.

  The beast in charge.

  He dragged up her skirts, up and up, petticoats bunching and whispering against his sleeve until at last his hand slid over the top of her stocking, and then up, where there was soft, soft skin, and up farther still, until he found the core of her, warm, silky, slick.

  He reached for his trouser buttons, but she was there first, and when her palm brushed over his throbbing groin, he had to sink his mouth onto her shoulder to keep from crying out, like the merest boy learning pleasure for the first time.

  He was impatient, mindless, but her hand was there and that was too tormentingly pleasurable to push away, for all his impatience. He felt one button come loose, then the next. His cock thrust against the cloth toward her hand and he was reaching to help her—to help himself—he couldn’t wait—when she cried out, and pulled away, then swore, low and fierce, in French.

  ONE FEROCIOUS JAB of pain: That’s what it took to bring Bathsheba to her senses.

  She pulled away from him, her hand throbbing. She turned away, too, her face aflame.

  “What?” he said, his deep voice thick. “What?”

  She could have wept. She could have laughed. “My hand,” she said. “My hand, thank heaven. Damn you to hell, Rathbourne. You know we cannot do this.”

  “Damn me to hell?” he said. “Damn me to hell?” Then, more gently he said, “What is wrong with your hand?”

  “I think it broke somebody’s nose,” she said. “And now it throbs like the very devil.”

  “Let me see.”

  She wanted to put distance between them while she put her clothes back in order and gave him time to do the same. Her bosom was falling out of her stays, part of her petticoat had bunched up under her waistband, and her skirts were all twisted about.

  But she had never learnt to be ashamed or shy about her body, and at the moment she didn’t care what he could see. She would have let him see all he wanted and have all he wanted, and she’d have done it happily, nay, eagerly.

  Because she was besotted and it was completely hopeless. She was completely hopeless, a DeLucey through and through, no matter what she did.

  She let him take her hand and look at it.

  “Your fingers are swollen,” he said. “Did you say you punched somebody on the nose?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Because of me,” he said.

  “Yes, certainly, because of you,” she said. “I was not going to let you fight them alone, Rathbourne. Not that you should have fought them in the first place. It was ridiculous to make such a fuss over that drunkard groping at my leg. I was perfectly capable of kicking him if he became too annoying. Still, it was lovely of you. Chivalrous.”

  “It was not lovely of me,” he said. “It was ridiculous. If I had not behaved in that imbecile, Rupert-like way, we should be well on our way by now, with none of us sporting any injuries and none of us imagining the other had any injuries, and most important, neither of us coming within a hairsbreadth of doing what we both know perfectly well we must not do.”

  “Well, we didn’t do it,” she said. She didn’t try to sound cheerful about it. She hadn’t even enough self-command to not sound regretful.

  “No, we did not.” He stared at her hand. Then he bent his head and brought it to his lips and gently touched them to each knuckle. He released her hand and looked her up and down. He let out a long sigh. “I was the one who took your clothes apart. It seems I had better put them together again.”

  “I can do it,” she said.

  “The pain made you cry out when you were simply trying to unfasten a trouser button,” he said. “How do you imagine you will be able to manage your tapes and corset strings?”

  Good question.

  As she’d predicted, there was a delayed reaction to the fight. But she was the one in pain, not he. Too bad the pain had not started some minutes sooner. Then she would not have had to face the fact that she was another DeLucey harlot.

  “I imagine it would take me several hours and a good deal of cursing and screaming,” she said. “Perhaps you had better do it.”

  She stared at the notch of his collarbone while he briskly pulled the corset back into place, arranged and smoothed her shift, stuffed her breasts back where they belonged, and laced up the stays.

  While he tied her petticoat, she swallowed and said, “Idaresay proper ladies do not unbutton
gentlemen’s trousers.”

  “They do not do that,” he said as he tugged her frock straight, “nearly so often as one could wish.”

  THOUGH THEY HAD the fare to take them to Twyford, Peregrine and Olivia did not get that far.

  In Maidenhead, when the coach stopped to change horses, Peregrine squeezed himself out from where he was wedged between two fat and not overclean male passengers. They had been sleeping soundly, mostly on him. He’d inhaled their stinking breath and been deafened by their explosive snoring for the last five miles. He would not have minded so much if he’d had something interesting to do or to look at but he hadn’t, and so he was bored and cross as well as tired and hungry.

  “I’m stopping here,” he told Olivia. “You can stay or you can go on. I really don’t care.”

  He climbed out and walked out of the inn yard and into the street and gulped in cool night air.

  Then he looked about him. He had never before been out so late at night, alone, in a strange town. Except for the bustle in the inn yard, the place was quiet. It was very late, and everyone was asleep.

  He wanted to be quiet, too, so he could think. In fact, he wanted to be asleep, like everyone else.

  He’d spent the afternoon and night in a state of tension, unsure what Olivia would do next, wondering when calamity would strike.

  Now he realized it had already struck. Running away with Olivia Wingate, no matter how worthy his reasons, was going to bring unpleasant consequences.

  Had Lord Rathbourne caught up with them early on, as Peregrine had hoped, matters might have been settled without a great fuss. He had only to explain, and Uncle would understand why he’d done what he’d done. Uncle Benedict was a reasonable and rational man.

  But it was tomorrow already. It was Saturday, the day Peregrine was supposed to set out with his lordship for Scotland. Even if Peregrine could afford to hire a post chaise—which he couldn’t—he doubted he could get back to London fast enough to avert disaster. By now all of Uncle Benedict’s servants would know something was wrong. Once the servants knew, all the world would find out.