At Her Service

by Susan Johnson

  His father laughed. “You’ll see how true it is when you see Maude. She’s become quite the little lady. With a mind of her own, I might add. Not that that’s unusual in this family.”

  “You taught us well, Papa. There are no sheep who blindly follow in the Westerland brood.” Grinning, Darley raised his glass to his father.

  “I won’t take all the credit. Your mother insisted on raising independent children.” Annabelle Foster, the greatest beauty of her day, had been an actress and playwright, the latter profession exceptional for a woman.

  “Assuredly, it makes life more interesting.”

  “What of your plans after this visit? Where do you travel next?” While the duke would have preferred his heir marry and raise a family, he was inured to his son’s wanderlust after so many years. Or at least respectful of Darley’s inclination.

  “I don’t have any plans at the moment. At least nothing specific.” Aurore was still very much on his mind—enough so that the practicalities eluded him. “You’re looking well, Papa,” he added, intent on recasting his thoughts. At sixty-six, his father was still fit and trim, his tall muscular frame evidence of good health and vigor.

  “Thank you. As are you, although you could use some sleep, I suspect.” His son’s eyes were half-lidded, a faint weariness evident in his lounging pose.

  “It was a long trip. We were in transit nearly a week. We took the Argo to Varna, then the train to Paris. I stayed at Miss Clement’s last night; her brother had preceded us by a few days,” he quickly interjected, not wishing to suggest anything more than a mutual working relationship.

  “Miss Clement is the French agent.”

  “Yes, her brother had been recuperating in Simferopol and had to flee when we did. He rode to Eupatoria. We reported to Balaclava first. We all met again in Paris.”

  The duke took note of his son’s feigned crispness of tone when he spoke of Miss Clement. Interesting. Not that he intended to read anything more into Hugh’s friendship with a woman when his son had studiously avoided female attachment since Lucia died. While he had had his own demons to overcome after Waterloo, Duff had never quite understood how Lucia’s death had so lastingly ravaged his son’s life. But then he’d never had the woman he loved die in his arms. Nor have his infant son follow his mother to the grave a few days later. He also had had the great fortune to meet Annabelle Foster, who had become the wellspring of all that was good in life.

  How often had he wished such happiness might come his son’s way.

  The family had always given Hugh wide latitude in his manner of grieving. Everyone realized that despair took different forms, required different remedies. They could only offer sympathy and compassion, and that they had done. And yet Darley had been seriously afflicted since that tragedy. “Another?” Duff asked, nodding at Darley’s empty glass. He wasn’t going to spoil the joy of his son’s return with painful memories. “And I hope you’re hungry, because we both know cook is busy in the kitchen right now preparing your favorite dishes.” Standing, he reached for Darley’s glass.

  Darley grinned as he handed it over. “As it happens, I am hungry. I didn’t eat much last night and left early this morning. As you well know, the food available at the train depots leaves much to be desired. Do you suppose cook has any of those rum cakes somewhere in the larder?”

  Duff glanced over his shoulder as he stood at the drinks table, filling their glasses. “Ten guineas says she does.”

  “Perfect. With clotted cream?” Darley was salivating at the thought, all the pleasures of home enveloping him in a warm, glowing content.

  Not the kind of content he’d experienced last night, he thought when he would have preferred those memories be less fresh and vivid in his mind.

  What was Aurore doing now? he wondered next, that too an unwelcome but reoccurring thought.

  He felt his stomach tighten at the disquieting notion that she might be entertaining their visitors from last evening. “Sorry,” he said, looking up, realizing his father had been standing there for some time. “There had been plans afoot for a full-scale assault on Sevastopol. I was wondering if it had been undertaken yet,” he lied.

  Inspired by a father’s intuition, Duff almost asked, Is it a woman distracting you? because Hugh’s reply wasn’t the truth or was barely the truth. And his eldest son generally opted for candor. “Drink up,” the duke said instead, handing over the glass.

  Taking his drink, Darley stared into the glistening liquid for a moment, as if some truth might lay therein. As if some palatable answer to the tumult in his brain would be revealed.

  He knew why he’d left Paris. If he’d stayed it might have meant something he didn’t want it to mean. To himself. To her. To everyone.

  Then why this burning discontent?

  It wasn’t as though leaving women was unusual. On the contrary, it was the rule rather than the exception. Although Aurore was indeed exceptional in every way—in ways he couldn’t forget…or didn’t want to forget. Merde.

  His father silently watched him. There was something different about his son this time. His mother would know what it was, he thought. Annabelle was prescient about their children.

  Looking up, Darley found his father’s gaze on him. “Sorry, my mind is wandering. I must be more tired than I thought.”

  “It’s no wonder you’re tired if you’ve been traveling for a week. Sleep late in the morning. Now, come, let’s eat in the kitchen for old times’ sake.” Duff smiled as he came to his feet. “And to please Mrs. Baillie as well.”

  “How is she?” Darley asked, rising. “She never seems to change.”

  “She’s healthy as an ox. I think her medicinal wee dram of whisky each night is the secret.”

  Darley chuckled. “I think I’ll share one with her tonight. I could use an elixir myself.”

  Chapter 29

  In the following month, perhaps Mrs. Baillie’s elixir could be credited for the ease with which Darley’s days flowed one into the other.

  The marquis was caught up in renewing old friendships. He fell into a familiar camaraderie with his siblings who were all in residence, the house awash with nieces and nephews as well. With the Season gearing up, his mother and sisters saw that additional festivities were planned in his honor, while his friends at Brooks needed no such excuse to welcome him with wild enthusiasm. Within days of his first appearance in public, female enthusiasts were all atwitter as well. Scented billets doux addressed to the Marquis of Darley began arriving at Westerlands House in colorful profusion.

  An eligible young bachelor of great fortune and title was naturally in high demand. And Darley, specifically, was even more coveted. The Westerlands were a handsome family, good looks and great beauty unfairly disposed on one and all, those less fortunate grumbled. Furthermore, Darley could personally charm the birds from the trees, not to mention—titillating gossip and ladies of all stripes confirmed—he was monstrous good in bed. Needless to say, in terms of social intercourse, the phrase was given a literal interpretation by the marquis.

  His parents would exchange small smiles as a flood of scented missives arrived each morning, his sisters would pester him unmercifully for details, while his brother, James, would grin and say, “Some things never change.”

  As to some things never changing, Darley found himself in an all-too-familiar and awkward position one evening. Out of courtesy, he had agreed to attend a dinner party to please his sister-in-law who was sweet, amiable—the perfect spouse for his brother who relished his life as a country gentleman. Her bosom friend was hostess that night, and Clara had explained that Lavinia Blunt would be especially pleased to see Darley again.

  Unfortunately, Lady Blunt had made her designs expressly clear the moment he’d arrived. “Lord Darley,” she had exclaimed, with a dulcet smile. “How lovely to see you again. I don’t believe you have met my daughter. She is most anxious to hear of your world travels—aren’t you, Samantha,” she had added with a meaningful look at he
r lovely daughter who stood beside her in the receiving line. “As we all are, of course.” She smiled brightly. “But Samantha’s governess always said she had such a flare for geography, didn’t she, darling?” Another glance at her daughter who was surveying Darley with a connoisseur’s eye.

  “Yes, Mama.” A heedless, inattentive reply—Samantha’s gaze fixed on the marquis.

  Now, Darley enjoyed beautiful women—and Samantha was blond, curvaceous—and clearly available, he understood, after meeting her startlingly sultry gaze. But she was also unmarried and in the market for a husband—two formidable obstacles to any possible friendship between them…Samantha’s provocative glances notwithstanding.

  He was courteous throughout the usual tedious dinner—naturally, she had been placed beside him at the table. And naturally, she had no conversation save for the gossip that passed for conversation in the beau monde. He heard more than he cared to about her bosom friends, the very best dressmakers, her mother’s annoying habit of selecting completely unsuitable beaux for her—present company excepted, of course. That declared with a dazzling smile, a come-hither wink and another enticing view of Samantha’s impressive bosom—her flirtatious posture of choice. Regardless that frequent display of her cleavage throughout the numerous courses, however, he had no intention of touching her—or them.

  To wit. He had just recently escaped her oppressive company and the boredom of amateur theatricals that served as the evening’s entertainment and had retreated to the library for a moment of respite.

  With thoughts of escape prominent in his brain.

  He had just poured himself a brandy when the door opened.

  Even before he turned around, he knew whom he would see.

  “Lord Darley, I do believe our theatricals have bored you,” Samantha cooed. “And I couldn’t agree more,” she added with an understanding little smile. “I told Mama no one wishes to hear Letty Newsome’s awful monologue.” Shutting the door behind her, she rested back against the carved oak panels—literally barring egress from the room.

  “I confess, theatricals rarely engage my interest.”

  “Nor mine. We agree on everything,” she cheerfully noted. “Although, the moment I saw you”—her voice drifted lower, shifted into a heated undertone—“I just knew we would.”

  “Perhaps we could talk again some other time.” Darley spoke in a deliberately neutral voice. “I was about to leave. I promised Harcourt I’d meet him for a game at Brooks.” Wondering how much time he had before Lady Blunt would appear and feign affront that he and her daughter were inappropriately secreted away, he quickly surveyed the room, looking for a clock.

  Ah, there. Not on the mantle as usual, but practically hidden on a small side table, the timepiece itself even smaller. He’d give the mother ten minutes. She would want to wait until her daughter had fully exerted her charms.

  Samantha seemed not to take offense at Darley’s talk of leaving, smiling at him instead. An alluring smile—much practiced and generally effective. “Do finish your drink first. I’m sure Harcourt won’t mind waiting a minute or two.” Pushing away from the door, she glided toward him, a young enchantress on a mission. A bankable one if all went well. “No one will even notice we’re missing,” she murmured softly as she drew near.

  Now that was carte blanche license—should he have somehow missed all the previous signals apropos her availability.

  Far from a novice when it came to dinner party amusements, Darley had, on more than one occasion, found himself closeted in some hidden nook with a lady who had her heart set on assuaging her carnal urges. So it wasn’t that he was averse to fucking Samantha in the library. It was just that he was averse to fucking Samantha in the library while she was unmarried.

  Raising his glass to his mouth, he tipped it back and swallowed the lot in a single gulp. “Forgive me, but I do have to go,” he murmured, glancing at the clock once again before setting the glass on the liquor table and turning toward the door.

  He had not taken more than two steps when he found his way blocked by a determined young lady.

  “My dear Darley,” Samantha purred, taking another half step so her magnificent breasts were pressed warmly into his chest, “at least give me one little kiss before you go.”

  He inwardly groaned. Even if time wasn’t an issue, he was decades past virginal kisses. Or in the case of Samantha, perhaps not entirely virginal kisses, but unwelcome nonetheless. “This is not wise, my dear,” he said with cultivated grace, glancing at the door over her shoulder. “You’re much too young for me.”

  “I’m old enough to know things,” she whispered, raising her limpid glance to Darley’s wary gaze. “I know everything about making love, what a man likes and how to give pleasure—how to satisfy you.” Slipping her fingers under her decolletage, she began to slide her dress down over her plump breasts.

  Darley moved in a flash, caught her hands before her nipples were fully exposed and said gruffly, “Don’t be foolish.” Peeling her fingers from the lace-trimmed neckline of her gown, he placed her hands at her sides, quickly covered her breasts and stepped away.

  “I could say you tried to undress me,” Samantha sulkily asserted, peevish that her plans had gone awry. “I could say I resisted and you tore my gown.” She clasped a bit of the lace trim decorating her decolletage and lifted one brow in challenge.

  “I don’t suggest you do that, but”—Darley shrugged, the indifference in his voice marked—“do as you wish. I don’t care.”

  She glared at him, pouty and resentful; men were generally more amenable. Always, actually. “Papa could make you marry me when we are found alone like this.”

  Darley stifled the impulse to say something rude. “No, he couldn’t,” he simply said.

  “What if my mama comes in and sees me with my clothes in disarray?” Samantha had not yet completely given up on the Darley fortune. She could bare her breasts in a second when the door opened.

  “My dear young lady,” Darley said with more civility than she deserved, “I don’t care if the entire dinner party were to arrive and see you naked with me. I’ll be leaving London soon. You won’t. Use a little sense for Christ’s sake.” His voice at the last was sharp. “It’s your future at stake, not—”

  A delicate knock on the door stopped him in midsentence.

  Darley nodded toward the door. “I suggest you tell your mother you’ve changed your mind.”

  “What if I don’t?” Samantha snapped, tantrumish and scowling.

  Good God, the little bitch was irksome and, moreover, incredibly naive if she actually thought he could be coerced into marriage. “You’ll only embarrass yourself. I’m past caring about this kind of stupidity.”

  His eyes were so cold that even Samantha began to question whether she could prevail with a man like Darley. A first as it were, for a young lady who had always captivated and charmed by fair beauty and shapely form. “You are most unreasonable,” she sniffed.

  “And you are a self-seeking bitch.” His patience was at an end, and if she wasn’t going to open the door soon, he would.

  “How dare you say that!”

  “You have no idea what I dare,” he said, each word ice cold. “But I suggest you call off your mother or you’ll rue the day you questioned my audacity.”

  Samantha quailed before the Darley’s fierce gaze, a chill slid up her spine and she realized with another little shiver that he was not the type of man who would succumb to threats. In fact, he was more than willing to join battle against those who threatened him.

  Spinning around, she ran for the door.

  He heard her say before the door shut behind her, “Darley wasn’t here, Mama. I don’t know where he went.”

  He left soon after, stopping only long enough to make his excuses to his sister-in-law who was winning at bridge now that Letty Newsome had quit the stage. “I had a lovely evening,” he said blandly, his smile equally mild, “but I have another appointment. I’ll see you at breakfast
.”

  Standing on the pavement a few moments later, he was reminded of the reasons he avoided society. It was suffocating in its banality, while the desperate quest for a husband that engaged so many young ladies, mothers and female relatives was grim and relentless.

  For a moment, he considered leaving the city. In the past, as well as now, he often felt as though he didn’t fit in—an outsider in a fashionable world that held little interest for him. A world where foolish little coquettes like Samantha thought any man would sell his soul for a look at her tits. Although Lavinia Blunt was even more of a simpleton for not knowing better. Merde and double merde.

  He shifted his stance, debating whether to decamp for places unknown.

  Then he softly exhaled. Unfortunately, his mother and sisters had a full compliment of parties scheduled, and he was expected to join in the family festivities.

  So then—where now? Quitting London was temporarily out of the question. It was too early to go home. There was no Harcourt waiting at Brooks. Thank God, at least there were always married women looking for diversions.

  With Samantha’s marriage trap fresh in his mind, he vowed, in future, to restrict his female entertainments exclusively to women of unimpeachable profligacy. And he did.

  But in the coming days, even as Hugh was busy partaking of amorous trysts with carefully chosen females—opportunistic women need not apply—he found himself thinking of Aurore with a certain unwanted frequency—thinking she was like him…living in Paris but wanting to be somewhere else. But he thought about her in other ways too. Ways that unnerved him. Ways that occasioned increasingly lustful cravings and offered particularly voluptuous delights to whomever he was currently fucking.

  While Darley was intent on seeking respite from boredom and banality in countless boudoirs, Aurore was reaching the point in her pregnancy when Etienne would soon have to be informed of his impending unclehood.

  Her tummy was beginning to show—very faintly—but her maid had already noticed. And soon, others would as well.