The Caress of a Commander [retail]

by Linda Rae Sande

  “Ow!” he exclaimed, his eyes squeezed shut against the sting of the blow. Had his eyes been open, he would have seen her wince and the surreptitious shaking of her right hand, probably because it felt as if all the bones were broken.

  “You rake!” she exclaimed, her anger most evident. “My first kiss—at a ball, no less—and you have to go ruin it with... innuendo and rude questions!”

  Stephen sighed, realizing he had angered the girl. Offended her with his assumption that she had kissed other men besides him. Been kissed by other men besides him. But, dammit, her kiss—or series of kisses, rather—had been so delicious. So passionate. So perfect.

  How could he be her first?

  I am her first!

  The thought had him feeling rather proud just then, so it wasn’t a surprise his ego would follow suit.

  Before he quite knew what he was doing, Stephen had his arms wrapped around her shoulders and his mouth pressed against hers, a move made easier in that she was still so startled by his earlier implied accusation that her mouth was open and perfectly placed to accept his.

  He thought at first she was going to fight him off. And he wouldn’t have blamed her one bit. He couldn’t quite believe what he was doing, but then he was lost just then, lost in the sensation of her soft lips against his, in the sensation of a slight buzz which he realized was due to the fact that he was pressing far too hard. Bruising her lips, no doubt. He couldn’t even imagine what his looked like.

  Softening the kiss, he gently nipped her lower lip and took her mouth again, this time using his tongue as he had the night before, teasing her tongue to join his, tasting her teeth and tongue and once again nipping her lower lip, kissing her jawline, her neck, the line of her collarbone to the hollow at the base of her throat.

  He felt more than heard her soft moans, felt more than heard her staccato heartbeats where her bosom was pressed into his waistcoat. And he would have continued his assault of soft kisses along the tops of her breasts except that he was suddenly aware that the coach had come to a bumpy halt. The telltale jerk of the driver dismounting from his box had Stephen straightening, although he still had his arms around Victoria’s shoulders.

  He dropped his forehead to hers while he attempted to catch his breath. “I’ll walk you to your door,” he managed to get out.

  Victoria shook her head against his. “I would rather you didn’t,” she whispered.

  The coach door opened at the same time Stephen pulled his arms from around her shoulders, one of his hands suddenly clutching his topcoat as Victoria stood up and took her leave of the town coach. She managed to look rather steady as she did so, a feat Stephen found he admired in the chit.

  He rather doubted he could stand up just then.

  “Good night, my lord. Thank you for the ride.”

  “Good night, Miss Comber,” Stephen said, his voice sounding far more normal than he expected. “I look forward to seeing you again at another event.”

  He listened intently, hoping to hear her say something similar, but a quick look out the carriage window, and he realized she had already reached the door to No. 31 King Street.

  The driver leaned into the coach just as Stephen finished pulling on his topcoat, the scent of Victoria’s lemon and honeysuckle hair filling his nostrils. “Where to, Mr. Slater?”

  A combination of frustration and angst nearly had him mentioning Covent Gardens—a visit to a brothel seemed in order—but he remembered he would be meeting with Lord Chamberlain in the morning and thought better of it. Besides, what kind of prostitute would allow the kissing he had just experienced with Victoria Comber?

  What kind of woman would allow that kind of kissing?

  Well, there was one, he decided. Their paths would cross again, he was sure. And if they didn’t, he at least knew where he could find her.

  Realizing the driver was still waiting for a response, Stephen finally sighed. “Devonville House,” he murmured.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Chapter 27

  A Marchioness Seduces Her Husband

  Later that night

  Cherice pressed her ear against the connecting dressing room door to William’s bedchamber, listening for evidence he was still awake. Sounds of his incessant pacing had her sighing. She wondered how long he had been at it. She rather expected he would pay a call to her bedchamber that evening—he had given her clues he would do so—but after more than an hour, he still hadn’t made an appearance.

  She dared a glance in the cheval mirror at the other end of the dressing room, rather liking how her translucent pink dressing gown appeared in the dim light. With only a single fastening between her breasts, the robe did little to cover anything, its edges flaring open in the front to display her bare belly and the dark hair at the apex of her thighs. Beneath it, her feet were adorned with tiny heeled slippers topped with pink feathers.

  Whatever had her husband troubled could probably be alleviated with a tumble, she decided. A tumble and quiet conversation.

  Cherice knocked twice before opening the door a bit and gave William a teasing grin before slipping entirely into the room.

  “Have your feet worn a hole in the carpet?” she wondered as she reached up to give him a kiss.

  The marquess wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her against the front of his body. “Not yet,” he murmured. “And I see you’ve come to save me from doing so,” he added as he pulled away to give her an appreciative glance at what little she was wearing. “Is this new? You do know that little button won’t be attached for very long,” he warned with an arched eyebrow.

  “My maid can sew it back on in the morning,” she replied, her own arched eyebrow matching his in height. She had worn the negligée several times before, but usually with a satin nightgown beneath. Some nights required more to pull off a seduction. “But before you see to ruining yet another negligée, you really must tell me what has you so vexed.” Even as she said the words, her hands were spreading open the edges of his dressing gown so her palms could slide over his bare chest, her fingers tangling in the crisp, graying curls.

  William allowed a sigh before he answered. “I wish to see my sons settled. Married. To women they adore,” he answered with a sigh. He paused a moment. “I don’t want them wasting precious time on the wrong choice, or worse, no choice at all.”

  Cherice stilled her hands. “Is there some reason to suspect that will happen?”

  The marquess sighed again before reaching up with both hands to remove the pins from Cherice’s hair, a wan smile appearing as locks of her hair tumbled down past her shoulders. “Will has to have found his Barbara by now, so perhaps they will marry soon,” he replied as he took out a few more pins. “Good grief! How many of these damned things does your maid put in here?” he groused, his fingers combing through her hair to find even more of the U-shaped hairpins.

  “Two dozen, at least,” Cherice replied in a whisper. “And a few more for good measure. You never know when your husband will decide to make mischief.” She paused in her teasing and sobered a bit. “Tell me something, though,” she said, remembering her conservation with Stephen about why Barbara might have left London. “Did Barbara leave London because she was sent away?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

  William stilled his hands, his fingers dropping to her shoulders. “Sent away?” he repeated.

  Cherice nodded. “Yes. Was she ruined? Expecting a child, perhaps?”

  Her husband simply stared at Cherice for a moment. “Did you hear something back then? Gossip, perhaps?” he wondered.

  Cherice shook her head. “No, of course not. But there are only two reasons young ladies are sent away from London—”

  “What’s the other?” William interrupted.

  “For a trip to the Continent,” she replied with a shrug, as if he should have known.

  Sighing, William finally gave her a nod. “Will admitted to ruining the chit,” he whispered. “The night before he left to meet his
ship.” He sighed again. “So, you think she was with child?”

  Angling her head to one side, Cherice sighed. “I wish I could say I don’t, but I didn’t know Lady Barbara, so I suppose I do.” She dared a glance up at him. “Are you disappointed I would think the worst of your son? Because I don’t. He seemed intent on finding her. On making her his wife. He’s held a candle for her all these years.”

  The marquess shook his head. “As usual, you’re a perceptive woman,” he murmured. He had been stunned when he read the note from Will. A courier had delivered it just before they left for the theatre. “When he found his Barbara, he also found her with a seven-year-old boy.” He carefully watched his wife, expecting some kind of reaction, and was surprised when she merely arched an eyebrow. “Which means you’re a grandfather! When will he bring his family home?” she asked, anticipation evident in her voice.

  William allowed a wan smile, rather happy to hear she wasn’t scandalized by the thought of a bastard grandchild. “Patience, my love. They haven’t seen each other in a very long time,” he warned, remembering how cautious Will’s words seemed in the missive that had arrived that afternoon. “He has some courting to do to convince her ladyship she should marry him,” he added.

  Rather surprised by this bit of news, Cherice’s disappointment was evident. “He’s not coming back in a few days, is he?” she whispered with a frown.

  “I rather doubt he will return in a fortnight,” her husband countered, pulling her so she was pressed against the front of his body. “Which means it was probably fortuitous that he left his brother to act in his stead. I just wish he was looking for a wife for himself and not for Will,” he added before kissing Cherice on the forehead.

  His wife brightened. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Stephen. I do believe he’s being chased by a chit, but he hasn’t yet figured out he has to catch her,” she said with a teasing grin.

  William furrowed his brow, as if trying to figure out what she had just said. “Come again?”

  “I would love to, but you’ll have to make love to me. I do believe you intimated you would,” she replied with a pout, her hands sliding down the front of his body until her fingers deftly stroked his hardening manhood and then cupped his sac.

  Gasping at her bold move, William had his hands cupping the globes of her bottom and lifting her up and onto the bed before she could let out a sound of protest. She did let out a sigh of disappointment, though, when his teeth clamped onto the tiny button enclosure of her negligée and bit through the thread. He proudly held the button between his teeth for a moment before blowing it onto the carpeted floor. Returning his attention to Cherice, he allowed a sound of appreciation. “Mon cherie, you do know how to take a man’s mind off his troubles,” he whispered, before lowering his lips to her breasts and belly.

  Cherice raked her fingers through his thinning gray hair and giggled. “Oui, monsieur,” she replied before inhaling sharply when he impaled her. “Oui!”

  Chapter 28

  A Position with a Pirate?

  The next morning

  Stephen opened the brown paper surrounding his Navy uniform, admiring how carefully the blue frock coat with its white lapels was folded, how precise the sleeves of his shirt were ironed. The breeches looked nearly new. The laundress had done an admiral job in restoring it to wearable condition. He had a meeting with Lord Chamberlain at nine that morning, and he had every intention of looking as presentable as possible.

  Once he was dressed and had his boots shined to a high gloss, Stephen made his way down to the main level of the house, intending to head for the stables. “Would you like me to summon the carriage, Lord Stephen?” Hatfield asked when he realized Stephen was about to take his leave of the household.

  “I thought to ride a horse.” At the butler’s look of disapproval, Stephen realized he should think again. “Is there something smaller than the town coach I could take?”

  Hatfield smiled.

  Fifteen minutes later, Stephen was happily driving his father’s sporty red phaeton toward St. James Park and the Foreign Office.

  Despite having served in the British Navy for six years, Stephen was unprepared for the size of the military complex that housed Horse Guards and the Foreign Office. After seeing to it his equipage and the Cleveland Bay that pulled it would be looked after by a stablehand, Stephen headed for the building in which Lord Chamberlain had his offices. He realized from a clock on the desk of a clerk that he had timed his arrival about right. A few minutes more, and he would have been late for his appointment. “Lieutenant Slater to see Lord Chamberlain,” he said when the clerk looked up from a stack of papers on his desk.

  “Ah, the naval position,” the man said as he regarded Stephen before struggling to stand up. Once he was headed toward a door on the far wall, Stephen realized the man walked with a limp.

  “War wound?” he guessed as they made their way.

  “Aye. Waterloo. Hard to believe it’s been three years already.” The clerk knocked on the paneled door and paused before opening it.

  From where he stood, Stephen could see the viscount behind a huge desk. From the way the man was regarding something directly in front of him, Stephen realized there was someone else in the office with him.

  Lord Chamberlain waved a hand. “Come in. We don’t stand on ceremony around here,” he said.

  Stephen entered the office, giving the clerk a nod as he passed him. “Lord Chamberlain,” Stephen said as he gave the man a bow. He turned to the other man and was startled to see a familiar face regarding him. Blinking, he realized he recognized the man—Stephen was quite sure it was Captain Jack Crawley, a pirate of some renown—but the man was dressed in clothes suitable for a gentleman.

  What the hell was a pirate doing in the Foreign Office? “Crawley?” Stephen guessed, his expression suddenly fierce and his reflexes on alert.

  “I get that all the time. Alex Bradley, actually,” the man replied with a sly grin, his right hand extended.

  Stephen shook it, although he hesitated before doing so. “Forgive me. It’s just that... you look exactly like someone else I’ve come across.”

  Matthew Fitzsimmons gave a snort and stood up. “Look who’s calling the kettle black,” he teased as he moved to shake Stephen’s hand. He turned his attention to Alex. “Commander Will Slater is his brother. I doubt I could tell them apart side-by-side unless they were in uniform,” he claimed.

  A hint of recognition crossed Alex’s face. “Ah, yes. I remember now. You were on the HMS Greenwich. Boarded my ship when we were docked at Havre. Not that you had any jurisdiction there,” he added with a hint of derision.

  His brows furrowing, Stephen realized he did recognize the man. And he was the pirate! “Captain Jack Crawley,” he breathed.

  “I am,” Alex agreed. “Or was, rather, for a couple of years. I’m back at my desk for the time being,” the operative explained with a nod. “Crawley was my cover while we were searching for smugglers,” he added when he noticed Stephen looking to Matthew for confirmation. “Mostly liquor, but occasionally we’d intercept something more interesting.”

  The viscount rolled his eyes as he gave a chuckle. “I think he’s referring to my niece, Lady Samantha. He found her and Lord Plymouth stranded on an island off Spain last year. She’s Plymouth’s marchioness now, thanks to Alex here, and has a baby boy of her own.” he said proudly. He suddenly frowned. “But not because of Bradley,” he added with a shake of his head.

  Alex cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable at the viscount’s comment. “I was looking for a ring of smugglers doing business in Yorkshire. They were operating on the coast—on Plymouth’s land—using some caves to hide their wares. Once the ring was caught, Chamberlain let me come back here to work,” Alex explained. “Comment est votre français?”

  Stephen had to suppress the urge to wince at the operative’s poor accent. Having grown up speaking the French language—his mother rarely spoke English if she could avoid it—S
tephen arched an eyebrow. “Meilleure que la votré,” he replied.

  Alex frowned before indicating he understood. Better than yours. “I suppose your mother taught you,” he said with a shrug. “She worked for us during the Peninsular Wars, you know.”

  It was Stephen’s turn to frown before he realized the two would have looked into his background before considering him for a position. “She did,” he agreed, suddenly wondering what his mother had done for them. He remembered her spending hours at her escritoire transcribing documents, but he never asked why.

  “Education?” Alex asked, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Stephen nodded. “Eton and the Royal Naval Academy,” he replied. Although he figured the viscount might know what he had been required to learn at the academy in Portsmouth, he wasn’t sure if Alex Bradley did. Every student was required to learn about the construction and architecture of ships, navigation, mapping, how to the handle sails, gunnery, and rope work. On top of that, there were fencing and dancing lessons, courses on politics and diplomacy, and French and mathematics classes. “My specialty at the academy was navigation,” Stephen added, hoping he might qualify for whatever the men had in mind for him.

  “Well, we’re actually in need of a translator to help with intercepted messages. Analysis. The paperwork,” Alex remarked, one eyebrow arching up.

  Stephen nodded, deciding he rather liked being considered for something more than a clerk’s position. “Understood. So... when do I start?”

  Alex and Matthew exchanged glances of amusement. “How about right now?”

  Stephen regarded the two men and gave a nod. “I’m ready.”