Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  “From the inside of a carriage?” She might not know much, but she knew what could happen in such close confines. What’s more, she had no intention of putting herself in such a position. Not yet.

  “We could take my carriage to the Serpentine for a walk,” he pointed out.

  “It’s not that far to walk to the Serpentine and then take a leisurely stroll.” She would have to put on her sturdy boots. “There’s no need for your carriage at all.”

  “By the time we have walked to the Serpentine,” he pointed out, “we’ll be tired of walking, don’t you think?”

  Ada was confounded. Lord Alder was persistent beyond reason, but she was not getting into his carriage… unless…

  “We could take Harry to the park.” She had thought to keep her son far away from his father, but Harry loved Hyde Park and especially the Serpentine. Even Lord Vile wouldn’t touch her whilst a two-year-old was in tow. Moreover, Nanny Finn would make an excellent chaperone. Meanwhile, she could continue to try and spark his interest. Keeping him dangling like a fish on the line was of utmost importance.

  Lord Alder said only, “Harry?”

  “Yes, my son. You saw him the first time you encountered us. When you wouldn’t leave my packages alone.”

  “Is that how you saw it? As if I had a strange fascination with picking up your paper-wrapped bundles?”

  He was teasing her. She could tell by the way the skin crinkled at the corners of his tawny eyes.

  Then he stood. “All right, Mrs. St. Ange.”

  Holding out his hand to her, Ada had to take it or seem unacceptably discourteous. He drew her to stand before him.

  “I will go on an outing with you and your son, forsaking having you all to myself, but only if you will grant me a boon.”

  Oh, dear!

  “A boon?”

  “In the form of another kiss. The first was very sweet, and all I can think about is tasting you again.”

  If only he’d said such pretty words three years earlier.

  “Indeed,” she said, somehow summoning the unruffled widow from within the nervous woman who’d only experienced the touch of one man. This one!

  “Indeed,” he repeated, lowering his mouth to hers without further preamble.

  Chapter Seven

  Michael had enjoyed the first kiss, though it had been a brief one. This time, he intended to make it last. With a hand on her back to anchor her close and his other cupping the base of her head below her jauntily braided bun, he claimed her mouth.

  Almost at once, she opened her lips to his tongue. Not in a lascivious way as if she was about to suck him down her throat. Merely in quiet acquiescence to the sensations they were exploring.

  He’d kissed many women, oftentimes while in a drunken haze and even more often, not giving a fig for who they were a moment later.

  Presently, he was perfectly sober and fully able to experience the thrilling sizzle coursing through him.

  Her soft, pliable lips didn’t go slack and unmoving. She tilted her head sideways so her mouth fit his perfectly, and then, wonder of wonders, she kissed him back. Her mouth moving ever so slightly, her tongue touching his.

  This was not a kiss that led to moaning and tearing off each other’s clothing and doing the two-backed beast on her Persian carpet.

  No, this kiss was like a conversation, two minds melding as their mouths did the same. A little give, a little take. Awareness of this woman allowing him a taste of intimacy and wanting to offer the same in return.

  When the kiss ended, he didn’t draw back. No quip or jest came to mind. He simply rested his forehead upon hers, his eyes closed, breathing her in, and feeling extremely grateful she’d entered his life.

  “Lord Alder,” she said.

  Finally, he drew back.

  “Yes, Mrs. St. Ange?” He stared down into her blue eyes.

  “You are standing on my hem.”

  Looking down, his boot was upon the bottom of her lovely gown and pulling it taut so she couldn’t back away if she wanted to.

  He stepped back, wishing she had called him Michael.

  “My apologies.”

  “None necessary but accepted in any case,” she told him, looking completely composed as if a profoundly intimate moment had not occurred.

  Moving away from him, she crossed the room to the bell pull. Then seeming to change her mind, she went to the door.

  “I’ll get my son and his nanny.” Without looking back, Mrs. St. Ange left him, still standing there, staring after her.

  “Due diligence,” he muttered the ridiculous term. What had just happened? And why, instead of feeling randy and ready to toss up her skirts, was he looking forward to spending time in her company at the bloody Serpentine? With a child?

  In a very few minutes, he found himself in his carriage—luckily, he’d come in his spacious clarence—seated next to a portly woman, introduced as Nanny Finn. Across from him was the intriguing lady and her cute little boy.

  “Harry, is it?” Michael said, trying to engage.

  The boy grinned, then turned and buried his face against his mother’s side.

  Mrs. St. Ange merely shrugged. “If he does warm up to you, Lord Alder, you will not enjoy another moment of silence.”

  Was he supposed to look forward to that?

  As soon as his feet touched the ground, Harry was off like a shot, running hither and yon.

  “He has a lot of energy, does he not?”

  “Yes, rather like a puppy. I believe most children are the same.”

  “Perhaps most children should have puppies, then, to keep up.”

  She nodded noncommittally. “I had a dog for companionship when I was a young girl,” she said. “An excellent dog he was, too.”

  Michael imagined her with her hair in pigtails chasing after a furry friend.

  “We had two cats,” he confessed, “and I don’t think they liked me.”

  This evoked a smile from her, one of so few it spurred him to keep talking.

  “Actually, I’m partly jesting. Though my mother did have cats, we also had hunting dogs, as my father used to have a lodge. So, not really pets, I suppose. My brother took to training them nearly as soon as he could walk. I never cared too much for hunting, neither fox nor pheasant, so didn’t spend time with dogs. By the time my brother started keeping a few as companions, I was already at Eton.”

  They were strolling along the footpath toward the northside of the lake, past the Dell and an enormous weeping beech, when it dawned on him the last time he’d been to the Serpentine was also the last time he’d been alone with Jenny Blackwood. Though already married, her husband had been across the Channel, or so he’d thought. He’d asked her to meet with him to explain to her how his parents had ended their engagement behind his back.

  Some part of him had hoped she would say she favored him over Lord Lindsey and even leave her marriage. Instead, the man had shown up to claim her right on the path near the cafe, and Jenny had never looked back.

  He shuddered, recalling the dark days that followed, which became months and then a year of his life. Since then, a couple more had gone by, and suddenly, he found himself glad his father had given him a purpose, albeit one he feared himself unsuited.

  “Are you well, Lord Alder? You seem distracted.” She didn’t look at him when she spoke as she was keeping her motherly eyes firmly on her son, despite the nanny’s watchful presence.

  “I’m fine,” he assured her.

  The past was where it should be. Now, he was here at the same place with an entirely new woman, one who stirred something in him for the first time in ages besides base desire.

  In fact, he was surprised how enjoyable it was simply to be in the fresh air, walking beside the intriguingly independent Mrs. St. Ange, even while watching her son and nanny gambol ahead. The boy found joy in every flower and bug, and his nanny was young enough to keep up with him.

  After Harry had returned to his mother for the umpteenth time
to grab her hand in delight only to race away again on his sturdy little legs, Michael wondered if it was at all painful for her to see the spit and image of her husband.

  “How did your husband die?”

  Mrs. St. Ange hesitated for the briefest of moments, accompanied by a faltering in her step. He hoped he hadn’t offended her.

  Yet, when she slowly turned her face to him, she looked as serene as usual.

  “Lost at sea,” she said succinctly.

  “Was he on a business trip as a passenger, or was he in the Merchant Navy?”

  “Neither,” she said. And nothing more.

  “The Royal Navy then?” he probed.

  “No.”

  He waited but, as if trying to milk a bull, nothing was forthcoming. Perhaps a different line of inquiry would yield better results.

  “Your boy was very young when his father passed on?”

  “A baby.”

  He had never known a woman of such few words. Moreover, he decided he was being an oaf for prying when, clearly, she didn’t wish to say more. After all, the unfortunate Mr. St. Ange was dead and gone, and nothing could be done about it.

  In fact, though Michael thought it a shame the man would never see his lovely family, for his own part, he was very much alive and happy to be in the widow’s company.

  Would he be considered a full-fledged cad for benefitting from the other man’s tragedy? Inwardly, he shrugged. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

  When the nanny extracted a small wooden boat with a linen sail from a bag she carried, the little boy began to hop up and down with excitement. They all headed toward the water’s edge.

  Thankfully, it didn’t have the strong stench it sometimes did upon the hottest days of summer.

  “I keep thinking he should be in leading strings,” Michael said.

  Nanny Finn shot him a look but said nothing. It was the boy’s mother who answered.

  She wrinkled up her nose, which he realized was quite beautifully shaped, and said, “Most physicians agree those are not healthy for the child.”

  “Really?” It was news to him, but what did he know of rearing children? “It seems less healthy for the child to run away from his nanny and get stomped by horse’s hooves or run over by a carriage.”

  He was only thinking out loud, but Mrs. St. Ange’s expression of displeasure reminded him once more her husband had perished, and there were doubtless numerous worries in her head over keeping her son safe.

  “My apologies. I spoke without thinking.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  With the Serpentine at their toes, Nanny Finn gave Harry his boat, which he promptly tossed upon the waters. Its rough entry caused the sail to get wet, and very quickly, the vessel capsized, lying on its side, just out of the boy’s reach. He began to yell excitedly and seemed ready to jump in after it. Fortunately, the nanny had a firm grasp on the back of his blue jacket.

  “Drat!” Mrs. St. Ange vowed, surprising him greatly.

  When it was clear that Harry understood he mustn’t try to reach his toy, Nanny Finn released him. She leaned forward, arms outstretched. However, as her stature was short along with her limbs, she could do nothing.

  “Lord Alder,” Mrs. St. Ange said, gesturing to the little boat and her now unhappy child, “would you assist?”

  “Certainly,” he said, without even thinking, though for the life of him, he didn’t know what she thought he could do. He wasn’t going to wade into the water and ruin his boots.

  At this point, the minor current from the gentle spring wind had moved the boat even farther out of reach. Staring at it, he considered his options. If he’d had a brolly, he could use the handle, but he hadn’t since there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  Across the lake and past the King’s Road—Rotten Road, as they all called it—the Crystal Palace stood as a beacon containing mankind’s progress and forward-thinking ideas. Yet here he stood, on the edge of a small, manmade lake wondering how to rescue a child’s toy.

  Glancing around for inspiration, his gaze fell upon the oak trees nearby. Keeping an eye on the little boat that had settled about two yards off shore, Michael began yanking upon a smaller branch. It was tougher than it seemed and extremely bendy, forcing him to work it back and forth until, at last, it came free, and he ended up nearly toppling over.

  Regaining his balance and, he hoped, his dignity, Michael approached the small group of three. The closer he got to them, the more his branch seemed to be a twig.

  The Devil! It wasn’t nearly long enough.

  Another look around yielded no further inspiration. After all, it had taken him a lot of effort to get the spindly stick. He couldn’t hope to rip a long enough branch. Probably one of the queen’s guards would appear and take him into custody for destruction of Her Majesty’s flora if he tried.

  “Right,” he said out loud though talking to himself. Sitting down on the grass, he removed his jacket and began to pull off his Hessians.

  “What on earth, Lord Alder?” Mrs. St. Ange asked.

  Silently, he folded his pants up to his knees before rolling his stockings down and removing them. Rather humiliated by his state of undress, with his calves and toes on display, he continued without speaking. After all, when undressing before a beautiful woman, he was usually alone with her and about to dive into passionate ecstasy, not the bloody Serpentine.

  “Are you sure?” she prompted.

  “Yes, it’ll only take me a moment.” Stepping gingerly into the water, he prayed he didn’t see the carcass of some unwanted dog or cat float by.

  Since it was an artificial lake, the muddy bottom was firm and not unpleasantly squishy pond muck. Yet the water was colder than expected. In three steps, it was up to his knees and his pants were getting wet. Blast!

  The boat was nearly in reach if he leaned out. Suddenly, he heard horses and a man shouted, “Salutations!”

  Turning, Michael recognized Lord Toddingly, Mrs. St. Ange’s fair-haired neighbor, upon a gorgeous bay. When he raised a hand in greeting, Michael did the same, though feeling a tad foolish from his position.

  “May I be of assistance?” Toddingly said.

  Without waiting for a response, he urged his horse, scattering both nanny and boy in one direction and Mrs. St. Ange in the other. The horse splashed into the water nervously, as most horses would.

  It probably didn’t want to be in the stagnant Serpentine, famous for its impurity as a receptacle for God only knew what.

  “No, I’ve got it,” Michael protested, knowing nothing good could come of standing at knee level with a large animal in water.

  Not heeding him, Toddingly forced his horse to approach Michael, then circle the little boat. At first, its movements sent the boat careening away, but in another moment, Toddingly was on the other side of it and herding it toward the shore.

  Meanwhile, all the splashing had soaked Michael up to his waist.

  The deuce take the interfering twit!

  As he strode from the Serpentine, hoping never to repeat the galling experience, Mrs. St. Ange was able to bend down and pick up the boat that had been forced to shore.

  “Thank you,” she called out to Toddingly, who tipped his hat.

  “My pleasure. A word of advice?”

  “Yes, my lord?” she replied.

  Michael’s annoyance increased at her deferential, grateful tone, one he had never experienced from her.

  “They usually work best with a long string attached,” Toddingly said, stating the obvious as if he’d discovered how to turn lead into gold.

  “Of course,” she agreed, gesturing to Nanny Finn who still held the string she’d pulled from her bag but not had a chance to secure.

  “Ah, I see,” Toddingly said as he urged his horse from the water. Dismounting, he ruffled the boy’s hair, and Harry was staring up at him like he was a God.

  Irrationally, Michael wanted to send the meddlesome lord back into the water with a fist to his smug face
.

  “So, you were a little hasty, were you?” Toddingly said to Harry, who nodded.

  “I threw it,” the little boy said in the most words Michael had heard.

  “Next time, let your nanny tie it up first, my boy.”

  Michael sat on the grass again, drawing his stockings up his wet legs, hoping once he had his boots on again, he would regain a measure of his customary poise.

  Before he had finished, Toddingly had waved the boat around to dry the sail but declared it useless, exchanged the bit of fabric for one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs firmly tied to the mast, and was attaching the string through a hole in the bow.

  By this time, Michael had unrolled his wet pants, donned his jacket, and was standing, arms crossed, watching the proceedings. Glancing up, his gaze caught that of Mrs. St. Ange.

  What did she mean by that raised eyebrow? An expression of challenge, perhaps?

  “I must be off,” Toddingly said.

  “Oh, must you?” Michael asked, still looking at her.

  “Afraid, so, old boy. I’ve an appointment with my tailor. Henry Poole on Savile Row. But you must know of him, of course. Difficult as finding a sinner on Sunday to get a fitting with Poole, so I dare not keep him waiting. I can put in a word for you, if you like.”

  Michael tried not to bare his teeth. “I have a perfectly adequate tailor, Toddingly.”

  The man looked him up and down, taking in his sodden pants and crumpled jacket.

  “Yes, of course.” Tipping his hat to the nanny and Mrs. St. Ange, and with another hair ruffling for Harry, Toddingly mounted his horse.

  “Thank you again, my lord,” Mrs. St. Ange said.

  “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day,” he said and rode off.

  The man sounded like a bloody shopkeeper, Michael thought. Besides, how was he supposed to enjoy any part of his day in the state he was in? He was most definitely ready to end this adventure.

  Yet Harry was already fussing to get his boat in the water. What’s more, the nanny complied.

  Mrs. St. Ange approached him, and he was positive he detected a hint of amusement.

  “I’m so sorry you got wet,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “And what a pity you did so and still failed.”