by Robin Gideon
Her eyes were emerald-green, the color of priceless jewels, but more often than not, they were filled with worry, fear, or doubt. On only the rarest of occasions in the past three years had he seen her eyes alight with mischief or amusement. Far too often, he had seen her lovely, green eyes when she glanced his way, looking to see if he had heard her husband’s latest insult, his most recent invective. Duty-bound to ignore Lord Fallon’s ignominious behavior toward his wife, Heath had kept his growing contempt to himself. But as he stood in Ralph’s bedroom, looking at a lovely and voluptuous woman, he felt an overwhelming urge to protect the intrinsically sweet-natured woman.
Protect…and something else. His desires were not merely altruistic, despite his ardent efforts at keeping them honorable.
Then, as though the gods had conspired to test his willpower, Celeste leaned over at the waist to lightly touch the bump Ralph had gotten when he struck the entranceway’s doorframe. Her silk evening gown, with its fashionably U-shaped décolletage, seemed to struggle to contain the bounty of her extravagantly rounded breasts.
When she stood upright again, Heath saw in her eyes what he had so hoped to see—delight!
“I get the feeling my husband’s headache is going to be particularly keen tomorrow morning. He’s getting a rather deserving lump on that thick skull of his.”
“I’m real sorry, m’lady.”
“Don’t be. I’m not sorry you did it.” She looked at Heath for a moment, and then her brow furrowed before quickly smoothing, as though she had momentarily forgotten something important, but then suddenly remembered it. “How is the new boy working out? The one whose safety you were so concerned about.”
“His name is Laine, m’lady. Laine Chandler. He’s working out just fine. I feel confident he can be your coachman if I’ve got other duties to attend. He works hard, and he listens to my orders and follows them through to the letter.” He glanced at the snoring man in the nearby bed, and his mouth quirked in disdain. “I want you to know how appreciative I am—you hiring the boy on, even though he didn’t have any references. Where he was, he would have been dead before he turned twenty-five.”
“You said he was in great danger, and I believed you,” she said, stepping closer. “Was the man of the house a drinker, like my husband?”
He shrugged his shoulders and gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. “The man wasn’t a drinker, though Laine told me the woman was. Either way, in time both of them would have destroyed the boy’s soul. He’s only a lad. Too young for a boy to lose his soul.”
Celeste stepped closer, and cast in flickering candlelight and shadows, her beauty was ethereal, faintly ghostly, as though something slightly more than merely mortal.
“Sometime you must tell me the truth about Laine,” she whispered. “The complete truth, not the highly abbreviated summation of facts you’ve given me so far.”
“Of course, Lady Celeste,” he said, smiling, pleased she so easily saw through his subterfuge. “Now, I think I should go tend to the horses and the carriage.” He nodded respectfully to her, fighting against the urge to take her into his arms. “If there’s anything you need…”
He turned and walked out of the Lord Fallon’s bedroom, thinking that if he should ever earn such a woman’s affections, he wouldn’t soil his mind and body with excesses of gin.
Chapter Two
In her own bedroom, Celeste sat in her favorite rocker in front of the open second-story windows, a glass of Chianti wine in hand, a lamp burning on the small table beside her. She had not yet readied herself for bed, though she had removed her over-the-elbow gloves that were de rigueur when wearing an evening gown which left the shoulders bare. She had also unpinned her hair to let it fall in loose curls down her back.
She sipped her wine, staring out at the moonlight, enjoying the gentle breeze playing over her body. It had been a long night. At the Kahlos’ dance, she had been fortunate enough to spend thirty uninterrupted minutes with one of her dearest friends for the past two decades, Fiona Kahlos, who at thirty-seven was just a year older than her. Fiona, too, was shackled in a marriage that had evolved from blissful, to sourly unpleasant, to appalling. Because of the similarities in their marital circumstances and their stations in life, Celeste and Fiona were able to unburden themselves to each other without the fear of either gossip or disapproval. Though she didn’t want to do it too often, it felt good to talk to a friend about Ralph’s increasingly cruel and even sadistic behavior.
But it was not long before thoughts of Heath drifted through Celeste’s consciousness, causing a dreamy smile. It was safer to appreciate his rather harsh masculinity when he was no longer in the same room with her. There was an animal virility to Heath that was so different from the dashing and wealthy young men of the ton. With Heath, the barbarian was never far from the surface, always lurking just beyond view. He could be unintentionally frightening, just as he could be unintentionally stimulating.
When he had first taken employment with them, she had inquired into his background. She eventually learned, through credible sources, of serious legal charges leveled against him in Edinburgh. While working as a coachman for a wealthy family, he witnessed his employer’s son attempting to rape a peasant girl. The beating Heath gave the arrogant whelp was of such severity no woman would ever again consider the young man handsome, no matter how much money she stood to gain by way of marriage. The fact that Heath did not know the girl he saved only added juicy details to the gossip swirling through the city. For a time, it appeared Heath would face charges for the beating, but with nearly a dozen witnesses willing to testify that the only crime committed was the prevention of a brutal rape, the incident was allowed to fade into obscurity. Wealth, apparently, could buy only so many advantages in Edinburgh, with one of them not being complete immunity from the law.
However, Heath soon got word of a bounty placed on his head. The whelp’s father had guaranteed the equivalent in gold coin of one thousand pounds British sterling to any man who delivered Heath’s head in a canvas sack. Though Heath knew he was generally liked around Edinburgh, he also knew a man could live a long time on so much gold, which could be incentive enough to turn traitor. Though he loathed the notion of running away, he soon saddled his horse and headed for London. He’d heard there were always gentlemen of leisure in search of a strong man who was good with horses, a man who followed orders and knew his place in society.
Celeste recalled how easily Heath had carried Ralph and how the fabric of his jacket had tightened around his biceps when they flexed. In a fight, such arms would deliver devastating blows, and any thought she might have harbored about the rumors of Heath saving the girl and soundly thrashing her attacker vanished.
He protected the girl in Edinburgh, and he protected Laine. He flinches when Ralph insults me, but he doesn’t dare say anything because he knows he’ll lose his job. What a lousy cretin my husband is. Heath is a good man…a better man than he lets on. A beaming smile broke out on her face. Such a good man ought to be rewarded!
Celeste hurried out of her bedroom and, just outside her bedroom door, scanned the hallway, making sure none of her staff was about. She opened her husband’s bedroom door and heard the alcoholic symphony of his snoring. Her slippers were soundless against the floor as she crossed the room to the large, brightly polished walnut bureau. On top of the bureau were half a dozen bottles of various types of spirits. She checked the bottles, decided against all of them, and then opened the lower cabinet door.
“Perfect,” she breathed softly when she found her husband’s supply of whiskeys and scotches.
A year earlier, she had heard Heath joking with the cook about whiskey as they laughingly tried to figure out some way of getting Master Fallon to buy more of it for cooking purposes. Apparently, the whiskey Heath and the cook could afford wasn’t the premium quality spirits the master purchased for himself. Having no personal knowledge of the subject, she grabbed a bottle and hoped for the best.
; Celeste thought only briefly of returning to her bedroom for her hat and gloves. A well-bred woman simply didn’t leave the house without gloves and a hat, but since it was already past midnight, and since she planned to deliver her present to Heath and be back in her own bedroom within ten minutes’ time, she considered her casual dishabille a minor sin to propriety.
How long had it been since Heath had left Ralph’s bedroom? Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? She didn’t know how much time it took to unhitch the team of horses from the carriage, and then properly comb, feed, and bed them for the night. She was aware such duties always took place, but she had never actually witnessed them done. Nevertheless, she was certain—or at least hopeful—that Heath was not yet finished with his chores for the evening.
She was down the wide marble stairway and out the front doors in just moments. As she stepped outside, an overwhelming sense of freedom struck her. So much of her life was planned and orderly, and yet here she was, outside past midnight without a soul in the world who knew what she was doing, with her hair down and her heart inexplicably racing. She couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so daring. The motion of her thighs as she hurried along became something she was distinctly aware of. She could feel the pulsing of her heart in her clitoris, and the nectar of her passion was nearly sufficient to dribble down the insides of her thighs, a fact which both delighted and embarrassed her.
The stable was to the east, and adjoining it was the servants’ quarters for the outdoor help. Ralph’s majordomo and Celeste’s chambermaids, as well as the cook, all lived within the main house. But Heath and Laine, whose duties included caring for the team of horses as well as seeing to general maintenance of the manner, lived away from the more genteel activities of a sizeable estate within the city confines of London proper.
Standing at the foot of the stairs, the breeze playing lightly with her hair, she experienced a stab of misgiving. While it was not unthinkable for the mistress of such an estate to see the interior of her stable, visiting the stable past the witching hour held with it the appearance of impropriety. And visiting with the intention of delivering a bottle of what she hoped was very fine Irish whiskey as a gift to a decidedly handsome and masculine man most certainly was a serious breach in protocol.
“To hell with protocol,” she muttered under her breath as she headed toward the stable.
Earlier in her marriage, before Ralph had become so bitter regarding the fact that the only money he possessed he had gotten through marrying her, he had teased her for being “prissy” in the bedroom. Back then, it was fun to be alone with Ralph and to enjoy a glass or two, or even more, of wine, and let the inhibitions relax their relentless grip on her. On a dare, she had even said “pussy” and “cock,” though she blushed crimson afterward. When Ralph tried to get her to say “fuck me,” she couldn’t.
Later on, after Ralph’s bitterness toward her had become poisonous, and his self-perceived injustices of life caused a daily pattern of rage, there wasn’t anything delightfully naughty in using scandalous words with her husband. Where he had once tried to coax her into saying “fuck me,” now he simply scowled at her and said “fuck you.”
Pale lamplight showed in the side window of the stable, and one in the back living quarters. For a moment, she told herself she was being silly, and if she had any common sense at all, she would turn around and return to her bedroom, which was where she should be at this time of night. But her heart was pounding faster and harder than she wanted to admit, and even though she had seen the burly coachman less than fifteen minutes earlier, it seemed to her it had been far too long since her gaze last touched him.
Forcing herself to walk at a casual pace, she headed toward the stable, hoping Heath wasn’t so efficient at his chores that he was already ensconced in his living quarters for the evening.
As she walked through the side entrance to the stable, she was aware of the pleasing animal scent of horses. Heath obviously took his job seriously and kept the stable very clean. After taking several more steps, what she saw stopped her short.
Heath was standing at the side of one of the roan geldings, running a currycomb over the powerful animal as it munched on oats. The sight itself would not have been so jarring to her senses had he not already removed his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. Naked from the waist up, his body gleamed in the lamplight with a touch of perspiration. For the first time in her life, Celeste realized that a man’s body could be beautiful. As Heath raised the currycomb and brought it down over the animal’s neck and shoulder, she watched the rippling interplay of muscles just beneath the surface of the stable master’s pale skin. The power, only hinted at when he wore clothes, was now revealed in all its primal, masculine glory. Heath McCord, she realized, was the epitome of unrefined, primitive power, and for a moment, she felt fear, knowing he was a man capable of great violence if sufficiently provoked.
A small voice of reason whispered, He protects women. He doesn’t hurt them.
But then another fear, one too nebulous for Celeste to grasp entirely, came to life within her breast. What was she afraid of? Herself? Her body’s reaction to seeing him naked from the waist up? She suspected this might be so, though since no man had ever drawn such an amorous, sexual response from her body before, she was sailing in uncharted waters. She was experiencing something shockingly important and unprecedented—she just didn’t know what it was. And then, startlingly, for the first time in her life, she was intensely aware of looking at a man and feeling her clitoris tingle because of it.
Heath finished combing the horse and led it into a stall. It wasn’t until he closed the gate and turned back toward her that he noticed he was not alone, and he reacted with a start.
“I’m sorry!” Celeste said quickly. “I just came in and…um…” She couldn’t tell him she’d spent the past couple of minutes visually caressing him. Women of her standing in society simply didn’t say such things aloud. They might think them, naturally, but they never admitted to it. It just wouldn’t be right. Especially not with the hired help. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Heath’s blue eyes were wary as he replied, “Did I forget to do something for you, Lady Fallon?”
She heard the censure in his tone and in his careful choice of proper nouns. For trespassing into his masculine world of the stable, he demoted her from Lady Celeste to Lady Fallon. She was beginning to understand just what stock she placed on Heath’s opinion.
“No,” she said after a moment’s pause. Facing her, the naked splendor of his chest, shoulders, and abdomen touched her senses in ways she had never previously thought possible. She felt her labia swell and begin to get slick with her own cream. “No, you’ve fulfilled all of your duties admirably.” Her tongue made a futile attempt to moisten her lips. “In fact, so admirably I thought a little reward was called for.”
When she saw the right side of his mouth quirk upward in a characteristic half smile and saw the dimple form in his cheek, she felt a sudden surge of confidence. Her behavior still baffled her, but when she saw not merely pleasure but appreciation shine in his eyes, she knew she had made the right decision in coming to the stable.
“I brought you something,” she said, stepping forward, extending the whiskey bottle in offering.
“Before I accept, m’lady, decency dictates that I at least put my shirt back on.” Heath’s grin broadened. “I didn’t expect to see you, and it’s been a muggy day, so I didn’t see the harm in taking off my new livery. I want it to look nice so you won’t be embarrassed being seen with me.”
“Completely understandable.” But as she watched Heath step over to the railing where he had deposited his clothing, a small, impish voice inside her head whispered frantically, Tell him you don’t mind! Tell him he doesn’t have to put his shirt back on! The tingling in her pussy became a bit more insistent. Her body’s reaction was unprecedented. Her nipples felt tight, and she was afraid their aroused state would be visible.
As Heath pulled the high-coll
ared, white cotton shirt over his head, she once again watched the sensual, leonine rippling of muscles moving beneath skin. And when his shirt was properly arranged once more, though not tucked into his trousers, she was consciously aware of being far more at ease and much less discomfited by her proximity to him. Her clitoris, however, remained as acutely aware of its surroundings as a gazelle surrounded by a pride of lions.
“I’m honored, Lady Celeste,” Heath said, a grin bordering on wicked playing with his mouth as he strode forward. “I can see by the label the whiskey’s from Ireland. And though the Irish and I have skinned up a few knuckles in the past, that’s not a good reason to say everything and everyone from the country is without value.”
She handed him the bottle and was delighted by his enthusiastic appreciation of her gift. He held the bottle in both hands, at arm’s length, as one might a newborn child for a more objective perspective.
“Have you ever had it before?”
Heath shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be the finest of the fine.” He looked at her, and his eyebrows lifted comically. “Too good for the likes of me.”
“Why don’t you get a glass and give it a try?” She was delighted now that she had acted rashly and left her home to deliver a gift immediately, despite the lateness of the hour. It wouldn’t be the last bottle of Irish whiskey he would receive as a gift from the unlikely source of Lady Celeste Fallon.
