Chester worried his bottom lip. “When is his lord expecting you?”
Lady Arthur’s smile softened. “He is here in Southerby. He knows that I have come here for the party and knows that I will try to get away sometime this week. I had hoped to get away today since the ladies are going to the shoppes. Though I have told Lady Lucien, I do not know how to get word to Lord Cholmondeley to ready the carriage.”
Chester straightened his shoulders. “I shall go to him and let him know to have the carriage waiting for you shortly, near to the modiste.”
Lady Arthur’s eyes widened. “You would do this for us, Chester?”
“Yes, Lady Arthur.”
Lady Arthur rushed toward Chester and wrapped his arms around
Chester’s shoulders and enclosed him into a fierce hug. “Thank you!”
Chester hugged Lady Arthur back. Setting the other woman away from him, Chester grinned at him. A question plagued him, and unable to stop himself, Chester found the words tumbling out.
“Arthur? May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” Lady Arthur replied, his hazel eyes glowing, black hair bobbing as he nodded.
“What made you decide to… well… you know… with Lord Cholmondeley?”
Lady Arthur grinned. “You mean because our families come from such different social standings? And the likelihood we would be shunned being together?”
Chester swallowed nervously and nodded.
Lady Arthur sighed happily and rubbed a hand over his belly. “To be quite honest, it is going to sound completely romantic and like the line from a Shakespearean sonnet, but it was love. ’Twas Cupid’s arrow that pierced my heart and made it bleed for my lord.” He stared intently into Chester’s eyes. “And I asked myself, at the end of my life, when I lie on my death bed, did I want to look back over the decisions I’d made and know that I’d made smart ones that made other people happy and nod in approval and acceptance? Or did I want to look around and see people standing beside my bed who made me happy and know I’d made decisions that made us happy and had people who loved me and had my own approval?”
Happiness. Love. That was what Chester really wanted. Did it matter if obtaining those things didn’t meet with other people’s approval?
“Thank you, my lady.”
“You’re welcome, Chester.”
Chester cleared his throat of the lump that had formed there. He would go and find Lord Cholmondeley, reunite him and Lady Arthur, and then he would pursue his own happiness. Even if it was one he only got as the duke’s mistress.
Orley stepped out of the study and closed the door on the laughter pouring from within with a sigh. He needed a break. Just a few minutes of fresh air and then he could go back inside and pretend as if he weren’t at the end of his tenterhooks straining to catch a glimpse or even a whiff of Chester. He was obsessed and he knew it, but he couldn’t talk to anyone about it, at least not anyone who wouldn’t tell him to just bed the young woman and get it out of his system.
When Chester hurried down the stairs, wearing a light pelisse over his maid’s uniform and an old, worn bonnet over his thick, honey blond hair, Orley found himself intrigued and followed him toward the front door.
“I say, Chester!” he called out. He tried not to feel too deeply the sharp lance of pain that sliced through his innards when Chester stiffened, but it was difficult, and he continued onward. “Where are you going on this fine morn?”
“I am merely going out to run a few errands for one of the ladies,” Chester stated, looking around, avoiding Orley’s gaze.
A feeling of unease ran through Orley at Chester’s obvious lie. The young woman was up to something. Chester was going to do something that was either dangerous or could lead to him losing his position with Pompinshire. Or even worse, end up with him in the stockade or the Tower of Tlondon. Fear twisted Orley’s insides, and he stepped even closer to Chester. Grabbing hold of Chester’s chin, he tilted it up and stared into his beautifully expressive hazel eyes.
“You know that you can tell me anything, and I will not judge you, Chester. As a matter of fact, I will do everything within my considerable power to help you, but you must tell me the truth.” He put the inflection of compassion and demand into his voice and watched as Chester’s teeth came out to nibble on his plump bottom lip.
Orley groaned softly, his erection hardening in his trousers. He longed to take the plump lip between his own teeth and bite down on it before sucking it into his mouth. He stepped forward slightly, pressing Chester against the door behind him and placed one hand on the door behind the young lady’s head.
“Y-Your Grace. W-we can’t. S-someone may see us. S-see you,” Chester panted out in protest.
“Let them,” Orley stated, lowering his head.
Chester shook his head, giving a weak protest, but Orley didn’t care, he had to taste Chester again. He had been going mad all day thinking about the taste of Chester on his tongue. The feel of Chester in his arms. He pressed himself fully against the young woman and passed his tongue along the seam of Chester’s lips. At Chester’s gasp, Orley pushed his tongue deep into Chester’s mouth. He let his tongue map the inside of the young woman’s mouth and slid his free hand up and down the side of Chester’s body.
Orley delighted in the shiver that passed through Chester’s body, echoing in his own. God, he wanted more. So much more than what he had now. He wanted Chester naked and spread beneath him. He wanted Chester’s skirts thrown up around his waist, the young lady’s legs pressed up against his chest. He longed to hear Chester panting, chanting, screaming his name.
The sound of chattering female voices snapped Orley out of his passionate haze, and he stepped away from Chester quickly. Chester blinked open his eyes slowly, his almond-colored cheeks slightly flushed, his gaze dark with desire. His lips were swollen from Orley’s kisses, and for a moment, Orley was tempted to shove Chester back against the door and continue kissing him senseless.
But once Chester heard the voices, he stiffened and turned toward the door, then grabbed the doorknob. Orley reached out and took his hand.
“Tell me where you are going!” he hissed.
Chester turned and whispered furiously, “I am going to speak to Lord Cholmondeley.”
A white-hot, jealous rage swept over Orley in that moment as he thought of Lord Cholmondeley, the gorgeous half-Tfrench, half-Anglish man whose broad build, gorgeous tenor singing voice, dimpled smile, and accent had caused more than one woman to swoon. There was no way he was going to let Chester be around the man alone. No way at all.
Not while he was still living and breathing.
“I’m coming with you,” Orley stated.
“What?” Chester glared.
“No arguments. Go!” Orley directed. He pointed out the door. “Hurry before they come. You can tell me why we’re going on the way.”
Chester opened his mouth and turned to look up the stairs, and then he hurried out the door. Satisfied he’d gotten his way, Orley followed him out the door, then closed it behind him.
Chester sat inside the carriage that he’d borrowed from His Grace Pompinshire, but then at the end of the road, he climbed out. Ignoring his duke—no, he meant, the Duke of Whitcomb, the man certainly did not belong to Chester—he raised his hand and hailed a hackney. When the coach rolled to a stop, he climbed aboard, lifting the skirts of his uniform in one hand, and accepting the hand of the footman who helped him aboard. He rolled his eyes at the low, menacing growl that came from the duke, especially as the man wouldn’t even be riding in the same part of the coach with Chester, and settled himself on the seat in the back. He noticed the way Whitcomb turned to stare at him in confusion, but Chester said nothing, just turned to look out the window as the hackney pulled away from the hackney stand.
He licked his lips, still tasting Whitcomb on his mouth, and tried not to groan, his cock growing hard. He placed his small drawstring reticule over his lap to hide his embarrassing predicament
from the women who sat on the same cushioned seat as him, and hoped they couldn’t see his flaming cheeks. Why had the duke kissed him in the entryway? They could have been discovered. Chester bit his lower lip and pressed his hand against his cheek to cool his skin. The thought of his parents finding him in such a compromising position horrified him, and yet the images that flashed across his brain thrilled him. In the moment, he hadn’t cared. He had wanted more of the duke’s kisses. He had longed to wrap his arms around the man’s broad shoulders, to press himself tighter against him.
Had he become a harlot in the past few days? Had he thrown aside his morals for want of a hard body, passionate kisses, and large hands that pulled him tightly as if they never wanted to let him go? His mother would be ashamed of him. And his maldy…. Chester trembled, and this time it was not from desire. It was from fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. His maldy would skin him alive if she were aware of what he was even entertaining while sitting here in the hackney coach surrounded by strangers. No. Though he had allowed himself the barest of fantasies, caught up in the tides of romantic love betwixt and between Lady Arthur and Lord Cholmondeley, Chester could not allow himself to believe it would be possible to have the same thing for himself. He had to let it go.
And quickly.
Seeing that they were coming upon the hackney stand close to the lodging houses where Lord Cholmondeley was staying, Chester raised his hand and tapped upon the ceiling. The coach pulled up to the stand and stopped. Chester gathered his skirts and reticule in one hand and slid toward the door. His eyes widened when he found himself taking Whitcomb’s hand instead of the footman’s or even that of the hackney waterman who usually came to open the doors of the hackney and assist passengers down.
Chester noticed the waterman standing off to the side, counting a few guineas in his hand, and then he glanced back at Whitcomb. Whitcomb merely shrugged and helped Chester out of the hackney. Feet upon the ground, Chester shook his head and smoothed his hand down his skirts, then stepped away from the hackney so the coach could pull away. He turned to look up at the lodging house and took a deep breath to fortify himself. He could do this. Go and see an unmarried man. Bloody hell, he had just ridden with one. And was even now walking with one, unchaperoned.
It was not as if he were a lady, after all. No matter what the duke might say, or what Chester’s mother might try to instill in him.
“Right, then.” Chester nodded. “Shall we?” He nodded toward the lodgings and stepped forward. He had no idea what Lord Cholmondeley looked like, but he could only hope he would be able to see him to deliver the letter in his reticule.
Everything else would fail if he didn’t do so.
Orley watched Chester carefully as the young woman tried to put on a brave face and realized that whatever foolish mission the maid was on, it wasn’t for himself; it was for someone else. Knowing acutely the fear that must be pulsing through Chester’s body, Orley reached out and touched his shoulder.
“Wait here,” he stated. “I shall go in and seek Lord Cholmondeley and bring him out to you. Then you may deliver your missive to him.”
Chester opened his mouth. “How do you know that I have a letter to give to him? Perhaps I want to see him? Have you never considered the fact that I have come to have a dalliance with the lord and you were just brought along as a distraction, Your Grace?” His hazel eyes flashed defiantly, though his voice wavered.
Orley smiled gently and stepped impossibly closer to Chester. He lifted his hand to Chester’s cheek and brushed a gentle caress to the side of his face. He shook his head, and after looking around, he placed a quick and discreet kiss upon Chester’s forehead.
“One does not kiss a man the way you allowed yourself to be kissed by me when one is on his way to be seduced by another, my lady. Besides”—he nodded to the reticule that Chester clutched tightly in his hands—“you hold tightly to that bag as if it holds the crown jewels of Tlondon. One can only assume it possesses a matter of great import within.”
Chester looked down at his reticule and then back up at Orley. He blushed, his light brown skin holding the barest hint of red beneath it. Orley chuckled. Chester shook his head. “You would make a fine detective, Your Grace.”
“I would make a great many things, my lady.”
Orley swept low into a bow. “Now, stay here.” He pointed to a tree that stood directly next to the lodging house. “Do not move, and call out loudly should anyone accost or attempt to touch your person.”
Chester shook his head. “You think too highly of me, Your Grace. I assure you that in all my years, no one has seen me but you.” Orley shook his head. “Then all the world must be blind.” Chester blushed again.
Orley spun on his heel and walked toward the building, his cane tapping loudly on the cobblestone walkway. He was determined to find Lord Cholmondeley and get Chester back to Southerby Manor, where the young lady belonged. He had an extremely bad feeling crawling up the back of his spine. It was one he hadn’t felt in a while, not since Badajoz. The last time he had felt it, he had wound up crippled.
Chester stood beneath the tree as ordered and watched as Whitcomb walked into the building. He clenched his fist around the top of the reticule and exhaled around the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat. He had a sudden feeling of nervousness. Was it due to the fact that Whitcomb had complimented him once again, or was it because Whitcomb had left him alone in front of a lodging house?
Chester looked around, noticing a number of men coming and going from the lodging house and walking up and down the street, not one of them looking his way, and he sighed in relief. He shook his head at himself. Chester was being quite daft; it was as he’d told Whitcomb. He had spent much of his life being seen but ignored. Chester blended in with his surroundings; he was noticed but only at the corner of the eye of much of the gentry. They really only paid attention to him when they wanted something from him.
Chester, darling, please go and tell Cook that my soup is cold.
Chester, be a dear and go fetch my wrap.
Chester, the duke is being quite a bore, go and pour him a glass of sherry.
Chester, it seems the duke has gotten one of the maids pregnant, please find out which one it is.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty one.” The voice snapped Chester out of his musings, and he gasped and looked up.
Standing in front of him was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a pleasant accent. Though it wasn’t Anglish. No. He sounded as if he were from somewhere else.
“Ex-excuse me?” Chester said.
“Hoo-wee. And you got a cute little accent on you too. What you doing out here all by yourself, gal?” The man in front of him asked.
Chester looked around and noticed that while there were other men who noticed the man standing in front of him, none of them stopped.
“I am waiting for my, my….” How the hell was he supposed to explain his relationship with the duke?
“Your master?” the man asked. His eyes ran over Chester from the top of his head down. “Yeah. I figured you for a slave, though I didn’t think you Anglish had slaves here. Thought you were all too uppity for all of that.”
Chester gasped. This man thinks I am a s-slave? A lightbulb clicked in his head then. The man standing in front of him was a Tamerican. But unlike Lord Oakley, who was a kind man, this man now had his hands on the tree on either side of Chester’s head and stood staring down at him, licking his lips as if he were looking at a delicious meal.
“So tell me something. Why would your master leave a tasty morsel like you all alone outside?” the stranger asked. He ran his fingers down over the skin of Chester’s neck and shoulder. “Maybe he wanted to see if someone would come along and just take you for themselves?”
Chester shook his head. “N-no.”
The door opened, and Chester heard the step-clack-step-clackstep-clack of Whitcomb’s approach. He turned his head and breathed a sigh of relief.
&
nbsp; “Your Grace!”
Whitcomb was accompanied by another man—tall, equally broadshouldered, with dark hair and dimples in his cheeks. Chester could see why Lady Arthur had fallen for Lord Cholmondeley. He was attractive, though he could not hold a candle to the Duke of Whitcomb, not in Chester’s eyes.
The man standing in front of Chester did not move, perhaps he saw Whitcomb’s cane and didn’t think the man would be much of a threat to him. Chester felt fear slice through him, though he wasn’t sure if it was for him or for the man in front of him. He looked at Whitcomb and saw the mottled anger that flowed over his face before slowly being wiped away. He smiled a slow smile as he walked toward them.
“Chester, did I not tell you to call for me if someone were to accost you?” Whitcomb asked him calmly, ignoring the man completely.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Chester responded.
Whitcomb nodded. “We shall deal with your inability to follow orders when we return to the manor. Now, come here.”
Chester went to step forward but was prevented from doing so when the Tamerican refused to move. He chuckled darkly. “Uh-uh-uh. I wanna talk with you a little more. It’s been a while since I had me a little darkie.”
Chester realized then that action had come to a standstill on the street and in front of the lodging house. His face flamed, and he lowered his head. His mother and maldy were going to find out about his trip to see Lord Cholmondeley, as would the Duke of Pompinshire, and he would lose his position. Whatever would he do?
Faster than he could blink, the Tamerican had collapsed to the ground at his feet, the duke’s cane resting mere inches away from him. Chester’s mouth fell open in awe, and he looked up at Whitcomb, who was brushing his hands together.
“Well done, my lord,” Lord Cholmondeley said as he walked over to retrieve the cane and bring it back to the duke.
The other men who had gathered resumed their journeys, and Chester watched as two men came out of the lodging house and hoisted the Tamerican in their arms, apologized to Whitcomb, and dragged the unconscious man into the building. Chester stood against the tree in stunned silence, unsure of what to do or where to go next. It wasn’t until Lord Cholmondeley stood before him, his hand outstretched, that Chester remembered his original mission.
The Servant Duchess of Whitcomb Page 5
