by Beverly Adam
“When I first came to the castle, all of the rooms were in need of repair,” he explained, dismounting. “I lived and worked here for a time.”
He tied her horse’s reins to a post.
“Would you like to come inside?” he asked, looking at her thoughtfully.
He left unasked the real question behind his invitation. Did she want to come inside and be alone with him?
She silently nodded, yes.
He placed his strong hands on her waist and helped her dismount, holding her a moment longer than was necessary when her feet touched the ground. She looked up at him, her eyes never leaving his face. She wanted him. She hadn’t stopped wanting him since the moment he walked away from her bed.
“Come in,” he said, opening the door, quickly checking to see if all was in order.
She hesitated at the threshold, fighting her fear of entrapment. “If I come inside, you won’t force me to marry you, will you, James?”
He shook his head, almost laughing at the notion.
“By my word, I promise never to force you to do anything you don’t want to,” he said, smiling down at her, clearly amused at the idea. “You needn’t fear, Beatrice. You have my assurance that today we are merely friends . . .” He added softly, “And if you so desire, lovers. It’s your decision.”
With that promise, he impatiently picked her up and carried her inside. The cottage was very small. It contained but one room. A bed large enough to hold his manly frame dominated most of it.
He shut the cottage door with his back as he crossed the threshold, heading straight for the bed. It was made of wood, strung together by rope, a feather mattress and a crocheted quilt lay on top.
He carefully laid her down. He stood over her, his eyebrows lifted as he asked, “Do you wish to continue?”
“Yes, I want us to be lovers,” she replied, nodding, her riding hat tilting precariously on her head.
She lay back, waiting for him to join her, letting her hat fall carelessly to the floor. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him latch the door. She knew she was safe; he would not force her into marriage. What happened next between them was to be entirely her choice.
He returned to her side and began kissing her. Her mouth opened willingly, enjoying the dance of their tongues as he pressed his lips against hers, his hands deftly unbuttoned her fitted riding jacket. He removed it and reached behind her, undoing her riding skirt until she wore only her corset.
“Now for the rest,” he whispered into her ear. She shivered in anticipation.
He hooked his middle fingers at the top of the corset, peering down at the round globes of her breasts. He took in a deep breath and looked into her green eyes, his own shining with desire, as with ease, he pulled the corset down.
Her heart pounded in a breath of expectation as he stared at her, his eyes aglow with warm desire. He murmured before kissing her, “Beautiful, Beatrice, absolutely beautiful . . .”
He removed all his clothes and lay naked next to her. He behaved as if there was not a house full of guests waiting for them back at the castle, all that mattered was this moment, alone with her. As he kissed her, she felt the burning warmth increase and spread from between her legs to her entire body.
His hands and mouth slowly took their time enjoying the feel of her skin beneath his touch as he kissed every inch of her body, moving his tongue and mouth along every beautiful curve. With each caress, she forgot who she was, tossing away the hard-earned title of Spinster of Brightwood Manor.
She lay back and rejoiced in James’s lovemaking with complete abandon. His fingers found their way into her moist heat, caressing her until she was wet and moaning at the exquisite sensations he was evoking. He moved to position himself between her legs and boldly she took his manhood in her hands and caressed him, as well. He threw his head back and groaned, shuddering at her touch. She guided him inside her, joining their bodies . . . and then they danced, moving in a rhythm as old as time itself. The heat inside her began to build, that delicious throbbing she could not control, spiraled as he thrust into her, increasing the tempo of their joining. She grabbed his waist, wanting all of him.
Suddenly, she felt an explosion of heat, the muscles inside her squeezing his manhood, her heart pounding against his chest, as she cried out, “James!”
He removed himself from her, letting out a cry of his own.
Afterwards, she lay next to him, her heart slowing back to its usual pace, as languidly she ran a finger along his arm and chest, recovering from their lovemaking. Her heart felt light and for a reason she was not yet ready to examine, she was at peace.
He went to the river and heated a kettle over the fire of an open hearth, bringing the water back to her. She stood and washed in a large wood bucket. He handed her a linen towel to dry herself with.
“Merci,” she said in French.
“My pleasure,” he answered, briefly kissing her on the lips.
She wanted to say more, but could not find the words, knowing that perhaps it was best not to speak of it at all. He had promised not to force her into marriage and she was, for the moment, satisfied with that, her independence secure.
They redressed and left the small cottage . . . she didn’t need to ask him how he felt. She could tell that he was as pleased as she . . . a smile on his face told all, as the scar above his eye crinkled with good humor. But before she could utter a word, he nudged their horses on the flanks, urging them forward. Gaily, they raced back to the castle.
* * *
The following days Beatrice was disappointingly not permitted much time in the earl’s company. She often found herself in the middle of the ballroom, or even silently listening to music, surrounded by her numerous admirers. They followed her everywhere. She could turn neither left nor right without one of them inadvertently tripping over her layered skirts.
How tiresome it was to be so damnably rich! And as for the earl, Captain James, she mentally corrected herself. She hardly saw him at all. Those blissful moments they’d shared together were quickly becoming a faded memory. The ladies fawned over him, dowager and debutante alike, eagerly trying to further the cause of their chosen prodigy. Hoping against hope that one of their young charges would finish the little season with an early marriage proposal and save them the added duty of paying for a much costlier trip to the big city of London.
Leading the pack of coquettes was Beau Power’s sister, the town cit, Mistress Laeticia Powers. For wherever the handsome earl wandered, so consequently followed the well-endowed lady in pink.
“Obviously thinks that color will make her look younger,” she heard her aunt sniff in disapproval one morning as the dazzler entered the dining room wearing a gown of the brightest blush.
The diminutive widow in black had no pangs of maidenly discretion to keep her from letting the dasher know her thoughts. For Aunt Agnes, never one to talk about someone behind their back, made plainly known where the lines were drawn and which side she had chosen to champion.
“Beatrice, I thought only those of us who experience the horrors of drink would see pink in the morning,” the aunt uttered ruthlessly aloud as the dasher brushed past them towards the sideboard where the food had been laid out.
Plates, serving spoons, and open mouths, were suspended in midair as everyone stared at the object of the older lady’s derision.
To the selfsame widow’s pleasure, the dasher’s cheeks glowed a color similar to that of her gown. Instead of taking her usual place closest to the earl, Laeticia headed for the opposite end of the table. It was also the farthest from the tiny black dragon and her barbed jibes.
Beatrice noticed the friendly manner in which the other lady treated their host. She watched the petite pocket Venus stroll around the grounds with him that afternoon, a parasol in her white-gloved hands, twirling giddily.
She overheard Laeticia say breathlessly as they reached the top of the hill where she had been practicing archery, “Tell me again about the time you and
your soldiers bravely routed a battalion of Boney’s men, Your Grace.”
“Now, Mistress Powers, you exaggerate. Yet once again,” the earl said, his voice tinged with amusement.
He corrected her, as he would a wayward child. “I said that my regiment took part in a campaign that helped rid our valiant commander of an artillery unit that had been shelling us to bits.”
“Oh, yes, how terribly thrilling!” trilled the lady, placing her hand fetchingly upon his arm. “I do so adore hearing Your Grace recount how he commanded himself in battle. It’s utterly too exciting for words.” She dimpled up at him. “Là, it sets my little heart a-racing a pitter-patter right here.”
The beauty placed his gloved hand upon the spot just beneath the frill of her bodice, so that he too might feel the excited beats of her heart.
“Ah . . . um . . . indeed,” he murmured and quickly removed his gloved hand.
Beatrice clenched her bow and arrow. She’d been trying to concentrate, but failed miserably. Her arrow flew through the air landing in a patch of lawn far behind and to the left of the target.
“Here!” she said, thrusting her bow to one of her admirers, who faithfully stood by her side.
A piercing urge to go over and pull the earl away from the conniving hussy pricked her barely tamed temper. Firmly reminding herself once more that she was the property of no man, and in return no man belonged to her, she managed to rein in her rage. Not even the selfsame gentleman, who but the day before had made her feel weak-kneed and breathless from his passionate lovemaking, would give her reason to create a scene. She had promised her aunt that she would comport herself as a lady.
Resolutely, she turned her back on the couple. She held her hand out silently for her bow and arrow. Stringing it, she took aim and let the arrow fly. This time it hit the outer center of the mark.
Someone, it sounded like one of the debutantes, tittered nervously nearby.
She glared at the offender. The tittering stopped.
The devil was certainly having a merry field day with her!
Aunt Agnes had also been grimly observing the pair. It was quite evident that her niece did not understand what grave danger the other lady represented. She approached the crowd that surrounded Beatrice.
“Gentlemen, if you please,” she said, trying to reach her niece.
But none of the dandies budged. Each prized the position that he’d hard won. They jealously formed a tighter knit circle around Beatrice.
Collapsing her black silk parasol, the tiny lady in black turned the sharp end upon the shapely young calves and buttocks that stood barring her way to her niece.
“I say, old girl,” one of the dandies yelped in protest as the point struck a calf.
“Have a care, won’t you!” protested another, receiving the sharp end in his nether regions.
The tiny poking demon paid little heed and continued brandishing her weapon until at last she reached the inner circle. Raising her parasol menacingly in the air, she dramatically banished the lot of them.
“Be gone!” she bellowed. Her long black shawl flapping up and down like flying bat’s wings. “I wish to speak to m’niece alone.”
Startled, fearful of another bruising poke, the tulips of fashion scurried off in different directions. The debutantes, whom they had previously ignored, suddenly looked quite pretty in their virginal whites, and by comparison to the tiny black terror next to them, quite harmless.
Agnes squinted up at her niece.
“Well, girl, what are you staring at? Are you going to sit there like a simpering school girl and let that trussed up pink pigeon have her way with your gentleman?”
“He’s not my gentleman, Aunt,” she replied stiffly, propping up her usual weapons of aloof indifference.
“Nor will he ever be if you don’t change!” The aunt glowered at the pair heading in the direction of the lake below.
“You might at least try and steer him towards the altar before that London baggage stitches her initials on his pillow!” She wagged a finger at her in warning.
“What the Earl of Drennan chooses to do or not do, is none of my affair.”
“Don’t go about playing coy with me, girl.” The aunt huffed, indignantly. “I saw with me own two eyes the way your mouth was mussed when you and the master of this great stone barn came riding back.”
She nodded, her tiny gray head challenging her to deny the accusation.
“I know, therefore, something of a private nature passed betwixt the two of you. And I won’t believe a word of it, if you tell me it didna! Come now, girl, you can’t deny it.”
“I won’t,” she said, her face reddening slightly at the confession. She felt like the veritable schoolgirl her aunt claimed her to be.
“You know, Auntie, I’m not a wee bairn anymore,” she added defiantly, daring her aunt to question her actions. She was tired of being treated like a child still tied to her governess’s apron strings. “Do remember next month I come into my majority.”
“As if the whole world didna know it,” bit out the tiny lady, fed up with the old maid’s attitude her niece persisted in taking towards life.
She gave the young woman a derisive snort to let her know what she thought of that important event.
“So you’ll receive at last the rest of your aunt Mary’s money, won’t you? Ha! And I suppose it’ll be providing you a handsome husband and a brood of loving children to go with it, as well, m’dear?”
Beatrice chewed on the lower part of her lip.
Children. She’d not thought of that. Faith, her aunt had a way of finding her Achilles’ heel. She adored the wee ones. They were the reason she’d chosen to learn to become a midwife in the first place. Aye, her aunt was right in that respect. She’d never given a great deal of thought to how she would feel if she didn’t have a family of her own to love and care for.
And one could not go about having children without a husband. The devil take it, for that one needed a gentleman of equal standing or higher in society, if one was born to be a lady. Nay, she couldn’t just go off and advertise for one and have him suddenly appear when she was ready to start a family. That would be as bad as letting her father arrange a match for her.
What she needed was a gentleman confidante. Someone she could share her ambitious dreams with, a husband who’d listen and encourage her in her ventures. And most importantly, not meddle. A partner in life, who like the Earl of Drennan would make both a good worker and a lover.
Her green eyes widened. She blinked, looking back towards where he and Mistress Powers stood by the lower south terrace at the bottom of the castle’s hill. Even from this distance, she could see that they made a handsome couple.
Her eyes narrowed into dark green slits. She suddenly realized that she did not care one bit for the view. Nay, not one bit.
“Aunt Agnes,” she said decisively, turning to the tiny lady who’d shrewdly helped steer her in the direction she was about to take. “What shall I do?”
Chapter 9
Lady Beatrice O’Brien, the cool aloof Spinster of Brightwood, began a transformation that startled those who were well-acquainted with the serious-minded hoyden. Her conversation suddenly turned away from the more mannish topics that had usually peppered her speech, such as the market price of wool and the current blockade from America. Now it was much lighter, some would even say, provocative banter.
“Tell us the latest news, Lord Reginald,” she said, lying languidly on a cushion beneath one of the large trees that bordered the grounds. The sun lightly dappled a path across her peach walking gown.
Young Reginald looked eagerly up at the dark-haired beauty. He had been reading the latest addition of the London Gazette, which had just arrived by courier. The earl had arranged for the papers to be delivered almost daily by coach. It was much to the pleasure of his English guests, who thought themselves to be almost at the end of the earth, being away from the center of the world—London.
“It’s fill
ed, my dear lady, with the superb news of Prinney’s party for the disposed French royalty,” he said, looking down at the gossip column. “What ho! Old Creevey has outdone himself this time! Just listen, my lady . . . ,” he said, laughing with delight, enjoying the wicked bit of news he’d espied.
He stood up and dramatically took the posture of a well-received lecturer dissecting the latest on dit from court for the public at large. “Apparently, all of London attended. But neither the Princess of Wales, or Lady Fitzherbert were seen at the celebrations at Carlton House, or as Creevey put it, ‘the two wives stayed at home by themselves’!”
Everyone laughed. They were all au courant of the present situation between their corpulent regent prince and his two wives. The first was the Princess of Wales, whom the Prince Regent had tried to divorce. The second was a Catholic widow, whom he had tried to marry. Both endeavors had proved unsuccessful for the prince.
At present, their prince was involved with neither of the ladies, but taken up with Lady Hereford, now called Madame Maintenon. It was a title she’d earned after having married in secret, Louis the fourteenth of France at the ripe age of fifty-one.
“The Prince Regent is becoming a regular Henry the Eighth!” Beatrice commented and all laughed in appreciation at the jest.
The English court had become something less than noble since King George the third had gone both mad and blind. Only the threat of the war-crazed French Emperor across the channel brought any true feelings of loyalty the British now felt towards his successor, the Prince Regent. If nothing else, the deplorable manners of the “First Gentleman,” as the prince was called, provided entertaining gossip during the war.
The earl, who happened to be passing by with Laeticia Powers on his arm, paused to listen to the conversation. He scowled jealously in their direction, hearing the outbursts of laughter following Lady Beatrice’s pronouncement about the Prince Regent. He frowned. Why the devil wasn’t she shocking them away? How unlike her!
