“Miss Merrill!” the maidservant at the door greeted her in surprise, louder than Heloise would have liked. “We was in quite a state as to where you might have gone off to.”
“I went to call upon an ailing friend,” Heloise mumbled as she glanced about for her cousin with a quickened pulse. “Where is Miss Josephine?”
“In the garden, I believe, with Mr. Webster.”
Mr. Webster was a friend of Lord Blythe and had called once before on Josephine.
“Is anyone else with them?”
The maid shook her head. Heloise sighed at Josephine’s disregard for a chaperone, but she was relieved too, that she might not have to confront her cousin quite yet.
“Shall I assist in your toilette, Miss Merrill?”
With her skirts dust-covered from the walk, Heloise realized she must have looked rather unkempt from her travels. They went upstairs to her chambers, which now looked a tad drab compared to those at the Château Follet.
As she unlaced her bonnet and shrugged out of her caraco, she thought once again of Lord Blythe, of his hands undressing her, his body pressed against her. How quickly her apprehension had transformed to comfort in his presence, as if they had been lovers for some time. “Allow me.”
Heloise whirled around. She had stepped out of her skirts and awaited the maid to unlace her stays when Josephine appeared. Her breath stalled.
Josephine pulled at the ribbons without word. The frown upon her lips and the stiffness of her hand revealed her displeasure. “You know?” Heloise ventured.
“I was awaiting the invitation. When none arrived and I discovered you absent without any of the servants knowing your whereabouts, I suspected your interference.”
She forced a breath. “Forgive me, Josephine.”
Josephine paused before replying, her voice quavering with anger, “You are not my keeper, Heloise.”
Heloise stared at the floor. “I know. I was wrong to have intervened. I should not censure you were you to decide never to speak to me again.”
“Then why did you?” her cousin accused.
Noble if not condescending sentiments, the earl had said.
Heloise took a deep breath and looked into Josephine’s eyes. “I was a fool.”
With an exasperated sigh, Josephine flopped into an armchair nearby. “You went all the way to Château Follet?”
She nodded.
“And spoke with Lord Blythe?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I beseeched him not to besmirch your honor.”
Josephine snorted. “What did he say?”
“That I was intolerant and that you were not in leading strings.”
Her cousin pursed her lips as silence fell between them. Heloise had stepped out of her stays and clasped her hands together. She had prepared herself for Josephine’s wrath and was ready to receive it.
“That is not your chemise,” Josephine observed with narrowed eyes.
Heloise eyed the undergarment with its lace edging. It was more exquisite than any she owned and belonged to Lady Follet. However, Lady Follet had a slender figure and the chemise stretched visibly over Heloise’s body. She searched her mind for a reasonable explanation but contrived nothing. Now Josephine would be livid…
“What happened at the château, Heloise?”
Her mouth opened, but no words emerged. Helpless and embarrassed, she could only look at Josephine stupidly.
“Heloise, did you and Lord Blythe…?”
She dropped her gaze and felt her cheeks redden.
Josephine shook her head. “That rake! I wonder that he accepted you for a replacement?”
Heloise looked at her cousin. “I am sure he was exceedingly disappointed.”
Silence. Then a sly smile pulled at the corner of Josephine’s mouth. “Well, Heloise. I must say that such display of boldness on your part is quite surprising!”
“I will no longer attempt to thwart your acquaintance with him,” Heloise assured her.
Josephine sniffed. “Indeed! Imagine what would be said of you if it should be discovered you spent the night at Château Follet. I think you shall no longer lord over me simply because you are my senior. But did Lord Blythe make mention of when he would repair my stolen invitation?”
A shameful seed of jealousy threatened to sprout, but Heloise suppressed the feeling. “He did not.”
Josephine knit her brows for a moment, but then waved a hand dismissively. “The invitation is no great loss, though admittedly, I was quite furious when it dawned on me what you had done. But if the Earl of Blythe will not replicate the invitation to Château Follet, Mr. Webster will.”
Heloise said nothing.
“Tell me, is Lord Blythe as divine as rumored?”
And more, Heloise thought. She noted the mischievous sparkle in her cousin’s eye.
“He is!” Josephine exclaimed. “For you are blushing as scarlet as a pimpernel.”
“Only because I have made a royal fool of myself. He proved me for a hypocrite.”
“I own it is a relief to find you are not quite so virtuous. It is rather taxing to think that I am somehow short of character when compared to you.”
Heloise let out a shaky breath. “I think that I owe you my confidence, dear cousin, but I was compromised long before this.”
Josephine’s eyes turned into saucers.
“Of my own volition,” Heloise added. “Perhaps that is why I thought it no large matter to…to lie with Lord Blythe.”
“And I had been led to believe you were the virtuous one!”
“When your father was kind enough to take me in, I vowed I would not bring shame upon him—or you, Josephine. You are my only family and far too dear to me.”
“But you ought not advise me to adhere to expectations you yourself have not fulfilled.”
“Your prospects, Josephine, are much greater than mine.”
“Yes, yes, but it is so much more pleasurable to succumb.”
Heloise sighed in agreement. She sat down on the bed, and the two shared a moment of silence.
“There is no purpose in protecting me, Heloise. I had surrendered my maidenhead a year ago.”
Now it was Heloise’s turn to be surprised. “Of your own volition? Did you consider the consequences?”
“Did you?” Josephine retorted.
“Touché.”
“Where is the harm if no one knows?”
“I wish we had shared our confidences earlier. Perhaps all this could have been avoided.”
“Perhaps. But then you would not have experienced the embrace of Lord Blythe.”
Heloise thought of the desire that had been stoked to life by the earl. The hunger had lain dormant these years—suppressed—and she had lamented its awakening at first. But perhaps she could exalt in its vigor instead? Why should the thrill of it turn sour simply because she could not be with Lord Blythe?
Looking at her cousin, she saw that Josephine’s countenance had softened. “I hope that someday you may forgive me, Josephine.”
“I may be cross with you still,” Josephine said, but a faint smile tugged at one corner of her lips. “But I do prefer the Heloise I know now.”
Heloise felt as if a boa had loosened its hold of her chest.
Josephine leaned in. “Now tell me everything about the Château Follet…”
* * * * *
Closing his eyes, Sebastian imagined the plush lips of Heloise Merrill, her mouth waiting to be plumbed by his. He had taken notice of her mouth ever since their encounter at the theater, when her bottom lip had dropped in astonishment over something he had said. He had been tempted then to run his thumb over her succulent lips. He saw himself thrusting into her, saw her eyes bright with desire as she returned his gaze.
The stream of his desire shot from him as the screams of the woman beneath him jolted him from his reverie.
He climbed off her before the last of his seed had emptied. Stumbling, he le
aned against the wall for support and took in a deep breath. He was not in the Empress Room of Château Follet but the boudoir of an opera dancer, and the woman sprawled upon the bed with her skirts thrown above her waist was not Miss Merrill but a woman whose name he could barely recall. Three days had passed since he had left the château and still he could not quiet the humming in his body whenever he thought of Miss Merrill. Perhaps he should not have dismissed her quite so soon from Château Follet. There was much he wanted to show her, much he wanted to do with her body. He wondered which position he would most favor with her—throwing her legs over his shoulders, pressing her against the wall, or taking her from behind as she knelt on all fours?
The answer would surely prove to be all of them.
Despite having just spent, he felt desire welling once more in his groin. He glanced at the woman, now asleep, in the bed before him. For a moment he considered climbing back onto her, but she looked far too tranquil in her slumber, and he suspected that pounding himself senselessly into her would not dispel his thoughts of Miss Merrill.
An hour later he found himself at Brooks’s, but neither cards nor drink proved an effective distraction. He longed not only for her body but her company. There was so little he knew of her, save that Jonathan Merrill had become her guardian upon the death of her parents. He wanted to know what she thought of Château Follet after her experience with him? He would like to believe that he had surpassed the depths of any encounters she had had with her previous lover.
“Go to her,” Marguerite had urged.
He imagined the possibilities of a second encounter with Miss Merrill. The grounds of the château possessed a bucolic charm, and he would have liked to take her on a stroll and engage her in a less confrontational situation. He sensed that he could speak to her as a peer and on a world of topics. Some women had a most annoying practice of feigning ignorance or appearing stupid to please the vanity of the men in their company, but Heloise was as likely to challenge him. Of course he could always silence any argument from her by smothering her mouth with his own.
A second assignation would provide him an opportunity to make amends for his abrupt departure from her. The look of surprise, the slight frown of her brows had indicated her disappointment when he had taken his leave. He had no doubt she had the fortitude to recover, though he half wished, selfishly, that her recovery would not be too swift. He wondered if he occupied her thoughts as much as she did his. He hoped, for her sake, that it would not be the case. Or did he?
He shook his head. He had denied his lust in favor of honor. To seek another meeting with Heloise would tarnish the integrity of his noblesse oblige. There were others more suited to Château Follet. Perhaps he could amuse himself by seducing Anne Wesley into retracting her unkind words. He was confident she would sing his praises before long.
Time would ensure that Miss Merrill became but a faint memory. If only that were what he desired.
* * * * *
The weeds resisted, and Heloise welcomed their defiance as she tugged at them—anything to command her attention and keep her mind off Château Follet and the Earl of Blythe. A sennight had passed and still it was no easy matter to forget him, especially in the quiet of night. Lying in bed, she would caress the parts of her that he had caressed. Her body longed for his touch and the way he made her feel alive. She missed their exchanges.
But she had not heard from him since leaving Château Follet. She knew not if he had attempted to contact Josephine. Somehow she suspected he was done with both Miss Merrill as well as Miss Josephine.
The afternoon sun shone brightly and perspiration trickled down the side of her face as her uncle approached her. He looked very much like her father, only a bit more stout about the belly. She often thought how fortunate she was that she had such a kindhearted guardian.
“Er, Heloise,” he said, peering at her through his bifocals. He hesitated, apparently deciding not to say what he had initially intended.
Ceasing her activity, Heloise looked up at him and waited.
After clearing his throat a few times, her uncle blurted, “How do you know the Earl of Blythe?”
Heloise felt her stomach drop. “Sir?”
“He is not a man I thought would be familiar to you.”
Avoiding his gaze, Heloise wondered how she could answer him. This was not how she had meant to repay his kindness for taking her in, and yet she was guilty of deception and shame. Should she confess the whole truth and offer to take her leave? Surely he would not want to keep her in his household after learning the truth?
“He has a…” her uncle began again, “a repute of sorts, you know.”
“Yes, I am aware of his character,” she replied, fidgeting with her gloves. She dug for courage to ask, “Why do you wish to speak of Lord Blythe?”
“He is here.”
Her breath halted sharply. “He—Lord Blythe came to see you?”
“He came not for me but for you.”
“Me?” she echoed. “Not…Josephine?”
“He was quite clear. A direct man, the earl. In truth, his candor took me by surprise. Nonetheless, I told him that I would not be deemed a responsible guardian if I were to countenance your acquaintance with him. He said he quite understood my fear that I would be feeding the sheep to the wolf, as it were, but he praised your sense of judgment, and I had to agree. I do wish Josephine shared of your discrimination.”
The irony of his words made her cringe.
“I leave it up to you then,” he continued, “to decide if you will see him. If you’ve no wish to, I will send him away.”
Heloise searched his face and realized there was no anger there.
“I will see him.”
When her uncle left, she wished she had asked him to make the earl wait in the drawing room, that she might have an opportunity to attend her toilette. Having exerted some effort in gardening, she must have looked as unkempt as she had that first day at Madame Follet’s. She removed her gloves, wiped the perspiration from her brow, and attempted to tuck her curls into some sense of order.
But why worry of her appearance? she reasoned to herself. She knew not the purpose of his call. Indeed, she had not expected to see him again after his departure from the château. But perhaps he harbored some guilt for having seduced her? Or wished to point out that he had not seduced her but that she had willingly given herself to him so that she had no claims upon his conscience? Perhaps he wished once more to warn her not to meddle in his affairs. Well, she had no intention of interfering in his pursuit of her cousin. And she had no wish to force his hand. No one knew she was ruined, and she trusted him not to speak of it. Though she had not been able to refrain from thinking of him these past days, he would not know it.
Still, she could not stay her vanity from smoothing down her gown and being dismayed upon discovering a stain. She tried to rub it out.
“Miss Merrill.”
Her head snapped up to see the Earl of Blythe standing before her, as immaculately dressed as ever in his high polished Hessians, trim cutaway coat with brass buttons and starched cravat.
“Your lordship,” Heloise returned as blandly as she could, attempting not to be unnerved by the manner in which his gaze bored into her as she bobbed a curtsy.
Silence settled between them as he took her in. Heloise pulled at the fingers of her gloves. It was he who had called upon her. Why did he not speak? Afraid that he would unearth her true feelings, she kept her eyes averted and waited unsuccessfully for him to begin the dialogue. When he did not, she was tempted to ask him if he had come all this way simply to stare at her.
“You have a purpose for your visit, Lord Blythe?” she relented at last.
He eyed her carefully. “Indeed.”
The man was insufferable. He was not making this easy for her.
“My cousin is not here,” she informed him, tossing her gloves into a basket with her gardening tools. She was determined that he would not know the pain she had fel
t when he had left the château with only the slightest by-your-leave. Nor would he know the anger she felt—anger that now fueled her nerves when a part of her wanted only to flee from him that she might shed her tears in solitude.
“I came not for her.”
Of course she knew that. Her uncle had said as much. Nonetheless, and though she knew not the purpose of his call, she felt gratified to hear from his own lips that he was here for her, no matter his purpose.
“Then why did you come?” she ventured.
“Our farewell at the château was unsatisfactory,” he answered, his voice dark.
Ah. She had suspected he had more compassion than he had shown.
“I found it decent enough,” she lied and even managed a small smile at him. Her response seemed to unsettle him, but her triumph was diminished by the wretchedness she felt. She wished he would leave so that she might properly grieve over a romance that lived only in her imagination, berate herself for having been such a dolt, and return to being the sensible young woman her uncle had praised but moments ago. A sensible and wiser woman.
He narrowed his eyes. “It was an abrupt adieu.”
“It was.” She considered as she picked up her basket, proud that she maintained her composure, but she did not trust it to last much longer. “But pray do not trouble yourself on that.”
She turned to leave but he grasped her wrist. Her heart hammered violently at his touch.
“Trouble myself?” he said in a near growl. “I have only slept fitfully these last seven nights since leaving you.”
For the first time she noticed the darkness beneath his eyes. Had he as strong a conscience as that? Despite her anger at him, her heart ached for his distress.
When he did not release her, she glanced toward the house to see if her uncle might be watching. He would not approve of such familiarity from the earl. Realizing the same, Lord Blythe dropped her wrist—reluctantly, it seemed.
“It were my own fault,” he said. “It was not a proper farewell.”
An Indecent Wager: A Scorching Hot Historical Romance (Super Steamy Regency Collection Book 1) Page 5
