“So I’ve been told,” he said with a sigh.
Frowning, Charity asked, “By whom?” Had someone from the school crossed the street and confronted him with their suspicions?
Nicholas dipped his head again. “Your headmistress. Miss Albright paid me a visit where I work,” he explained in a soft voice. “She’s the one who... well, let’s just say she’s the reason I decided to pay a call on you. Truly, Miss Crofter. I am so sorry about what happened.”
Ignoring his apology, Charity displayed a number of emotions all at once before she asked, “Where do you work?”
“At ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’,” he replied. “For Lady Bostwick. I was her first hire when she opened the charity a couple of years ago,” he continued, a hint of pride sounding in his voice. “We’re also ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’ now, although our matchmaker has yet to be hired.”
Charity gave a start. “Matchmaker?” she repeated.
He nodded. “Those of us who were wounded in the wars aren’t likely to find wives willing to marry us, given... given how ugly we are,” he stammered. “But according to Lady Bostwick, there are women out there who can overlook a missing limb or... or some bayonet wounds.”
Angling her head to one side, Charity dared a glance into the main hall of the house before turning her attention back to Nicholas. “I wish to see these wounds of yours.”
Nicholas gave a start. “Oh, I cannot, my lady. A gently bred woman such as yourself should never have to pay witness to such a horror. They’re all over my...” He waved his arm down the front of his torso. “They’re hideous.”
Charity stared up at him for several seconds, her eyes darkening. “I think you should allow me to be the judge of that, Mr. Barnaby.” She reached up and pulled on the bow that secured his cravat, the linen unraveling with her quick tug.
“What?” he managed, rather startled when she began to pull on the ends.
“You’re going to show me your scars, Mr. Barnaby,” she stated, an arched eyebrow punctuating her demand.
“But...” His protest was cut off when the cravat tightened around his neck.
She headed into the hallway and to her bedchamber while pulling him by his cravat. When he was inside, she pushed the door shut, turned the lock, and went about undoing the length of muslin from around his neck.
One of his fingers had managed to work its way between the fabric and his neck, pulling on it in an effort to keep from being strangled. He let out a gasp when it finally loosened. By then, her deft fingers were undoing the buttons of his top coat and then his waistcoat.
“My lady—”
“Quiet, Mr. Barnaby,” she ordered, her manner at odds with the prim and proper sewing instructor she was by day. Her hands pushed the garments from his body before they moved to tug his shirt from his breeches.
“Charity?” He used her given name in an effort to gain her attention, but she seemed determined to undress him. “Whatever are you...?”
But the palms of her hands were already traveling over his torso, her fingertips sending a series of frissons beneath his skin that had him breathless. Those fingertips followed the trails of his scars, the long, winding ones as well as the short lines from several stabs. Where the skin was raised, her fingertips circled his flesh, sending an entirely different sensation to his brain.
She had never done anything like this before with him. Their courtship had been rather chaste, their most scandalous act having been a stolen kiss behind a hedgerow in the park.
“Off. Take this off,” she ordered, her small hands attempting to push the shirt from his body, the front of her body pressing against him. “I wish to see your scars.”
His brows furrowing, Nicholas wondered at Charity’s behavior. She had turned into a wanton right before his eyes! “Please, remember, my sweet. I warned you,” he said before stripping the shirt from his body. It landed in the heap already begun with his topcoat and waistcoat. Charity still held the ends of his cravat between two fingers.
The expanse of Nicholas Barnaby’s chest was suddenly before her eyes. Charity inhaled and held her breath a moment as one of her fingers traced first one scar and then another down the front of his torso, through the dark, crisp curls that covered his chest. The thin, white welts wound this way and that, as if someone had taken a sharp quill and drawn on him with white ink. Both uneven lines were punctuated with scars from stabs lined on either side with stitch marks, and both ended somewhere below the top edge of his breeches.
She went to work undoing the buttons of his breeches. Nicholas couldn’t help his sudden arousal. Her fingertips had set off any number of pleasant frissons beneath his skin. Her feminine touch had him craving her, craving what her body might offer should he do her bidding. He hadn’t been with a woman—not even a prostitute—since before he had left for France.
He covered her hands with his own, forcing her to look up at him. “If you continue, Miss Crofter, I warn you, your virtue will be at risk,” he warned, his eyes darkening to match hers.
He watched as the edge of one of her lips curled up at the same time an eyebrow arched. “Then so be it,” she whispered.
Although one of his eyebrows furrowed—he would have admitted to a bit of confusion just then—he captured her lips with his own and kissed her quite thoroughly. When he came up for air, it was because she had his member grasped in one hand.
“I want this,” she hissed.
Nicholas blinked. And blinked again. “It’s yours,” he replied, which he just then realized was probably not the correct response, for she led him—by his cock—to her bed, and pushed him onto it.
She went about removing his boots and stockings and then stood with her hands on her hips. “Off with the breeches right now,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured. He had the offending garment down to his knees when he realized she had begun undressing herself. After untying her round gown, she slipped it from her shoulders. Down it went, her stays following close behind. When she was left with just her chemise and stockings, she turned back to him and gave him a quelling glance. “Off, I told you. Were you one of my students, I would be forced to dock you a grade for your inability to follow simple directions.”
Nicholas swallowed, but quickly did her bidding. Completely naked, his scars were visible despite the dim light in the bedchamber. He stood to his full six-foot, two-inch height and watched as she divested herself of her chemise.
Naked, her skin pale and perfect, Charity looked as if she could have been some naughty woodland nymph. Her tiny upturned breasts were tipped with tightened nipples he wanted desperately to suckle.
When her attention was back on him—on his erect member—she stepped forward and finished drawing the lines of his scars with a fingertip, her lips curling up when she heard as well as felt his sharp inhalations of breath. Then she used two fingers to lift and caress his sac before tracing the throbbing vein on the back of his manhood to its tip. “Lie down,” she whispered at the same time she gave him a push with the palm of her hand.
Nicholas did her bidding, wondering when his prim and proper seamstress had been replaced with an immodest and adventurous seductress.
Or had she always been this way, and he just never knew it?
Charity didn’t bother removing her stockings, but Nicolas didn’t mind as she climbed onto the bed and straddled him
He stared up at her engorged breasts. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured.
The words seemed to bring her back to reality. She sat atop him, her hands resting on her thighs as she regarded him. “Am I?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Nicholas nodded. “More beautiful than the night I proposed,” he answered. He reached for one of her hands and brought it to his lips. He kissed the knuckles before turning it over to kiss the palm. “How is it a beautiful woman such as yourself is not... appalled at the sight of me?” he asked as he indicated the scars.
Her gaze swept his body, even down to where her quim cover
ed the end of his scars. “I never saw what you looked like before the scars,” she murmured with a shrug. “Other than your face, of course. But I find them rather intriguing. Much like an interesting stitchery.” Her fingertips once again traced the scars, one after the other as he inhaled sharply and reveled in the sensations they set off throughout his body. “Do you still want me?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.
“More than you could ever know,” he replied, his voice sounding more strangled than it had been when his cravat had been wrapped around it with her pulling on the ends.
“Then I am yours. But know this, Mr. Barnaby. Should you ever disappear again, I shall find you and bestow you with a matching set of scars using my sewing scissors,” she warned. “And I may or may not stitch you up.”
Nicholas nodded. “I understand,” he replied, wondering why the thought of her scissor blades against his flesh had him so aroused. “How long do we have? Before your housemates return?” he asked.
Charity blinked. “At least an hour, I should think,” she replied, sounding ever so reasonable. “Maybe more.”
Giving a nod in the pillow, Nicholas said, “That won’t be enough. I’ll require the rest of your lifetime.” With that, he flipped her over onto her back and saw to it she was pleasured to within an inch of her life before he plunged his turgid manhood into her welcoming body. “You’re mine, now, my lady,” he whispered as he reveled in how she held him with her splayed fingers. “And we shall marry on the morrow.”
Charity blinked beneath him. “We will?” she countered, breathless.
He nodded as he thrust into her over and over. “I still have our marriage license,” he said betwixt labored breaths, just before his release took him into oblivion.
Arching into his body, Charity allowed a long, satisfied sigh. “Well, as long as we’re finished by two o’clock. I have a tea to attend at three.”
Although he was prepared to argue, Nicholas thought it better he keep quiet.
No need to have her threatening him with the scissors the night before their wedding.
Chapter 31
Tea Time at Bostwick Place
The following day
At two o’clock in the afternoon, Daisy and Jane joined Annabelle and Mrs. Fitzgerald at the curb as they waited for a hackney to take them to Bostwick Place. “Where’s Miss Crofter?” Daisy asked, her gaze going to the front door of Alpha House. She hoped the fact that she carried a small valise instead of a reticule wouldn’t seem suspicious to the teachers. She had rolled up her evening attire, jewelry, and a pair of slippers and stuffed them into the bag.
Annabelle and Jane exchanged quick glances. “She said she would meet us there,” Jane replied. “Just before she left with a rather tall gentleman.” Her eyebrows waggled as a grin split her face.
“A rather dangerous looking man, if you ask me,” Annabelle said in a lowered voice. “He had the most vicious scar running down the side of his face.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Charity dressed so fine,” Mrs. Fitzgerald added. “Primrose silk with furbelows and the tiniest embroidered flowers scattered all over it. Why, you would think she was off to get married.”
Blinking, Daisy managed to keep her mouth from dropping open. “Probably because she was,” she murmured in awe.
The other three teachers turned to look at her in surprise. “What?”
Daisy gave a shake of her head. “That man was Mr. Barnaby. Her betrothed,” she explained, remembering her encounter with the clerk at ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’.
“Betrothed?” Jane repeated. “But... she despises men.”
“Hates them,” Annabelle agreed.
“Well, hate is a bit strong, but she would probably castrate every last one of them with her finest scissors if given the chance,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said in her rather theatrical manner.
Allowing a slight wince at this last, Daisy decided she could share what she knew of the sewing teacher. “Her opinion was formed solely on the basis of what occurred the day she was supposed to get married,” she explained. “She was left at the altar, although her betrothed, Mr. Barnaby, was not at fault. Now that she knows he was conscripted back into the army and had no way to inform her of what had happened to him, she’s no doubt forgiven the man.” Just seeing the scar on his face would be enough proof he had been wounded in the war. If Charity needed more proof, Daisy was fairly sure Mr. Barnaby could provide more, although it would require he remove his clothes.
She couldn’t imagine Charity making such a demand, though.
“Oh, and Mr. Barnaby is the tall man you’ve no doubt spotted watching you as you make your way to your morning classes,” Daisy added. “He likes to ensure Charity makes it to her classroom safely.”
The other three women exchanged glances of confusion, but Daisy’s attention was on the street as she searched the midday traffic for a hackney.
Before one appeared, though, a glossy black coach pulled up and stopped in front of them.
Daisy was about to curse her father, even though she couldn’t remember having mentioned the tea to him. Then she realized the gold painted crest on the door wasn’t his, but rather that of Viscount Bostwick. “It seems our host has sent us transportation,” she remarked as a tiger stepped off the back of the town coach and hurried to open the door. He set down the steps and gave a bow. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said as he helped each one of them into the equipage.
“Well, this is a treat,” Mrs. Fitzgerald remarked as she settled into the squabs. “So new. So elegant,” she added as her gloves slid over the butter soft leather.
The others agreed, happily taking their seats.
“Has Mr. Streater shared any news with you?” Jane asked once Daisy was seated. “I cannot help but think he plans some changes at the school, and we all know that cannot be good.”
Daisy furrowed a brow. “No changes, other than the repairs that have already been scheduled,” she replied. “He wants Warwick’s in tip-top condition for next year’s class of young ladies. So there’s no need to be concerned.”
Their expressions conveying doubt, Daisy decided she wouldn’t be able to assuage their concerns. They would have to hear of the plans from Mr. Streater.
Once they reached Bostwick Place, a groom had the door open just as the town coach came to a halt. The teachers stepped down to find Mr. Barnaby and Miss Crofter walking from the direction of the park. Both looked as if they were dressed in their finest.
Daisy hurried over to greet them before they joined the others. “Are best wishes in order?” she asked in a quiet voice.
The two exchanged glances before they both nodded. “We’ve just come from St. Paul’s,” Charity said, her face displaying a pink blush beneath a stylish hat adorned with silk flowers.
“Best wishes to you both,” Daisy said with a grin. She suddenly sobered. “I do hope you’ll still continue to teach at Warwick’s. I can’t imagine having to take on the sewing classes in addition to the two I already teach.”
Once again, the newlyweds exchanged glances.
“She will,” Mr. Barnaby assured her. “I’d rather her be in the company of the teachers and students at Warwick’s than have her home alone whilst I’m away at work all day.”
Relieved to hear it, Daisy was about to make her way to the front door when Mr. Jenkins appeared from the other direction. Mrs. Pendergast was not far behind, her perfect posture and measured steps managing to make her appear as if she ruled Park Lane.
Rather surprised at Mr. Jenkins’ arrival, Daisy wondered if any of the other servants had been invited, but the gardener was quick to explain his presence. “Seems Mr. Streater doesn’t wish to be the only one of his sex at tea today,” he said as he waved his invitation. He immediately offered an arm to Jane, who colored up a bit before she placed a gloved hand on it. Before they were at the front door, Elkins, the butler, had it open and was waving them in.
They filed in, Charity holding back until everyone else
was through the door. “I’ll be right here,” Nicholas said before he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
“Mr. Barnaby?”
Nicholas looked up to find Elizabeth Bennett-Jones regarding him from the door. “Good afternoon, m’lady,” he said as he bowed and Charity curtsied. “I was just escorting my wife to the tea,” he added.
Elizabeth nodded and angled her head. “Why, I had no idea you were married,” she replied, her expression reinforcing her words.
“Just this morning, m’lady. Miss Crofter...” He gave his head a shake. “I mean, Mrs. Barnaby, teaches at Warwick’s.”
Beaming, Elizabeth beckoned them both into the vestibule. “Well, we can’t have you waiting outside for your bride whilst she’s having tea,” she replied. With Elkins still seeing to the wraps and pelisses of the others, Elizabeth took Nicholas’ hat. “I’m quite sure Mr. Streater won’t mind another man in the parlor.”
“Indeed I won’t,” Teddy called out from the great hall, struggling with the introductions Daisy was making on his behalf. “So good to see a familiar face,” he added with a nod to Nicholas. “Even if it is as ugly as yours,” he teased.
“Mr. Streater,” Charity said in a scolding voice. “I’ll not have you speaking ill of my husband.”
Teddy did a double-take. “I apologize, Miss Crofter. I mean... Mrs. Barnaby?” he half-asked as he gave his head a quick shake. He glanced up at Nicholas, but found the man gazing down at his wife in a most peculiar manner. Like he was besotted. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Barnaby was married.”
But before Nicholas could answer, Elizabeth was leading the teachers up the stairs and into a spacious parlor on the first floor. Daisy watched as Elkins saw to taking her valise as well as another to bedchambers somewhere on the second floor.
Murmurs of compliments and appreciation could be heard as the ladies took to the chairs and settee while the gentlemen formed a group next to the fireplace mantle. Once it was clear there was plenty of seating, Nicholas moved to sit next to his wife while Mr. Jenkins took a chair adjacent to the settee where Jane was perched. Daisy surreptitiously slipped a bank draft into Teddy’s hand before taking a seat in one of the upholstered chairs.
The Conundrum of a Clerk Page 23
