“Ain’t he the handsomest thing that ever lived?” the maid Lorna rhapsodized, skipping along at Annalise’s side as they went to the shops. “He’s got the broadest shoulders in all of London, the bluest eyes, and the nicest smile I ever seen.”
“The man’s a rake!” Annalise stormed back. “An unprincipled, immoral rake.”
“Me mum says they’re the only sort worth having.”
“Hogwash,” retorted the ladylike Mrs. Annie Lee. “You’ll want a nice, steady fellow when you’re old enough, not one with a roving eye.”
“Yes’m,” the little maid replied doubtfully, ready to agree with her new benefactress. She’d never had so much money to bring her mum at once, with the promise of a new dress and some pretty ribbons for her hair, and good smells coming from the kitchen. If this lady wanted his lordship to be Old Nick himself, Lorna would help look for his horns and tail next time he came.
Lorna had no doubts whatsoever that the housekeeper was a lady, a real lady, no matter what rig she was running. Lorna had watched the sickly looking miss who called for Miss Ros turn into the hideous Mrs. Lee, even helping tear up one of the lady’s fine petticoats to making a binding for her chest and a hump for her shoulder with the rest of the muslin. She’d gazed in wonder as the cook mixed up a batch of flour and stuff to make a yellowish powder for her skin and then added a little sugar and water to affix the mole. Whatever hugger-mugger was going on, this was better than the Punch and Judy show at the ice fair. And Lorna was getting paid for being in it! She danced along at Mrs. Lee’s side.
“Get ready for his friends, he said,” Annalise was muttering. “I’ll get ready, all right.”
“Ma’am?”
“I don’t care what Rob says, I refuse to live in a bawdy house! I’ll show that bounder the error of his ways, or die trying!”
“Oh, ma’am, you can’t be thinking of worriting his lordship. He’ll up and leave!”
“Exactly. If I discourage him enough, he’ll get out. We’ll find proper renters next time, a family or a pair of retired schoolteachers or something.”
“You’ll get us fired!” Lorna wailed.
“No, I won’t be so obvious.”
She did not buy him a hairshirt instead of a dressing gown, for instance; she just bought him a robe at least two sizes bigger than she estimated he needed, and slippers two sizes smaller. She did not purchase dowdy flannel nightgowns for his lightskirts, just lacy ones with about a million tiny buttons. And robes with ostrich boas whose feathers got inhaled up your nose if you wore them. And the heaviest, most cloying perfumes she could find. She bought tooth powder that tasted like garlic, a hand mirror whose slight distortion just happened to add a few pounds to the reflection, a lovely bedside carafe that was sure to drip, and exquisite blown wineglasses that were so fragile, they were bound to break at the first use.
No, she wasn’t obvious, but the dastard wasn’t going to find Laurel Street any bed of roses, either.
There was no way on earth Annalise Avery was going to let another despicable man and his lascivious ways ruin her life.
Chapter Eight
Wednesday night. Almack’s. The wages of sin. Gads, he’d promised the dowager he’d escort her a few places, not lay down his life for one minor indiscretion. Yet here he was, martyr to a mother’s pique, clad in knee breeches, with his neckcloth starched so stiff and tied so high he’d have a rash under his chin by morning.
If this was the Marriage Mart, he’d do his shopping elsewhere—when the time came, of course. He doubted he’d ever be on the lookout for a silly female who giggled and batted her eyelashes like the one in his arms right now. The chit’s only conversation consisted of her clothes. Hell, the widgeon would be a damned sight more attractive without all the ruffles and ribbons. Without any clothes at all, in fact. Firm, high breasts, soft skin…my lord Gardiner entertained himself throughout the remainder of the Sir Roger de Coverley picturing his mother’s best friend’s goddaughter naked.
Lady Jersey babbled in his ear during the waltz, trying to get up a flirtation. She was a little ripe for his tastes, but then he envisioned himself swimming, sinking, lost in pillows of warm flesh. No bony hips, either.
Miss Kelsall romped energetically through the country dance beside him, but he saw only her enticing derriere jouncing, bouncing, joyously bare.
The stately quadrille brought him statuesque Lady Moira Campbell, aspiring widow of a spendthrift Irish laird. Lord Gardiner hardly noticed the speculative gleam in the widow’s hazel eyes, his own blue eyes firmly fixed on her low neckline. It left little to the imagination. His creative mind subtracted the rest.
Another waltz, and his hand was at Miss Compton’s tiny waist. Two hands could span it, Gard estimated, two hands that could stroke and caress the Pocket Venus till she reached Olympus.
The boulanger, Miss Beaumont’s legs. The lancers, no. He’d embarrass himself on the dance floor with that image. So Ross drifted through the bastion of the upper crust, mentally undressing every doyenne, dasher, and debutante right down to their drawers. He floated toward the refreshments room, picturing them all in their altogethers. Shifts, chemises, petticoats disappeared like magic in his mind’s eye. Laces, ribbons, buttons went flying through the assembly rooms. Alabaster flesh came tumbling out of corsets. Acres of velvety skin lay yearning for his touch, posed for his pen and pad, poised for his pleasure.
Lord Gardiner ate three pieces of stale cake with such a wide grin on his face that his mother was picking names for grandchildren. His friends were shaking their heads at the next benedict. Bets were being made on which of the lovelies had caught his interest, since he’d not danced twice with any of his partners. Every one of those partners was sure the earl’s glorious smile was just for her. Every one was right.
By the time Countess Stephania was ready to leave, Gard was so randy, he leapt into the family carriage next to her and ordered Ned Coachman to spring the horses. Stopping at Gardiner House only long enough to call out his curricle, he kissed his mother’s cheek, told her what a delightful evening he’d had, and that he’d be sure to accompany her next week. Foggarty was waving a vinaigrette under the dowager’s nose when Ross hurtled into his curricle. He nearly ran over an urchin, a mongrel, and a streetlamp in his eagerness to get to Laurel Street.
Foresight was everything. That afternoon he’d counted on a night at Almack’s being such a bore that he’d deserve a reward. Instead, it was such a…stimulating evening, he thanked his lucky stars for Corinne.
He’d thought to share his first night at a new place with an old friend. Not Cholly. He sent an invitation to Corinne Browne, an occasional lover who was rarely too busy to answer an invitation from a warm-blooded, deep-pocketed earl. As soon as her affirmative reply came, Gard sent a messenger to Laurel Street. Tuthill was to pick up Corinne at her rooms, rooms that often smelled of other men’s colognes, to the earl’s displeasure. Not tonight. Tonight Corinne would be waiting in his own rooms, just for him. Life was sweet.
*
“Did Miss Browne arrive?” Ross asked the housekeeper, who must have been waiting for his knock, she answered the door so promptly.
“Yes, a few hours ago. She decided to wait upstairs. You said to make your guests welcome, so I offered her some wine. Was that acceptable?”
“Perfect. You are a jewel.” He was already on the stairs. Not even the depressing sight of Mrs. Lee in her yards of black could dampen his enthusiasm.
“Mrs. Tuthill made a supper for you and the young lady,” she called after him. “Filet of sole stuffed with mushrooms, duckling in oyster sauce, and a trifle.”
“That sounds delightful. Thank Mrs. Tuthill for me.” He took another two steps.
“I saw no reason for Aunt Henny to stay up, my lord. I hope I did right?”
“Fine. Whatever. You know best.” He started to loosen his neckcloth.
“The supper is keeping warm on the stove. Shall I serve it now?”
“Deuce take
it, no! That is, please hold it for later, Mrs. Lee.” He took the rest of the stairs two at a time, tearing at his shirt buttons. Gard never even felt the housekeeper’s scornful glance. If looks could kill, that one would leave him a soprano.
*
Only one candle was left burning in the large chamber. By its soft light he could see Corinne’s long, dark hair spread out on the pillow. A bottle of wine stood nearly empty on the bedside table. He smiled. The flame in the hearth and the fire in his loins weren’t to be the only glows this evening.
“Corinne?” She didn’t move. “Corinne, my sweet?”
He leaned over the bed. Her red lips were curved up in a smile, but she was fast asleep. “I hope you’re dreaming of me, my pet. I know just how to awaken a sleeping beauty.”
Once in the dressing room, the earl couldn’t get his clothes off fast enough. He didn’t bother lighting another candle; the fireplace from the bed chamber offered enough light for him to find a maroon velvet robe carefully draped over the back of a chair. Its satin lining next to his skin heightened sensations already at fever pitch. So what if he had to roll the sleeves back a bit? The velvet in his fingers made his toes quiver. He quickly slipped his feet into the matching slippers. And winced. Ah, well, he’d go barefoot. The rug was thick, the rooms were warm….
“Blast!” He immediately tripped over the hem of the robe, stubbing his toes and slamming his shoulder into the edge of the dressing table. By George, he thought, rubbing the painful joint, it would take a giant to fill this robe. He was right: Mrs. Lee knew nothing about men. Luckily, Corinne did.
“Corinne?” he called softly. Then he pulled back the bedcovers and discovered Corinne’s ample charms laid out for him in a nearly transparent gown. He forgot all about housekeepers and hurt shoulders. Something was aching, and it wasn’t his toes. He climbed into the bed next to her and kissed her awake.
“Huh?”
“Corinne darling, it’s Gard. Wake up.”
Corinne rolled away from his seeking mouth, whacking him on the chin with a limp hand as she turned. This was not quite the reception he had in mind. He put his hand on her nearly bare back, and the girl made a soft, moaning sound. That was more like it.
He trailed kisses where his hand had been, and she moaned again, louder. This time she followed the sound with a disgruntled “Oh, go away.”
“Corinne?”
She pulled a pillow over her head. “I said go away. I have a headache.”
A headache? He thought only wives got headaches.
Perhaps she’d feel better after a nap, he reasoned, deciding he may as well assuage another hunger while he waited. Gard vaguely recalled eating a few pieces of stale cake in King Street. He only hoped Mrs. Tuthill’s cooking was as good as he’d imagined; Lud knew he deserved that something should be this night.
He considered changing back to his clothes to face Mrs. Lee downstairs but, dash it, this was his house. If she was offended by his immodesty, she could leave. Then again, no one told the old besom to wait up; she was most likely contentedly asleep on her cold, narrow pallet. Good. He was certainly capable of serving himself. If he didn’t trip over the damn fool robe on his way down the steps.
He was holding up the hem like a belle making her come-out, feeling a total nodcock even before he caught sight of the housekeeper sitting by a candle in the hall. She adjusted her spectacles and put the book she was reading in a pocket before he could catch the title. Sermons, no doubt.
“You needed something, my lord?”
The blasted woman was staring at his bare feet. He released the fabric in his hand. “Miss Browne isn’t feeling quite the thing.”
“I am sorry, my lord. Shall I send Uncle Rob for a physician?”
“No, no, I doubt that will be necessary. She says it’s just a headache.”
Annalise nodded. “Perhaps she had a bit too much to drink.” Then again, Annalise thought, perhaps Miss Browne had just enough laudanum. She couldn’t help the tiniest of smiles from escaping. “I noticed the bottle was half empty when I checked the fire. Perhaps I should have removed it. I am sorry.”
Deuce take it, the crone didn’t look sorry. She looked like a cat in the cream pot. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I thought I’d try a bit of Mrs. Tuthill’s cooking. No, you needn’t fix a tray or anything, I’ll eat in the kitchen.”
Lord Gardiner took a step in that direction and tripped over the robe again. This time he caught himself on the hall table, merely tipping a vase of flowers which splashed cold water on his feet. Annalise continued on her way to the kitchen, pretending not to see. “Damnation!” he cursed, which she pretended not to hear. “Do you sew?”
“Of course, my lord. All housekeepers sew.”
“Do you think you might hem this up for me? I’m afraid I’m not the man you thought I was,” he said, trying to make a joke of it while she laid out a place setting for him at the heavy oak table.
Or perhaps you’re not the man you thought you were, Annalise silently commented, wondering whether he’d have an apoplexy if a pin should accidentally be left in the sewing.
There was that smirk again, Gard noted. The witch was laughing at him, he knew it! Well, he’d have a bit of fun himself.
“I was wondering about your name, Mrs. Lee. I cannot help noticing that you wear no ring. Is the honorific merely because it is customary for your position?”
Some of the wine she was pouring spilled over the edge of the cup. Now he was smiling, which made the already frazzled Annalise forget her role even further. Here was this half-naked man, dark hairs showing all over his chest where the robe lay open, who had just left his doxie upstairs, making sport of her, Annalise Avery! “That’s none of your blasted business. My lord,” she added belatedly.
That wiped the smile off his face in a hurry. No one addressed the Earl of Gardiner in such insolent tones, especially not some hatchet-faced harridan who seemed to delight in his discomfiture. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?” he bellowed. “I pay the—”
“I apologize, my lord,” Annalise hastily interrupted before he could waken Henny. The fat would really be in the fire then, her old nanny seeing her charge alone with a belligerent, bare-chested man. She’d most likely reveal it all, landing them in the basket for sure. “I…I forgot my place, Lord Gardiner. Of course you have a right to know something about your employees. I am afraid I’m just…sensitive about my ring,” she told him, improvising madly. “You see, after my husband fell at Corunna, I gave my ring to buy medicine for the wounded soldiers. I…I prayed that someone did the same for my Jamie.”
Her thin, work-worn hands trembled, and she brought her apron up to cover her tears. My God, what had he done? Ross thought in dismay. He stumbled to his feet. “Don’t give it another thought, Mrs. Lee. Please accept my apologies. I never wished to bring back unhappy memories, I swear. I, ah, I’ll be going now,” he decided, his appetite having disappeared altogether. He grabbed up a handful of the robe, inadvertently revealing muscular calves in his hurry to be gone.
Annalise only peeked a little, sobbing even louder into her apron.
*
Upstairs, his lordship quickly changed his clothes after checking on the still-sleeping Corinne. He left her a handsome douceur, for her time if nothing else, hoping she wouldn’t spend it on Blue Ruin. The ring he’d intended giving her, a pretty pearl and sapphire affair, he left in the pocket of the maroon robe. The blasted thing only reminded him of poor Annie Lee and her lost ring, and the misery he just caused her. Fiend seize all women and their megrims!
Downstairs, Annalise was helping herself to his lordship’s supper, falling to with the best appetite she’d had in weeks. At this rate, she’d have her weight back in no time. At this rate, she’d have that scoundrel out of her life even sooner.
Chapter Nine
“You’re mighty chipper this mornin’, chickie.”
“Hmm,” Annalise answered, peering in the corners of the stable behind th
e town house, where Rob was lovingly currying the horses he’d selected for Lord Gardiner’s new landau. The coach was comfortable but undistinguished, just the way the earl wanted it, and the grays weren’t flashy, either, just the way Rob wanted them. He’d picked the geldings more for strength and stamina, just in case he and Henny and Missy had to show London their heels in a hurry. It didn’t appear that Miss Annalise, Annie as he’d better remember, was worried. “Get a good night’s rest?”
“The best in ages.”
Rob figured he’d give his eyeteeth to know what went on after he went to bed last night. The dolly-mop he drove home this morning had hardly enough energy to make it up her stairs. Seemed happy though, and gave him a tip. Now, here was their Annie looking merry as a grig. It didn’t figure after the fuss she’d made yesterday. “Guess you’ve got it all straight in your head now about Lord Gardiner and his bits o’ fluff, eh?”
“You might say I am resolved.”
“That’s all right, then,” Rob said, returning his attention to the horses. But Annalise was shifting bales of hay. “Did you want something there, chickie?”
As nonchalantly as possible, she answered, “Oh, no, I’m just trying to catch mice. You wouldn’t want any in here with these beauties, would you?” She came over and stroked one velvety nose.
Rob looked across the gray’s broad back and saw that she had an old cheese box in one hand and a broom by her side. He shrugged. Never could figure women. “Got a message from the gov’nor this mornin’. Company again tonight.”
“The same woman?” she asked sharply. The horse stamped its feet. “Sorry, boy. Corinne again?” Rob shook his head. “No, this one lives at St. James’s Street. He says to ask for Catherine.”
“But St. James’s is where all the men’s clubs are. Ladies cannot even walk there!”
“Didn’t suppose she was no lady.”
“And I didn’t suppose she was a…a dealer or something from a gambling den. Actresses and dancers are bad enough.”
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