by Laurie Brown
“I’m not going to say how stupid your actions were because I’m sure you know it. I hope both of you have learned a valuable lesson.”
“We have,” Deirdre said.
“We have,” Mina echoed. “Do you think Teddy believed your playacting?”
“I hope so,” Eleanor said. “If not, then …” Omigod! Was this the basis for the duel? Had she stopped it? Only one way to know for sure. She spun toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Deirdre asked.
Eleanor paused with her hand on the doorknob. “To make sure Teddy isn’t going to do something stupid in response to hearing that Shermont tried to enter your rooms.”
“But he didn’t. You made it up,” Mina pointed out.
“What do you mean something stupid? Oh dear! He wouldn’t challenge Shermont, would he?” Deirdre asked.
“Challenge? Do you mean, a duel? Like to the death?” Mina covered her mouth with her hands.
Deirdre shook her head. “Teddy was miffed about the sword fight in the play—I mean Shermont showing him up and all, but still he wouldn’t …”
“I hope not, but I want to make sure.”
“We’ll go with you,” Deirdre said.
“No, you won’t,” Eleanor said. “You two stay here, and until morning do not set foot outside this room for any reason. I think you’ve stirred up enough trouble for one night.”
After securing their promise to stay put, Eleanor went to Shermont’s door. She tapped lightly.
While she waited for a response, she turned to look up and down the hall. Suddenly the door opened behind her, and Shermont pulled her backwards into his room. He shut the door and turned the key in the lock before spinning around and gathering her into his embrace.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t return,” he said. He found her lips with a hungry kiss that ravaged her mouth.
Despite her physical reaction, she had to make sure Teddy wouldn’t die in a duel. She pushed on Shermont’s chest. “Wait. First we have to talk. I’m here on a particular mission.”
Her use of that last word acted like a bucket of cold water. He dropped his arms and stepped away to pour a drink and gather his thoughts. Was she here to pass on information about the foreign agent ring? Why would she come to him? He didn’t think anyone here, other than maybe Alanbrooke, knew he was working for the Crown, but Scovell had sent a warning that his security may have been breached. “Won’t you sit down? Can I get you a drink?”
She shook her head and bit her bottom lip.
He returned to stand in front of her. “I can see the wheels turning.” He tapped her on the forehead. “What’s on your mind?”
She took a deep breath. “I wanted to make sure that if Teddy did something incredibly stupid like challenge you to a duel, you wouldn’t—”
“A duel?” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I remind you of your earlier words. This is not the Dark Ages.”
“But dueling is not uncommon?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s frequent, but on occasion, when the matter is serious enough and cannot be resolved any other way …”
“Then Teddy didn’t challenge you?”
“Of course not. And if he had, I would have simply apologized for the imagined slight, and that would be the end of it.”
“Hmmm, so you say now,” she said. “But if he does—”
“Why are we talking about him? There are so many other things I’d rather talk about.” He set his untouched drink on the table near the door and cupped her face in his hands. “Such as your lovely forehead.” He kissed her there. “If I were a poet, I would recite a sonnet about your eyes.” And he kissed each eyelid. “Your attractive ears. Your charmingly stubborn chin.” He touched and kissed each spot he named.
Now that she’d been reassured, she was free to enjoy his attentions. She wiggled in anticipation. “Hurry up and get to the good stuff.”
“I want to take my time and adore every inch of you.”
“I think I like that plan.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with fervor.
A loud pounding on the door caused them to jump apart.
“Open up, Shermont,” Teddy called from the hall.
Shermont laid a finger over his lips to signal for silence. He pointed to the large bed and helped Eleanor scamper up the steps. He pulled the heavy tapestry bed curtain halfway closed, motioning for her to draw the rest of the curtains to enclose the bed, while he messed up the coverlet and punched the pillows. Eleanor sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed where she would be out of sight from the door. He gave her a smile and a wink.
“Shermont,” Digby called. “I would have a word with you.”
“What, ho?” Shermont responded. He undid the tie of his robe and mussed his hair. “Bloody hell. Keep your pants on.” He paused to glance behind him to make sure the room looked as if he’d been asleep. He assumed a squinty-eyed, slack-jawed expression and opened the door just as Digby raised his fist to knock again. “Is the house on fire?” Shermont closed his robe over his nakedness and retied the sash with deliberate fumbling.
“No,” Alanbrooke answered from his stance behind Teddy. “We saw the light under your door and thought you were still awake. We wanted to talk—”
“You have dishonored my sisters,” Digby said.
Eleanor couldn’t see what was happening, but she heard. She covered her mouth to keep from speaking out. The truth would only make matters worse.
Shermont felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten. Digby’s accusation besmirched the Shermont name. His gut reaction was to tell Digby to sod off, but thanks to Eleanor he’d been forewarned the fool might take matters to an unreasonable conclusion. Adding another insult would only serve to escalate the problem.
Instead, he blinked a few times and said, “Don’t be ridicluu … ridcluu …” He brought up a respectable belch. “I would never do such thing.”
“Alanbrooke has agreed to act as my second,” Digby continued undeterred.
“Only to dissuade you from this course of action.” Alanbrooke turned to Shermont. “Your apology—”
“I demand satisfaction.” Digby removed a glove from the pocket of his waistcoat and raised it to slap Shermont’s cheek.
According to the Code Duello of 1777, Rule Number Five, no verbal apology could be received after such an insult. Shermont ducked the blow by stumbling sideways. He bumped into the table and acted surprised to see his glass there. “So that’s where I left it,” he muttered under his breath. He picked it up and drained the amber liquid with one gulp before flashing the others a supercilious grin. “Ah! I think we all need a drink. Won’t you come in?” He bowed low and stumbled forward a step, forcing Digby and Alanbrooke to back up.
“Perhaps you’ve had enough,” Alanbrooke said.
“I’m not so drunk as to forget the Code forbids a challenge to be delivered at night,” Shermont said, speaking slowly and slurring his words. “Rule Number Fifteen.”
“He’s right, Digby. Let’s leave him to sleep it off.” Alanbrooke put a hand on the hothead’s shoulder.
Digby shook it off. “There is still the matter—”
“Not tonight,” Alanbrooke said. “The Code provides a time of reflection for good reason. Obviously no disrespect was intended. In fact, we should have ensured our foxed friend made it to his room without incident. If you must blame someone, perhaps we should look in the mirror.”
Shermont set his empty glass back on the table and leaned against the doorjamb.
“I suppose you have a point.” Digby’s shoulders sagged. “As the host I should not have been so reluctant to fold my hand and leave the gaming table.”
“And it would have saved you twenty quid,” Alanbrooke said, clapping Digby on the back good-naturedly, turning him away from the door. “Let’s just forget the matter, as I’m sure Shermont will. At least I had enough sense to not play cards with the countess.”
Digby laughed and shook his head. “
I swear she was cheating. No one is that lucky. Impossible odds for her to have four queens against my four tens.”
Alanbrooke glanced over his shoulder as he propelled the younger man down the hall toward the master’s suite in the north tower. “Improbable, maybe, but I’ve come to believe nothing is impossible.”
Shermont had the distinct feeling Alanbrooke had seen through his playacting. He nodded his thanks for his friend’s role in averting a disaster that would have done only harm. He stepped back into his room, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock. He made a point of blowing out the lone candle that had betrayed his lack of slumber. The nearly full moon provided more than enough light for what he had planned.
Several long running strides took him across the room, and he launched himself onto the bed, landing on his left side and propping himself on his elbow. “Now, where were we?”
Eleanor had been standing to open the bed curtains. The sudden weight in the middle of the bed knocked her backwards, and she sat down facing him.
“Hello,” he said with a grin.
“You were wonderful.” She giggled as the tension of the previous situation dissipated. “The belch was an especially effective touch.”
“A talent that has come in handy a time or two.”
“I’ll bet. Do you suppose Teddy will forget the matter?”
“By morning Alanbrooke will have convinced him he owes me an apology, which I will graciously accept, even though I will profess to remember nothing.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“For what? Your name was never mentioned. Do you care for Digby that much?”
“Not at all. I was speaking for the girls,” she said.
“I am not interested in them. I am, however, very interested in you.” He rose to a kneeling position and leaned over her. He brushed her hair from her forehead and placed a kiss there. Then eyelids, nose, cheeks, and chin. He lingered a breath away before gently touching his lips to hers.
Her blood, kept on simmer for hours, erupted to the boiling point, lava heat pooling low in her stomach. She pulled him closer, kissing him deep and long.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she did the same to him, a private duel with no rules.
He pulled away and took a deep breath. “My sweet, I wanted to take it slow to—”
“To hell with slow,” she said, burrowing her hands underneath his open robe and running her hands up and down his chest. “Take that off.” She wanted to feel skin and lots of it.
He answered her with an animal noise torn from deep within his throat. He ripped loose the knot on the sash and shucked his robe. She sat up and scooted onto her knees to face him. He unbuttoned her long brocade robe and shoved the material off her shoulders, but the close fitted sleeves stuck on the ruffles of her nightgown.
Eleanor stood in the middle of the great bed.
She tugged each arm free and tossed the robe aside. Then she pulled the frilly white cotton nightgown over her head, pitching it into the darkness. A bright arch of lightning highlighted their nakedness and mimicked the electricity between them.
His lips were at the perfect height to reach her breasts. He leaned forward, steadying her with his hands on her hips, branding her flesh with his fevered touch. He swirled his tongue around the peak of one breast and then the other. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his breath causing her nipple to pucker into a tight bud.
He raised his head, and the look in his eyes made her feel beautiful. Her knees turned to warm butter. She placed a hand on either side of his face and sank down to lie back on the feather mattress, pulling him with her, spreading her legs to welcome his weight between her thighs.
A streak of lightning sizzled nearby, and the immediate boom of thunder muffled their groans as their bodies moved together. She wrapped her legs around him. Grabbing fistfuls of coverlet, she raised and rolled her hips, matching his rhythm. She pulled him deeper with each stroke, encouraging, demanding the increasing tempo. She felt as if she were running headlong toward the rim of a cliff. At the edge she flew into space, soaring through the storm raging inside and out.
Shermont wanted to last longer, but her silken sheath vibrated with contractions, a rhythm he could not resist, a pull so strong he couldn’t hold back any longer. He reared back, every muscle in his body braced. An animal growl escaped his lips as his release exploded and exploded.
He collapsed on top of her, rolling to the side and flopping onto his back, drained and sated. No need to ask if it had been as spectacular for her as it had been for him. She, too, was breathless and limp. He reached out to take her hand, not wanting to lose the connection between them, even as he refused to analyze its meaning.
Eleanor fought the urge to roll toward him and snuggle. No promises, no strings, she reminded herself. Just sex. Okay, great sex. But that was all. She kept repeating the “just sex” mantra silently, even though she knew she lied to herself. After a few moments of shared stillness, she was the first to move, using a corner of the pillowcase to wipe a bead of sweat from her temple.
“I wish I’d brought my fan,” she said, proud that her voice reflected the no-commitment tone of her comment.
Only then did Shermont notice the stuffiness. The storm had done little to lower the temperature. Knowing he would fall asleep if he didn’t move, he gave her hand a squeeze and then rose from the bed and padded naked across the room. He threw open the French doors that led to a balcony facing the north lawn. A breeze wafted inside, bringing with it a refreshing mist of raindrops.
Eleanor watched him silhouetted in the moonlight. She got out of bed and wrapped the sheet around herself sarong-style, tucking in the end and letting the length drag behind her as she followed him, drawn to his side by the cool air and the sound of running water. Peeking out the double doors, she discovered the gargoyle decorations on the side of the house were actually downspouts. One was located just to the left of the terrace. She stepped outside and reached up to put her hand in the running water spurting from the grotesque horned monster’s mouth.
“It’s practically warm,” she exclaimed.
“It’s coming from the roof, so I imagine the slate tiles held the warmth of the sun. It won’t last long.”
Like so many things. She cupped her hand in the stream of water, directing the spray to her face, and laughed in delight.
He disappeared for a moment and returned with a scoop that looked like it belonged to the fireplace. He held it into the spurting water, and a deluge hit him in the face. She laughed at his surprised expression. After moving his arm, he shook his head, splashing water like a dog.
She jumped back, still amused, and then he turned the scoop to direct the spurting water toward her. She shrieked, grabbed his arm, and tried to pull it away from the spout. Rainwater sluiced down their bodies.
He wrapped his free arm around her waist to pull her away and only succeeded in loosening the sheet she wore. It dropped to her waist, and then the soaked material slid to the floor of the balcony. He pitched the coal scuttle over the railing and wrapped her in his arms. Their playful wrestling quickly turned into a fevered discovery of rain-slick bodies as they explored each other with their hands, lips, and tongues.
He was of a mind to go back to the bed, but she didn’t want to leave the fresh breeze. They made it as far as the thickly carpeted floor just inside the French doors.
His plan to take it slow this time was easier made than played. First, he planned to kiss every inch of her body, bared to his hungry eyes in the moonlight. He started at her toes, then ankles and knees. When he reached the junction of her thighs, she pulsed almost immediately. He backed off a little.
Eleanor burned for him. So close, so close. Like climbing a mountain, yet she couldn’t reach the top. She dug her heels into the carpet and raised her hips. With his tongue and hand he brought her to the brink and back, to the brink again and again, until she was a mindless mass of quivering need. “Now, Shermont, damn it, no
w,” she demanded, even though it sounded more like breathless begging.
“James. My real name is James.” For some reason, he needed to hear her say his name.
She did … as he entered her … and as she soared to the heights. And again, softly, as she slid down the other side of the mountain.
He held her close. Eleanor felt so right in his arms, fit exactly as if she belonged there. He wanted to sleep with her in his arms and wake with her. He must have dozed off to that pleasant dream, because he woke to find her, stubborn chin resting on the back of her hands folded on his chest. He’d never understood the feminine need to talk at such a time. Now he realized it was a piece of biological good fortune that gave the man a chance to regenerate for the next session.
She smiled. “What did you mean when you said your real name is James?”
He hesitated.
“Does this have to do with the elder Shermont finding you on the road?”
“I see the gossips’ tongues have been wagging.”
“Within the hour of my meeting you,” she said with a grin. “An unbelievable story.”
“That part is true. When I came to my senses and Shermont asked my name, I remembered nothing. He insisted I must have a name, so I chose James. Somehow it felt right.” He picked up her hand and placed it over his heart. “In here. Not that it’s been any help determining my identity, but at least I know part of the name I chose is truly mine.”
“Part?”
“I chose Bond as a last name.”
She couldn’t stop a guffaw.
“What’s so amusing? James Bond is a perfectly good name.”
“Yes, yes. It is.”
“Then why are you—”
“There is a rather famous … character by that name in my … country. Wait until my father …” She rolled to her back. Her father would find it amusing, too. If she ever got a chance to tell him. What would he think if he didn’t receive her usual Sunday night phone call? Would he worry?
Shermont rolled to his side. “I heard you lost your father in the war. I’m sorry.”
