From the Rakes and Rouges
The Wrong Door
Mary Balogh
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Without a doubt it was the most stupid thing he had ever done. He had spent the last ten years of his life being daring, rash, even unwise. But this was plain stupid. And the outcome was that he was in grave danger of having acquired a leg-shackle for himself.
He had always intended never to take on a leg-shackle despite the fact that he already had a viscount's title and would one day acquire that of a marquess, if he outlived an elderly and infirm uncle, and it was expected of him to marry and produce an heir. Now he would no longer have to worry about disappointing those expectations. He was in more than danger. He was on his way to the altar as surely as if the offer had been made and accepted already.
Alistair Scott, Viscount Lyndon, had been invited to the seaside home of his friend, Colin Willett, for the occasion of the eightieth birthday of Colin's grandmother. Elmdon Hall was within a day's ride of Brighton and the viscount had pictured himself and Colin riding there frequently, it being summer and the fashionable time to be in Brighton. He had not fully realized until it was too late that it was a full-fledged house party to which he had been invited and that he would be obliged to stay at Elmdon to participate in the celebrations. The house was filled to the rafters with family members and family friends.
It was not at all the viscount's type of entertainment. There were altogether too many sweet young things obviously on the lookout for a husband, some of them with a certain air of desperation since the Season in London was over and they were still unattached. Viscount Lyndon was not interested in sweet young things since he could not bed them and had discovered no other pleasurable use for women in his thirty years.
It was to avoid one persistent miss, who distinctly reminded the viscount of a horse, that he attached himself to Lady Plumtree, a widow, during an afternoon ride on the first full day at Elmdon. And then led her in to dinner. And took her as a partner at cards during the evening. And made an assignation with her for that night. It was a very stupid thing to do. Although he had a passing acquaintance with the lady from town and although it was clear that she understood the rules of the game of dalliance and would provide a delightful diversion during what promised to be a rather dull week in the country, nevertheless it was not the sort of party at which one indulged in affaires de cœur.
If everything had proceeded smoothly, of course, the chances were that he would never have felt a pang of guilt over the tastelessness of his behavior. Or over its stupidity. But things did not proceed smoothly. The third door on the left of the inner corridor of the east wing, Lady Plumtree had told him, dark eyes peering up at him through long lashes as she issued the invitation. He would be there, he told her, hooded blue eyes gazing back into hers.
But later that night, walking unfamiliar corridors without a candle or the help of moonlight through windows, it was not quite clear which was the inner corridor and which was the outer. And did the doors on the left include the small door, clearly belonging to some sort of cupboard, that was a mere few inches from the beginning of the corridor? He did not feel these doubts at the time, of course, or perhaps he would have been saved from disaster. It was only later that he realized how carelessly stupid he had been.
How disastrously stupid.
Lady Plumtree was small and slender, quiet and elegant. She was, in fact, the picture of respectability to anyone who did not know that she liked to collect lovers as other ladies collected fans or jewels. One would not expect her to behave like any vulgar courtesan. The viscount merely smiled, then, when he stepped inside her room and closed the door soundlessly behind him to find that she was lying quietly in bed, pretending to sleep. Novelty was always welcome to someone with appetites as jaded as his.
"Laura?" he said, his voice low.
No answer. He smiled again as he drew his shirt clear of his pantaloons and off over his head. He pulled off his pantaloons and stockings and stood naked close to the bed, looking down at her slight form, curled invitingly beneath the covers. Her blond hair was spread about her on the pillow. Not that he could see either her form or the color of her hair with any clarity. Although the curtains at the window were drawn back, it was a very dark night.
He drew back the covers slowly and almost chuckled. She was wearing a nightgown, a very virginal one, covering her from neck to ankles by the look of it. And she still pretended to sleep. She was not a particularly good actress, though. Her breathing was too quiet to be convincing. But there was something very alluring about the appearance of innocence she had chosen to portray and about the stillness of her body. The woman knew how to entice. He lay down beside her carefully and drew the covers back up over them.
He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her. She was lying on her side facing him, her hair covering the part of her face that was not buried in the pillow. He wished he could see her more clearly. With one finger he lifted aside a heavy lock of hair, lowered his head, and touched his lips to her cheek. Warm and soft. He breathed in the smell of soap. Clever. It was more enticing than perfume.
"Mmm," she said with studied drowsiness, bringing back his smile, and she turned her head sufficiently that he could move his mouth to hers.
He touched it first with his tongue, running it lightly along her upper lip before letting his parted lips rest against hers. Warm and soft again, betraying her wakefulness by parting very slightly to mold themselves to his.
"Lyndon," she said, a mere breath of sound against his mouth.
Firm breasts, small waist, nicely rounded buttocks— there was something surprisingly erotic about letting his hand roam over them, a layer of soft, warm cotton between his hand and them. More erotic than nakedness at this stage of the game. The woman was an expert.
Perhaps too expert. He was almost painfully aroused. He liked a great deal of foreplay. He liked lengthy play inside his women's bodies too, but he always felt cheated of some pleasure if circumstances forced him to an early mount. He liked his women hot and panting and pleading before penetration. This woman was trying to cheat him, even if she did not realize it.
He began to undo the buttons at the front of her nightgown, waiting for her to raise her arms. She did not do so. Perhaps she intended to carry through the charade to the end. Perhaps she would feign sleep even after he had entered her and while he worked in her. He smiled down at her darkened form and felt his breath quicken. There was something almost unbearably alluring about the thought. He hoped that was her plan.
He slid his hand beneath the nightgown along her shoulder and down over one breast to cup it in his palm. He felt her stiffen slightly as his thumb rubbed against her nipple. He took it between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing lightly, willing her to relax and feign sleep again. He set his mouth to hers once more, opening it with the pressure of his lips, and slid his tongue slowly into her mouth, as deeply as he was able. She swallowed and he moaned.
And then all hell broke loose. He found himself fighting a hellcat, who was twisting and punching and scratching and kicking and biting and panting beneath him on the bed. For one moment—and one moment only—he thought that she had suddenly and quite deliberately changed tactics. And then he realized the truth. Too late. Far too late. She had not screamed and there was perhaps the glimmering of a chance that he would be able to get himself and his garments from the room without her seeing the identity of her attacker. But then even the glimmer was snuffed.
There was a light suddenly before he could break free of the unknown woman who was so fiercely defending her honor. And a loud, shocked, scolding voice. A maid, he realized when rationality began to return and he turned his head sh
arply. A large, very angry maid, who must have been sleeping in the adjoining dressing room. She was carrying a candle in one hand.
"Oh, the devil!" he said with a groan, turning his head back to look down at the woman in the bed, who had stopped struggling. She stared back at him from huge eyes, her face flushed, her auburn hair in wild disarray about her shoulders and over the one exposed breast. She was the prettiest of the sweet young things, he saw. He could not remember her name.
But before his mind could even begin to grapple with the impossibility of saying anything that might ease the situation, the maid was beating him about the head and shoulders with one large fist and he leapt out of bed in sheer self-defense.
The maid shrieked.
The sweet young thing dived beneath the bed covers.
"Oh, Lord," the viscount said, grabbing his pantaloons and dragging them on and then reaching down for his shirt and stockings. "I do beg your pardon, ma'am. Wrong room. I thought it was my own. I must have taken a wrong turn. I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you."
He left the room just as the maid was recovering from the shock of being subjected to the sight of a naked aroused man and was setting down the candle, the better to use both fists. She did not come after him.
He regained his own room with ungainly and unwise haste, though he met no one on the way from the east wing to the west. He hurled his shirt and stockings to the floor of his bedchamber and swore fluently enough to have made even the most seasoned soldier blush.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! What did he know of inner or outer corridors? Or of third doors or fourth doors? What did he know of Elmdon Hall that he had thought he could go creeping about it in the dark and find unerringly the widow of easy morals who was panting for his body?
Perhaps what he should have felt first was embarrassment. But Viscount Lyndon was no fool, even if he sometimes behaved with incredible stupidity. He knew immediately that any embarrassment he might feel was as nothing to the consequences of his deed that were facing him. He could not remember who the girl was, though he had been presented to all the other guests on his arrival. He could not remember who her father was. Was she Brindley's sister? Yes, he rather believed she was. But one thing he knew for certain. He was going to be seeking out that father or brother as early in the morning as he was to be found—before the father or brother could find him, in fact. He was going to be making his offer for the girl before the father or brother had a chance to blow out his brains on some field of honor. Or perhaps the man would not even consider him worthy of a field of honor. Maybe he would just organize a company of thugs to horsewhip him and render his face unrecognizable before hurling him off Elmdon property.
Perhaps that would be the better alternative too. He would recover from a thorough drubbing. He would not recover from a leg shackle. Except that honor was at the stake, of course. The girl had been compromised. Quite spectacularly compromised. She must be offered for.
If there was any obscenity or blasphemy that the viscount had missed in his first tirade, he certainly made no such omission with the second.
The rest of the night did not bring him a great deal of sleep.
At first Caroline Astor tried with great earnestness to persuade Letty never to say anything about the night's proceedings. It would be their sworn secret, she said, clutching the blankets to her bosom and feeling rather as if she were trying to lock the stable doors after the horse had bolted. The buttons of her nightgown were still open to the waist. After all, Viscount Lyndon himself was not likely to go about boasting of the episode.
But she flushed at her own words. Would he? He was known, and well known at that, as the most dreadful rake. Perhaps it had been deliberate. Perhaps he made a habit of invading the rooms and the persons of unsuspecting females. Perhaps if Letty had not appeared when she had, he would have ravished her. Caroline, that was, not Letty.
Letty planted her fists on ample hips. "Lord Brindley is to know it for sure, mum," she said. It was pronouncement more than statement. "Right this minute."
Caroline ventured a staying hand from beneath the blankets. "Oh, not tonight, Letty," she said. "He will be remarkably cross if we wake him. And it is quite unlikely that Lord Lyndon will return. Is there a lock on the door?"
"There is not," Letty said. "I shall sleep at the foot of your bed, mum. Let him just try to get past me."
"I am sure he will not," Caroline said.
"First thing in the morning," Letty said. "I shall summon your brother here, mum, and you can tell him or I will. It is all the same to me."
"I shall tell him," Caroline said, licking dry lips. "But it was all a dreadful mistake, Letty. He mistook my room for his. You heard him say so."
"Does he have a wife that he mistook for you?" Letty asked with a theatrical sniff. "I think not, mum. He is a bad one, that. And he was not dressed decent even for his own bed. He was—" Her bosom swelled with the memory of the indecency of the viscount's dress or lack thereof.
"Yes, he was," Caroline said hastily, remembering the glimpse she had had of magnificent naked maleness before she had dived beneath the covers. And the glimpse of the splendid and terrifyingly large part of his anatomy to which she would blush to put a name even in her thoughts.
Letty strode off to drag her truckle bed in from the dressing room. She set it across the foot of her mistress's bed and lay on it like a large and fierce watchdog. Caroline blew out the candle.
And stared upward into the darkness, knowing that she would not have another wink of sleep that night. She should have been hysterical. She should have been rushing to the comfort of her brother's protective arms. She should have woken the whole house with her screams. She certainly should not have been making excuses for Viscount Lyndon to Letty. Doubtless she would not have done so had she not been very foolishly in love with him since she first set eyes on him months before.
She had turned down two perfectly eligible marriage proposals, much to the puzzlement and chagrin of her brother, because of that stupid infatuation. In love with London's worst rake, indeed! It was about the only foolish thing of which she could accuse herself in three-and-twenty years of living. She had been remarkably sensible all her life. The normal Caroline would have accepted the first of those offers during the Season with pleased satisfaction. She would not have dreamed of love and forever after in the arms of a handsome libertine.
Her heart and her stomach—all her insides—had turned several complete handsprings when she had found out that he was a guest at Great-Aunt Sabrina's birthday party. He was so very gloriously handsome with his tall, slender, well-muscled frame and handsome features that happened to include two slumbrous and very blue eyes. And then there was his hair, dark and thick and shining, dressed in the latest style.
Any other woman but Caroline, feeling as she did about him, might have been sighing all over him and making cow eyes at him as that silly Eugenia had been doing all day. Caroline had done just the opposite and behaved as if she had not noticed his existence—just as she had behaved at every ball and other entertainment during the Season where both he and she had happened to be.
After all, there was no point in trying to attract his interest, was there? Rakes wanted only one thing from a woman and even that for a very short time. Rakes did not deal in love and marriage and forever after. Caroline prided herself on her good sense. She might secretly sigh over the man, but she knew that he could only make her desperately unhappy even if he deigned to show an interest in her. She was going to accept the very next proposal she received—provided the man was eligible, of course. And provided he was at least moderately handsome. And amiable.
Caroline turned over onto her side and curled up into her favorite position for sleep. Could she smell him on the pillow beside her? What an absurd idea. She could not remember how he had smelled, and the pillow smelled like—well, like pillow.
The stupid thing—the really stupid thing—was that she had thought for some time that she was dreaming. It had
seemed like one of those dreams in which one knows one is dreaming and is willing oneself not to wake up. She had known that she was dreaming about him and she had wanted the dream to continue. She had liked feeling the weight and heat of his body beside her in bed and the touch of his hand moving back her hair so that he could kiss her cheek. She had moved her head so that he could kiss her lips. Actually, she might have known then that she was not really dreaming. She had never thought about a tongue being involved in a kiss. But it had been delightful to feel his moving across her upper lip. And then to feel his hand moving over her body, lightly exploring.
It was only when he started to open her buttons that she had realized that she could no longer hold on to the dream. She was waking up with the greatest reluctance—only to find that she was not after all leaving the dream behind. Only to find that she had not in fact been dreaming at all. And then his hand had been inside and touching her breast, bringing a strange aching sort of pain as he pinched her nipple. And his tongue had no longer been tracing her lips, but sliding deep into her mouth.
That was when dreams and reality had finally parted company and she realized not only that she was not sleeping, but that she did not know the identity of the man who was sharing her bed and who seemed intent on sharing her person too. That was when she had gone berserk.
And all the time it really had been he. The Viscount Lyndon. That was how rakes touched women, then, and how they kissed. And how they looked. Or that was how he looked, anyway. Oh, mercy, she had had no idea… It must hurt dreadfully, she thought. Or else be unbearably pleasurable. Or perhaps both.
Her cheeks burned and she tried not to listen to Letty's snores. What would Royston do tomorrow? she wondered. Whisk her away back home? Challenge the viscount to a duel? It was clear what had happened, of course. He had spent the whole day with Lady Plumtree, understandably since the lady was both beautiful and not all she should be, if gossip had the right of it. And Lady Plumtree was in the room next to Caroline's. He had mistaken the room, all right, but not because he had thought Caroline's room to be his own. He had been going to spend the night with Lady Plumtree. He had been starting to make love to her, Caroline, thinking she was Lady Plumtree.
From the Rakes and Rouges Page 1
