A Truly Perfect Gentleman

by Grace Burrowes

  “I am glad to be here. How is Mrs. Beauchamp?”

  He did not bolt into the bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing, did not fall upon Addy with kisses and caresses. She preferred his more restrained approach to Roger’s heedless rutting. Preferred the fiction that they had limitless time and opportunity, rather than a few stolen hours.

  “I fear Aunt Freddy is failing. She sleeps more and more. She doesn’t mention any unusual pain, doesn’t ask for anything, but she grows more pale and has less energy.”

  “Watch out for a dry cough,” Grey said, sipping his drink. “Papa’s final decline started out with a slight cough that grew worse when he spoke or tried to overdo. The herb woman said it was evidence of the heart weakening.”

  “You sent Aunt flowers and a tisane. Thank you for that.”

  “At Dorning Hall, we have enough herbal stock to fill the shelves of every apothecary in London with a good start on Paris besides. I’m tempted to plow up all of Papa’s tea meadows and turn them into pastures, but my brothers would object.”

  “Have you heard from your siblings?”

  Addy and her guest sipped lemonade, they ate half of the sandwiches, they visited as any pair of friends would, and her low mood dissipated. Grey Dorning was still a free man and still a very attractive man. She was still a widow in need of a diversion, and the afternoon—at least—was still young.

  Chapter Ten

  An intimate affair was supposed to involve sexual congress between the participants. Grey knew this, but he couldn’t find the right moment to turn the mood in the direction of desire. His body had no trouble with the notion of taking Addy to bed, but his spirit…

  What sort of man—what sort of gentleman—discussed his courting progress and lack thereof with the dear lady who’d embarked on a liaison with him? Other fellows likely did so without a qualm, but Grey was awash in qualms.

  His courting apparently needed work, which bothered him not at all, but so did his manners while trysting with Addy, which bothered him significantly.

  “You are concerned for your aunt,” he said. “Shall I come calling some other day?”

  “You have come at the only possible time.” She rose and crossed to the bedroom door. “Will you think me very forward if I invite you to make love with me?”

  Not romp, not cavort, not any of the dozens of other trivializing euphemisms for the greatest intimacy two people could share.

  “I would think you brave, generous, and irresistible,” he said, joining her in the doorway.

  She hadn’t worn a dress too low-cut for daytime, hadn’t come to the door wearing only her dressing gown or with her hair tumbling seductively down her back. She was simply Beatitude, enjoying a widow’s freedoms on a quiet afternoon.

  And yet, Grey needed for this encounter, perhaps the only one they’d have, to be special, to be memorable and precious.

  He looped his arms over her shoulders. “Will you tell me your most secret intimate wishes?”

  She curled against his chest. “Will you tell me yours?”

  “I have many. I want to learn the scent of you everywhere, want to learn whether the curls between your legs are lighter or darker than the tresses on your head. I want to hilt myself inside you, want to feel your pleasure as it overtakes you. I want—”

  She kissed him, which was for the best. He wanted the right to share her bed whenever they pleased, not simply on half day when she wasn’t indisposed and he wasn’t spoken for. He wanted…

  To be foolish. To marry for joy, but how much joy could a couple claim when the family seat became a leaking ruin, siblings were denied opportunities for lack of even modest coin, and a precious daughter had no chance to make a decent match?

  “I want to taste you too,” Addy said. “I want to fall asleep tonight with the scent of you on my sheets. I want to feel your pleasure as it overtakes you…”

  That last was impossible, but a lovely, inspiring thought nonetheless.

  Addy was unbuttoning his coat even as she kissed him. Grey got a start on her hooks. He and she would soon make love. He was physically ready—more than ready—and he’d thought of little else for the past week, but still…

  This memory might have to last him a long, lonely lifetime.

  “What’s something I can do for you?” he asked, breaking the kiss to peel out of his coat. “What pleasure can I give you that you’ve longed for but denied yourself?”

  “I know how to… That is, I’ve learned how to manage on my own.”

  She was referring to self-gratification. Women did, contrary to the myths propounded by sermonizing buffoons. Perhaps not with the frequency or enthusiasm of the young male of the species, but then, nothing in nature was as fixated on erotic pleasure as the young male.

  She sat to toe off her slippers, and Grey knelt before her. “Allow me.”

  “I can undress myself.”

  Grey’s sisters had explained this to him: Yes, a woman might enjoy the services of a lady’s maid when dressing formally, but stays could be tied off in front, dresses dropped over the head, and the last few hooks fastened easily enough. Ladies—again, contrary to Mayfair myth—could dress and undress themselves for most occasions, just as men could.

  “Allow me to be the smitten swain, Beatitude. To dote and tease is a lover’s right.”

  Her smile was shy, suggesting he’d stumbled into an approach that worked for her.

  “Very well,” she said, easing her skirts no higher than her ankles. “You may assist me.”

  He untied her slippers, left then right, and set them aside. Her garters came next, pink lace confections that made him smile. He set those with her slippers, rolled down her stockings, and rubbed gently at the indentations left by the garters.

  “That feels good.” She sounded puzzled, a step in the right direction.

  Grey explored the muscles of her calves—sturdy—and the bones of her ankles—delicate. Her feet were not ticklish, and her arches weren’t particularly high. She had a scar on her right knee.

  “I fell from a tree,” she said. “Papa forbid me to ever climb that tree again.”

  “So the next day, you were up a different tree and climbing even higher.” Her knee tasted of lavender, and her smile was a little less shy.

  She leaned back against the armchair. “You needn’t bother with this, you know. I’m not without a married woman’s—I like that.”

  He’d shaped her breasts, confirming that she’d again forgone stays. “Touching you intimately is not a bother, Beatitude, but rather, my dearest fantasy come to life. You, willing and relaxed, the doors locked, the afternoon ours.”

  He lifted her skirts to her waist and answered one question. The hair on her head was lighter and had less of the reddish hue found in a more intimate location.

  He brushed a finger over her curls. “May I?”

  “Could I stop you?”

  “Of course.”

  But she didn’t. She merely regarded him broodingly, so Grey went exploring and indulged in every wicked impulse ever to delight a healthy man. Addy was slow to arouse, but by inches and sighs, she gave herself up to the moment. By the time she convulsed around his fingers, Grey had lost his boots, his waistcoat, his shirt, and half of his wits.

  Addy’s legs were draped over his shoulders, Grey’s cheek pillowed against her thigh.

  “I am… I am…” She trailed her fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what I am. I hardly know who I am.”

  “Are you pleased?”

  “Pleasured would be a more accurate term.” She gave his hair an affectionate yank. “I will have my revenge. You are forewarned.”

  He kissed her knee. “That sounds promising. Should I set the sheath to soaking?”

  “I am not familiar with sheaths. You must manage without any guidance from me on the matter, and I must somehow find the strength to rise and totter to the bed.”

  Gone was the articulate, self-possessed Lady Canmore. In her place was a
n endlessly dear woman somewhat bewildered by sexual satisfaction.

  “We’ll have none of that tottering business,” Grey said, scooping her into his arms. He set her on the bed and let her watch as he undid his falls and stepped free of his breeches. His cock was at parade salute, and while he undid another dozen hooks on Addy’s dress, she stroked a finger down the length of his shaft.

  “You’re so… at home in your body. You like being a man.”

  He fished the sheath from his coat pocket, poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the washstand, and set the sheath to soak.

  “When I’m with you, I adore being a man. Will you leave your hair up?”

  He would adore being her man, not simply her lover for a brief liaison. She hadn’t indicated anything more than a liaison would interest her, though, so why speculate?

  “I’ll leave it braided, but you can take out my pins.”

  A treasure hunt ensued, with Grey searching gently for pins, while Addy, seated on the bed, tormented him with casual caresses to his cock, his flanks, his chest, his balls…

  “Are you indulging your curiosity, my lady?” He’d set a dozen pins on the table by the bed.

  “I am. I have never…” She rested her forehead against his belly. “Your approach to this undertaking is different from what I’m accustomed to.”

  He brushed his thumb over her nape and ignored a regret: He wished he’d been her first and only, wished she’d been his first and only. Ah well. That would mean no Tabitha, and Grey would never regret having a daughter.

  “What are you accustomed to?”

  She stood on the bed-step to wiggle out of her dress. “Dispatch, I suppose.” She passed him her frock. “Focus, efficiency, purpose. A lusty and pleasurable objective achieved.”

  They were eye to eye because she remained on the bed-step. Grey was naked. Addy was in her shift. Her gaze held uncertainty that tore at his heart.

  “We do this however you choose, my lady, because my purpose in sharing this time with you is mutual pleasure. If all I want is a few moments of intense sensation, I can bring that about with my own hand. I want you.”

  “Do you?” she asked, ruffling his hair. “Bring pleasure about with your own hand?” She’d been married to a supposed libertine, and yet, her gaze was guardedly curious.

  “Not as often as I did in my youth. I was a randy boy.” Where had the randy boy gone, and did Grey want any part of him back?

  She climbed onto the bed. “Now you are a grown man. How long does the sheath soak?”

  “A few minutes. Might I join you?”

  Her smile was a little wicked, a little bashful. “Please do,” she said, lying back among the pillows.

  Grey climbed over her on the bed and took a moment to relish the feel of his body pressed to hers. She was warm, lithe, and generously curved. Her touch was slow and soothing, more an exploration than a caress. He wanted her with an excruciating intensity, and yet, he lay quietly in her arms and let her hands wander over him.

  Some fool—some fool of a husband—had rushed her into lovemaking, as a bride and as a wife. Some idiot had given her the notion she wasn’t worth lingering over and cherishing. Addy traced the slope of Grey’s nose, while he mentally cursed her late spouse.

  If Lord Canmore had made marriage a more pleasurable undertaking for his wife, would Addy have a more charitable view of the institution now? Would she even—in a theoretical sense—entertain the possibility of marrying some worthy fellow who esteemed her greatly?

  Such speculation could lead nowhere. Grey waited until Addy’s hands stilled, then hitched up to crouch over her and begin a slow kissing tour of her every feature.

  “Pass the decanter,” Valerian said, wiggling his fingers.

  “It’s empty,” Thorne replied. “Oak, bring the decanter from the library.”

  Ash had gathered with his brothers in the estate office, though these impromptu meetings had taken on the feel of a wake. If Grey were here, he’d be assigning them tasks so they’d feel useful, minimizing the damage the rain had done to the hay crop, and coming up with another way to squeeze a farthing from thin air.

  “It’s Ash’s turn to fetch the decanter,” Oak replied. He was sketching at the sofa, while Hawthorne prowled the room with a glass in his hand. Valerian lounged against the mantel and Ash remained at the window willing Grey’s gelding to canter up the drive. The earl would swing from the saddle with characteristic energy, and all of Dorning Hall would feel lighter and happier.

  Grey would have been out calling on tenants, inspecting the crops and the calves, enjoying a pint at the posting inn with the local tradesmen, not lurking at the Hall like a sulky boy.

  “I’ve been thinking about something,” Ash said.

  “Nothing good can come of you attempting to think.” Thorne shook the last drops of his brandy into his mouth. “Thinking can lead to brooding, and you do too much of that.”

  Brooding was the family euphemism for the despair that engulfed Ash regularly. The medical fellows had other names for it. Nobody had a cure other than self-inflicted death, upon which the church at least frowned mightily.

  “Think about getting the decanter,” Oak said, glancing up from his sketch pad. “Though I’d rather Valerian fetched it. If you move, Ash, the light will shift.”

  The light at Dorning Hall never shifted enough. “Valerian should finish his damned book,” Ash said, which caused Oak and Thorne to exchange a look, before Oak resumed scratching at his sketch pad.

  “Oak should sell his paintings,” Valerian replied mildly. “Or teach. I could teach as well—deportment for all the gentry sprigs hereabouts—but a gentleman does not engage in trade.”

  “That wouldn’t be trade.” Thorne came to a halt behind Grey’s chair. “That’s not working with your hands, which is what I do best. I should find a post as a steward.”

  “Stewards are gentlemen,” Ash said, leaving unasked the question of what he himself should do for a profession. He’d thought to join Sycamore’s enterprise in London, but that wasn’t meant to be. He’d declined to continue working as a man of business with his brother-in-law, Worth Kettering, because he’d reasoned Sycamore’s need was more pressing. Worth promptly had hired another for the position Ash had vacated.

  “We should do something,” Valerian said. “Grey at this moment is likely subduing a mountain of correspondence, or he’s dancing attendance on some sweet young lady who will drive him daft within a year.”

  The silence that stretched was guilty and frustrated, also much too familiar.

  “I’ve wondered lately,” Ash said, “why Grey must send quarterly sums to the Pletchers at the posting inn. His liaison with their daughter was nearly 15 years ago, and he provides lavishly for our Tabby.”

  Blonk. Thorne set his glass on the sideboard. “Because Grey’s conscience is overly active. He despoiled the fair Tansy and must make amends.”

  Valerian, Oak, and Ash all remained silent. The fair Tansy had more or less despoiled Grey, but even in Grey’s absence, Ash would not make that ungentlemanly observation.

  “Tansy Pletcher made a good effort to despoil our dear Willow at the same time,” Thorne went on, “though I think Will’s virtue held firm.”

  “Of course it did,” Ash replied. Will’s fraternal devotion had held firm, even if his virtue had been tempted. “Grey is compensating the Pletchers for the loss of Tansy’s labor all these years, but she’s well into her thirties by now and likely has a parcel of children with her tinker. Why does Grey continue to send her parents money?”

  “Because he’s Grey,” Oak said. “I continue to paint and draw because I’m Oak, and Thorne must regularly apply himself to the forge because he’s Thorne.”

  While Ash sat upon his backside and brooded because he was an idiot. “I cannot abide the notion that Grey will marry some featherbrain who will resent the Hall and her life here more every season.”

  “Perhaps you should have remained in London bride-
hunting yourself,” Thorne retorted. “Even I know you left a lady pining for you. Lady Della’s settlements might have bought Grey some time.”

  Nobody discussed Ash’s decision to quit London, and he wasn’t about to let the topic be aired now.

  “I’m off to the posting inn,” he said, pushing away from the window.

  “You’ve changed the damned light,” Oak snapped.

  “I would like to change a lot more than the damned light, but I’ll start with the posting inn. I don’t want it on my conscience that I did nothing while Grey traded his happiness for my future. That would drive me daft.”

  Valerian squinted into the empty decanter. “As Papa was driven daft?”

  Thorne beat Ash to the door. “As we are all going daft.”

  Grey Dorning had magical powers. He could make time slow, like a conductor bidding an orchestra to play a stately sarabande, or he could make sensations pile up and intensify, a presto finale to a grand symphony of intimate touches, kisses, and pleasures.

  He’d kissed and stroked and fondled Addy for a wondrous eternity, until she’d been drunk with sensation, utterly passive beneath his hands. He’d never issued a single instruction or command, never grabbed her or put her hands where he wanted her touching him, though he’d let her know that her caresses pleased him.

  He liked her fingers winnowing through his hair. He liked when she bit his earlobe.

  She liked his mouth on her breasts, and she loved—loved—the maddeningly slow tempo at which he joined his body to hers. The sheath was different, a little cool, a little rough. She’d watched as he’d tied it around his shaft, nothing self-conscious or awkward about the moment.

  Amid all the other revelations and insights washing through her, she saved a thought to consider later: I was married to a selfish boy.

  Grey Dorning was not a selfish boy. He was a generous man, a skilled lover, and a demon when it came to self-restraint.

  “You will not—” She’d meant to tell him that he’d not send her into pleasure again without finding satisfaction himself, but the damned man got one big hand under her backside and changed the angle of his hips.