‘Yes, only Mr and Mrs Sneddon are in residence, I believe,’ she replied. ‘It would be very lonely, I suppose, for them.’
Robert watched Mr Sneddon bark an address to the driver. Together, they watched the carriage pull away and down the street.
‘And Miss Pickering’s dress, where did she get it from?’ Robert asked after a moment, ‘it looks very fine.’
Penelope smiled broadly, ‘Oh it is lovely, is it not? She has a very good tailor and she said she designed it herself.’ She looked across at him slyly, ‘Papa, are you thinking of getting me one such as that?’
Robert paused, wondering if perhaps he inquired to the dressmaker about a second gown, he may get closer to finding his mystery woman.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said, then added quickly, ‘I should get you one in pink.’
Chapter 6
Loaded with enough goods to make a footman wince, Ellen made her way through the throngs of Christmas shoppers towards the school. Mrs Sneddon’s shopping list had been extensive as it was expensive. Why Mr Sneddon could not have made these purchases and carried them back to the school in the hack was beyond her. Still, she had offered to shop, and so she really ought not complain, despite being nearly blinded by the volume of Mrs Sneddon’s packages.
Glancing to her left, Ellen attempted to avoid a particularly damp and foul-looking puddle. As she did, she collided heavily into a fellow shopper on her right. Her packages wobbled precariously.
‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed, ‘My chalk!’
As Ellen desperately tried to keep hold of the many, but less fragile packages for Mrs Sneddon, the dark brown paper parcel that contained fifty new sticks of chalk slipped from her bundle and crashed into the cobbles. She could hear them shatter.
‘I’m terribly sorry!’ a smooth gentleman’s voice cried, and Ellen felt warm hands take her elbows to steady her. Surprised by the gentle contact, Ellen looked up, directly into the pale hazel eyes of Mr Carring.
For a time, she could not speak; heat as brutal as a strike of lightning lashed her cheeks. He stared down at her and for an indeterminable time, neither spoke. That was until Penelope Carring spoke for them.
‘Miss Smith!’ Penny exclaimed delightedly and swooped down to pick up the chalk package. ‘I had no notion you were still at the school! What a surprise! Papa and I have been shopping for Christmas decorations! What have you got there?’
***
Robert’s fingers tightened around the young schoolteacher’s elbow as her face reddened in recognition.
‘Forgive me, Mr Carring,’ she murmured.
His eyes caught on her full lower lip as she bit down upon it and he felt a tug of familiarity. Her lips curled with a slight smile and she inclined her head politely at him then she turned to speak with Penelope. Though her demeanour had stiffened, her cheeks still burnt a painful crimson. Miss Smith responded gently to Penelope’s chatter, but he heard nothing of what they said. Instead, his eyes scurried over Miss Smith. He had thought no one remained at the school but the Sneddons. He felt the tug of familiarity again. He studied her intently. Could Miss Smith be the woman? Was it possible that she had worn the dress last night and made merry in the pub? He cursed the dim lighting of the public house. If only he had had an opportunity to study his lover’s face in better light, he could compare Miss Smith’s for similarity.
Hot memories gripped him as he recalled his mystery lover, her heat and her passion. The wild mane of golden curls.
As his memories turned scorching, Carring’s gaze reached the ridiculous mob-cap which covered the entirety of Miss Smith’s scalp.
Dreadful things, mob-caps.
Certainly his passionate lover would not wear such an abomination?
Penelope’s conversation quietened and his attention was drawn back to the present. He tried to get a better glance at Miss Smith’s body, to compare it for the soft, gentle curves of the mystery woman.
In the sensibly thick and warm pelisse, he could not tell.
‘I really ought to return to the school,’ Miss Smith said, then looked at the sodden broken package in Penelope’s hand, ‘but I’m afraid I must return to the stationer, and purchase more chalk, these will certainly be ruined. I am dreadfully clumsy.’
Was this the voice of that same woman? He could not tell. Miss Smith’s voice was soft, tremulous, a far cry from the certain, nay, demanding tones of his lover.
He sighed, uncertain and frustrated. Miss Smith certainly would have had the opportunity to try on the gown, but such behaviour was deeply out of character. True, there were similarities betwixt the two, height, and perhaps that blonde strand of hair escaping from the mob-cap, but, no. It must have been another woman, in a gown like Miss Pickering’s who had caught his eye last night.
And yet ...
‘I insist on taking these parcels from you, Miss Smith,’ Robert decided. ‘And I shall replace your chalks. After all, it is I who walked into you and have caused their ruin ...’
He saw Miss Smith swallow and she bit her lower lip again, this time the gesture sent a bolt of arousal straight to his groin. He felt his eyes narrow and considered her again.
She stammered something that could have been a refusal, but he slipped his hand from her elbow and began relieving her of her packages.
Her mouth fell open at his audaciousness, and he observed the neat rows of white teeth, and the hint of pink sweet tongue. The sense of familiarity grew.
‘Mr Carring, really, the school is not far, I shall just drop these with Mrs Sneddon and return to the stationer ... You really ought not inconvenience yourself.’
He ignored the protestations, ‘It is of no inconvenience, Miss Smith, I assure you. It would be my pleasure.’ He allowed the word to slide over his tongue.
Miss Smith’s breath hitched, and beneath her heavy pelisse he saw her breasts rise and fall sharply. Her snapped her mouth closed, and her brows, almost completely covered by the lace of mob-cap, fell low.
He smiled.
She may not be his mystery lover, but there was certainly something about the young schoolteacher that made him wonder.
***
A real and sharp sense of excitement, bordering on panic, made the air difficult to breathe. Miss Smith coughed and inclined her head. ‘If you insist, and it is not an inconvenience to Miss Carring?’ she asked, offering a hopeful glance towards Penelope, who shook her head. ‘Then stationer is this this way.’
Mr Carring fell into step beside her, his long legs taking slow considered steps to match her pace. Her heart thumped.
Good heavens, the man was even more dashing today than he was the night before.
More heat raced up her throat, her mind dashing back to those hectic, mad, sensuous moments in the alleyway.
Did he suspect her?’
Of course, he would not. Granted, only the lack of mob-cap and dim lighting had disguised her, Carring ought to have no reason to suspect her. Why, there were multiple ladies in London with whom she shared similar features.
‘Miss Smith,’ he began, ‘How was your first evening of the holidays? Restful, I hope?’
Ellen glanced up sharply then away, so as to avoid his avidly studious gaze. Her throat was threatening to close and her mouth had turned so dry she could almost taste dust.
He does indeed suspect, she realised grimly.
She inhaled deeply, her mind racing with answers. Finally, she lifted her chin and gave a look as nonchalant as she could manage. ‘Mr Carring, my employment as schoolmistress leaves little time for rest, I’m afraid.’ She said sternly, ‘Even though the students are returned home, there is much left to do. Why, Miss Brampton has left an extensive list of chores to be completed on her return. One does not like to disappoint Miss Brampton, I assure you. So no, Mr Carring, my evening was not particularly restful.’
Aha!
Ellen felt a small stirring of triumph. Ordinarily, she was a shamefully bad liar. Her mother had only needed to look her straight in the
eye to know she told untruths. So, in general, she avoided lying outright. Exaggeration of minor truths and avoidance of direct questioning were skills she had honed since her early years.
She dared a glance up at Carring’s eyes. Her heart skipped. His expression was searching and piercing. Her belly twisted with nerves. Perhaps the gentleman was clever enough to see through the veneer of her exaggerations.
Though his gaze remained studious, he made some understanding noises.
‘And you, Mr Carring?’ She asked knowing politeness required reciprocal questioning. ‘Was your evening particularly restful?’
Much to her surprise, he laughed loudly, and she found herself staring. In his mirth, he threw his head back and chest swelled with amusement. ‘Restful?’ He chuckled. ‘Restful it was not.’
Heat crept up her cheeks and she had to bite her lip to stem a smile. Of the many things their evening had been, she would most certainly agree, it had not been restful. Why, as they walked her sex ached with the memory of his heavy, hot manhood.
‘I see,’ she replied slowly as a sudden and dreadful desire to discover what he thought of their night together rushed to the forefront of her mind. ‘And are you going to enlighten me to the cause of your restlessness? Or shall such a revelation remain secret?’ Ellen asked, before she bit her tongue for her stupidity.
Had not a moment ago she inwardly crowed about her skills at exaggeration and avoidance? Then what had possessed her to ask this question?
Curse my impulsive heart!
She dared another glance, and found his pale hazel eyes studying her very, very intently. She swallowed and looked away towards the fast-approaching stationers.
‘We are here!’ Penelope called, racing towards the door to hold it open. ‘Oh Papa, shall you buy me some paper so that I may write to cousin George? I have not returned his last letter, and it was very rude not to. Did you know he broke his leg? Did I tell you that? Well, he did. He was riding that big horse of his ...’
Ellen moved towards the door so as to enter quickly. She felt, now more than ever, she was in very dangerous territory. She should not have asked that question. It was foolish, and it did not matter what he said in return. The sooner she departed his company the safer she would be. The more time she spent in his company, the more likely he was to recognise her.
Mr Carring moved quickly, ‘I will see you inside, Penny,’ he said, and gave his daughter a look so meaningful she stopped her chatter immediately, glanced betwixt her father and Ellen and hurried inside the door closing behind her.
Now, Carring’s large body blocked entry to the store. Her gaze crawled up the length of his legs, to the impressive bulge in his breeches before slowly meeting his eyes.
‘You asked me what made my night so restless.’ He leant down closer to her, his breath brushed past her cheek. ‘I am not a religious man, Miss Smith, but last night I was touched by an angel, who then so haunted my dreams, I scarce slept a wink.’
Her heart hiccupped. His mouth formed purposefully around the words. She watched avidly, for it was that same mouth, that same tongue that had delved between her thighs last night. She shivered.
‘Do you know who that angel may be?’ he drew even closer, and she could feel the heat radiate from him.
Ellen’s heart thumped wildly. She needed to say something, anything that would withdraw his suspicions from her. For she was certain now he suspected the truth.
She stiffened her shoulders, ‘It seems to me, Mr Carring, a rather thoughtless angel to disturb the sleep of men, even not-so religious men.’ She twisted past him, pulling the door handle to open the shop door. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder, ‘Perhaps you ought spend more time in church and God will send you a less selfish angel next time?’
Chapter 7
That evening, after Robert had returned Miss Smith and her packages to the school with a new, unbroken bundle of chalk, and decorated the house with an enthusiastic Penelope, he sat back in his library, swilling a glass of wine. Was Miss Ellen Smith his lover? Her comment of the angel suggested she knew something of the evening, but was it more likely she’d taken the notion in the literal sense.
Still, as he had leant down to speak with her outside the stationer’s he’d tried to capture her scent, a hint of lavender perhaps? It was familiar. But then, how many young ladies used lavender? Many, he must admit.
Robert only half listened to Penelope as she chattered, pinning cloves into the oranges to make her pomanders. The scent was sweet, spicy and heady. He tried to imagine Miss Smith in Miss Pickering’s beautiful dress, dancing and making merry. Though he had certainly seen evidence of spirit and definite intellect, he couldn’t quite match the passionate woman with Miss Smith’s upfront, and alarmingly moralistic banter, about church and God.
In fact, on their return walk to the school, Miss Smith had drawn him into an in-depth conversation on the Christian dogma and angelic visitation. She went so far as to enquire if his visitation hailed from the seraphim or cherubim. A question to which he could not possibly wittily respond.
No, though there were similarities, it was entirely unlikely Miss Smith of Miss Brampton’s School for Ladies was his mystery lover. Perhaps it was time he investigated Miss Pickering’s dress more thoroughly.
‘Papa, what was it that you said to Miss Smith outside the stationer’s shop today?’ Penelope asked.
Drawn from his reverie, Robert’s attention shifted to his daughter and her pomanders.
‘I was speaking of ... angels,’ he said after a moment.
‘Oh, how dull. We hear enough of angels and saints at school. You’re not going to start preaching to me, are you?’ She gave him a worried glance.
‘No, fear not Penelope, I shall not preach.’
‘Good,’ she sighed, placed down her pomander and yawned. ‘Though I must say, you stared a lot at Miss Smith today, did you know? I think you made her nervous.’
Heat gathered on his cheeks. ‘Did I?’ he tried to be dismissive. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘You were. She is rather pretty, I suppose. I am so very surprised no one has married her.’ She paused thoughtfully, ‘Don’t you think it a bit sad? A bit dull? Oh! Just imagine being a schoolteacher forever! I should rather die.’
***
Ellen was still giggling with mirth after she had her supper and retired for the night. Lying abed, she remembered the look on Carring’s face when she’d asked him if his angelic visitation had been from the seraphim or cherubim. Usually so very refined, his jaw had dropped and he’d stared at her with such a look of perplexity that she’d nearly lost her composure and laughed out loud.
After all, what kind of angel was she, certainly no six-winged Angel from God’s throne room. Actually, she was no kind of angel at all, or if she was, she was a certainly very unconventional one!
Oh, she was being naughty, silly, and playing with fire.
She could have very nearly been discovered today, she was very lucky indeed that she had not.
She rolled over and took a deep breath. Still, it had been so lovely to see him today. He was so very handsome, and it was exceedingly kind of him to buy her more chalk. Miss Brampton would have been furious that the first lot had been ruined, so really he was her angel today.
She rolled back over and faced the fire; the coals were dying, but her bed was warm. Though the day had been busy, exhausting even, she did not feel remotely tired. She felt a little excited.
A lot excited.
Down there.
She hissed and squeezed her legs tightly together. Far from sating her curiosity about carnal love, her night with Mr Carring had peeled open her imagination and made her desperate for more. Frustrated, she closed her eyes and squeezed her legs together tighter, relishing the faint ache that still lingered there. She could feel the beat of her heart, pulsing through every fibre of her being. She could feel the quilted nightdress, and the weight of blankets on every inch of her body. Ellen opened her eye
s and rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
Her hand slithered down the length of her body, knowing the destination before she herself did. As Mr Carring’s hands had earlier, her own hands pulled up the fabric of her nightdress, bunching it at her waist. She had to get rid of this crazed carnality that was plaguing her, perhaps easing the pulsing, driving heat between her legs would return her body to its usual calm state.
Or perhaps it would make it even worse.
It could not. It was not possible to feel wilder, or more lusty, than she did now.
Working nearly of their own accord, Ellen’s fingers swept through the curls that covered her sex. They moved swiftly, seeking the wet flesh so recently tended by Mr Carring.
Her body jerked as her middle finger slipped between the folds of her womanhood. She moved the finger up, around and over the hard bead of pleasure before slipping back down and pressing into her hot channel. She flinched and her knees opened wider as she repeated the rhythm over and over.
As her finger slipped and danced over delicate flesh, Ellen remembered Mr Carring’s tongue doing that very same dance. Pleasure coiled low in her body as she recalled the roughness of his cheeks on her soft inner thighs, the sweet decadence of his hot tongue as it licked the same path her finger now travelled.
Ellen moaned at the memory and pushed her finger deep into her sex before retracting it and sweeping it over the hard pearl. She remembered the hard length of his manhood pushing into her and stretching her tight unused flesh, the taste of his lips on her hers. She whimpered, and her fingers moved faster. Finally she recalled the powerful bucks of Mr Carring’s hips as he met with crisis, thrusting so deep into her she thought her body might break with pleasure. Her body clenched and sweetness broke over her as her sensitive sex could no longer take the ministrations of her fingers nor the memories in her mind. She cried out, thrusting her head back into the pillow as her channel clenched longingly around her finger.
A Christmas Bride Page 5
