by Isobel Carr
The silence stretched uncomfortably. She huffed, nearly panting with agitation, and stood up ramrod-straight. Conway frowned. This was not how he’d meant to declare himself.
‘Since I just declared myself I think you might say something. Yes, Conway, would do. Oh, please, Conway. I’d even settle for Yes, my lord—though it makes me feel ancient.’ He dipped his head slightly and gave her what he hoped was a teasing smile.
‘No.’
‘No? Should I make a wager of it? You seem constitutionally incapable of declining a wager.’
His joke failed to amuse her. ‘No, my lord. No to marriage. No to carriage rides in the park. And no to any more of-of-of this.’ She waved her hand about dismissively.
‘No,’ his voice grated as he forced the word out past a locked jaw. ‘No.’ He mulled the word over, holding her gaze, refusing to blink. To look away. To allow her to escape.
She eyed him coldly, her chin held up at an unnatural angle. Unable to think what else to do, Conway simply hauled her into his arms and kissed her, his mouth sliding down over hers, cutting off any attempt to protest. He’d been wanting to kiss her for weeks. In fact, he’d already decided a kiss was to be the subject of their next wager, but faced with her refusal, kissing her now seemed a much better option.
Eleanor stiffened. The viscount had his arms locked securely around her, his tongue tracing the soft, inside edge of her lower lip. She shivered as the bottom dropped out of her stomach with a sickening lurch. This was a disaster. She jerked her head back, slewing it to one side to avoid his mouth.
He growled, ‘Don’t!’ then captured her mouth again, his lips working teasingly against hers, his tongue stroking, challenging her to respond in kind. She went momentarily limp, and he pulled her infinitesimally closer. The scent of him—soap, leather, and faint bay rum—filled her head, cut right through her, making her knees quake.
He deepened the kiss, stroking her tongue with his, daring her to respond. Eleanor gave into that part of her that never could resist a challenge and kissed him back. She could at least have this, even if she couldn’t have him.
His hand drifted down to her hip and gripped her hard. Eleanor wedged her arm in-between them, desperate to catch her breath, and pushed him back from her. ‘But you don’t want—’
‘I do,’ he murmured, his voice dropping into a seductive purr that sent a chill down her spine.
‘But—’
‘No,’ he replied, cutting her off again. ‘No buts.’ He tightened his grip on her, staring down, his expression perfectly serious, maybe even a tiny bit put out. The heat of his body pushed through the layers of their clothing, daring her to burrow in. Desire flared and pooled in her belly, almost painful in its intensity. She had to tell him, and when she did, this would be over, he would be gone, and if she was very, very lucky, he’d keep her secret to himself.
‘But—’
‘But nothing, Eleanor. You let me kiss you. That’s almost as good as a yes.’
‘I didn’t let you, and it can’t happen again.’
‘I rather think it can and will.’ His hands caged her more loosely, fingers anchored in her petticoats. ‘In fact . . . .’ He leaned down to kiss her again but she forestalled him, setting shaking fingers on his jaw.
Tears burnt behind her eyes, pressing painfully for release. She took a breath and waited for them to recede. She needed just the right words and her brain didn’t seem to be functioning properly. It was like she had sunk beneath the waves of the loch at Kelburn and couldn’t seem to find the surface.
‘It’s not no because I won’t. It’s no because I can’t. My mother would tell me not to be a fool, but I can’t marry you, Wroxton. I went and fouled everything up when I was still in the schoolroom. And though my brothers found me, and the man—and his family—were every bit as eager to hush things up as my family and I were, that doesn’t change the basic facts. I’m ruined, for all that it’s still a secret.’
She waited for the words to sink in, for the viscount to grasp her meaning. She tried to pull out of his grasp, but his hands locked in her skirts, trapping her.
‘Ruined? Do you mean to say you’re not a virgin?’ He gave made a small, dismissive sound in the back of his throat. ‘Hell, Eleanor, you’re nearly thirty. I’d assumed there was some tragic disappointment behind your spinsterhood. Doesn’t make one iota of sense otherwise. Besides, marrying a fallen woman has its appeal. No wedding night jitters.’
He grinned and swooped in to kiss her again, dragging her over to the settee and down into his lap as he did so. He tipped her back, and his hand slid up her leg, pushing her petticoats and shift aside. He stopped to fiddle with her garter, before pushing up to the bare skin of her thigh.
Eleanor attempted to push her skirts down and shove his hand away to no avail. He laughed softly and rested his forehead against hers. She could feel his triumphant grin, even if she couldn’t see it. He kissed her again, softly, lip to lip, coaxing her along, his hand slipping up her leg until his fingers slid into the curls at the apex of her thighs.
Eleanor clamped her knees together, which only served to trap his hand there, forcing his fingers into an even more intimate congress with her slick folds. Wroxton circled his thumb against the centre of her pleasure and Eleanor let out a shuddering breath as wanton heat flooded through her.
His hand was as sure and strong as she’d ever dreamt lying alone in her bed. Her legs began to tremble and she let them sag slightly apart. The viscount took full advantage, sliding one long finger deeper into her core as his thumb continued to circle and tease.
He nuzzled into her neck, teeth lightly tracing over her pulse point, driving it higher, until its rapid crescendo met the deeper tattoo throbbing between her thighs and her vision fluttered into momentary darkness.
The sound of the front door followed by booted feet ascending the stairs broke them apart. Eleanor dragged herself from the viscount’s lap and hastily set her clothing to rights.
That had not just happened. That could not have happened.
‘So it’s yes? It’s yes or it’s like to be murder.’ The viscount’s promptings were low and urgent. ‘Your brothers are going to scatter my teeth all over the carpet and throw me down the front steps if it’s no.’ Footsteps sounded outside the door and Harold’s coach dog burst into the room.
‘Speak, nod, shake your head.’ Wroxton was standing by the fireplace, reclaiming her winnings. He slid them into his pocket, wiping his hand on his handkerchief as he did so.
Eleanor nodded dumbly as she shoved the eager dog off of her, attempting to jam her foot back into the shoe she’d somehow lost at the same time. She sank down onto the settee, her legs too shaky to support her any longer. ‘Yes. You’re a damn fool, but it’s yes.’
The viscount smiled brilliantly, displaying the perfect teeth she’d just saved. The door swung fully open and three of her brothers wandered in. Wroxton lounged at his ease, one arm resting along the mantel, not a hair out of place.
Nonplused, filled with the rush—the thrill—of nearly being caught, Eleanor forced herself to relax. To appear as if being found in a tête-à-tête with one of her brothers’ friends was the most natural thing in the world.
Harold strode in, snapped his fingers and his dog retreated from its continued attempts to worm its way up onto the settee. Behind him, Hamish stopped dead and started until Jamie rammed right into him and pushed him further into the room.
‘Wroxton, those your greys out front?’ Harold said without flicking so much as an inquiring glance over her. Not a good sign. He was far too blasé, even for Harold.
‘You come to pick up Elly?’ her brother Hamish thrust in, clearly trying to be helpful.
‘Why ain’t ya dressed, El?’ Jamie asked, adding his own momentum to Hamish’s push. ‘How long do you mean to keep Wroxton’s horses waiting? Good God, haven’t we trained you up better than that?’
‘She was just going to get changed,’ Wroxton cut in. ‘Appar
ently I mistook the appointed hour of our outing.’
All three of the men looked them up and down and Eleanor jerked up off the settee. ‘I’ll be back in just a few moments.’ With one last, worried glance at the assembled mass of brothers between her and the door Eleanor forged ahead. Harold maintained his air of quiet study, but Jamie burst into a grin that threatened to crack his head in half.
Eleanor held her breath. Jamie had caught the scent, her twin couldn’t be far behind. If she could just get out of the room before they descended into masculine ribaldry, she might keep her temper.
‘By the way, Elly,’ Harold’s voice, quick with unexpected amusement, caught her as surely as his hand might have, ‘your hair’s half down your back and I think that’s your fichu Squeaker’s eating in the corner.’
Eleanor turned back to face him, unable to keep her expression serene. Her blush started at her toes and felt as though it must have turned even her hair red.
‘Hurry along, El. Won’t do to keep Wroxton waiting. Not before he’s spoken to father at any rate. And as the pater won’t be home for hours yet, I can’t think of a safer place for the two of you than tooling about in an open carriage.’
Finis
Three Courtesans
This is a short story I wrote as part of a Twelve Days of Christmas blogathon a long, long time ago…my three French hens may not be exactly what the original carollers had in mind back in 1780.
‘You don’t like Frenchwomen, my lord. Remember?’ Elise raised her brows just enough to imply disdain and stared the Duke of Newburgh’s second son down. Her stomach fluttered and her throat went dry. He’d been in a rage the last time she’d seen him. Angry with his father, annoyed with her, furious that the world wouldn’t bend to his will.
Lord George stared right back at her, dark eyes narrowing behind thick lashes as he held her gaze. He filled the narrow corridor of The Crown and Anchor, wide shoulders and long legs barring her way. The urge to step back from him was nearly irresistible. He loomed. An easy enough thing to do considering he topped her by more than a foot, but somehow it was an active thing when he did it, rather than a mere result of their heights. Now was one of those times.
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ he said as she forced herself to push past him. Her skirts tangled with those of his greatcoat, clinging, impeding her progress. Elise inhaled sharply and yanked them free as though he were a patch of brambles.
Three quick steps and Elise could hear voices from the public tap room. The gruff cacophony of a dozen English voices, strange to her ears even after several years in their capital. She swung about to enter the private parlour she and her friends had reserved in advance. Elise’s hand tightened around the handle, the urge to slam the door in Lord George’s face rushed through her veins, heady as hot wine.
Before she could do so, Lord George strolled in after her, as though he had the right to command its use—to command her. Elise glanced over her shoulder as the duke’s son shut the door with an indelicate swing of his booted foot.
‘I believe, my lord,’ Elise said, ‘it might have been hearing you say so that left me with such a clear impression of your dislike. On more than one occasion if memory serves.’
She didn’t wait to see if her barb had struck. Instead, she hurried towards the fireplace and the welcoming glow of the coals. When she’d come downstairs, she’d hoped to find her friends waiting for her, not Lord George. Adele and Ghislaine must still be resting. Or they’d discovered Lord George was there and were avoiding him. Wise of them, if so.
The floorboards creaked as he followed close behind her. The coals popped and Elise whisked her skirts away from a stray ember. She ground it out beneath her shoe.
‘I’m fairly certain what you heard was a complaint about one particular Frenchwoman.’ The deep rumble of his voice worked its way through her. It lodged in her sternum, blooming into a familiar heat.
Elise poured herself a glass of brandy from the decanter the mantel, purposely failing to offer her uninvited guest a glass of his own. ‘A maddening creature with a Gallic temper?’
‘As fate would have it, yes. Fairly good aim, too.’ He rubbed a long scab that cut across his forehead and disappeared into his hairline. There was a faint halo of a bruise around it, a hint of lavender that would bloom to purple black in the coming days.
‘You must have provoked her.’ Elise dropped into one of the chairs that were drawn up to the fireplace. She stroked her free hand over her skirts, smoothing the plain kerseymere over her knees.
Lord George smiled, his eyes still grim. ‘Constantly, I’m afraid.’
As he moved to pour himself a glass of brandy, Elise studied him in the failing light. He appeared to have ridden hard, his boots and the skirts of his greatcoat were spattered with mud. His queue was tangled, the bow reduced to a straggling knot. Whatever she’d expected after parting his hair with the heel of her shoe, it hadn’t been this.
Geo tossed back the entire contents of the small glass of brandy and allowed himself a moment to savour the burn as it slid down his throat. He set the glass back down on the mantel and braced his shoulders against the length of plain wood. Elise watched him warily from the embrace of a somewhat battered wingback chair.
You’d never know she’d left London in a mad scramble, half her possessions scattered across the floor of the house they shared in Queen’s Street. He’d left for a few hours to give her time to calm down, and come home to an empty house and a babbling, hysterical valet.
At the moment, Elise looked every inch the proper young matron, perfection from her artfully-arranged dark curls to the sparkling buckles on her kidskin shoes. Even the simple coral necklet about her throat spoke of moneyed elegance and tasteful restraint.
It was a beautifully constructed lie. Until a week ago, she’d been the most dazzling courtesan England had seen since Kitty Fisher.
‘The rest of your things should arrive in time for the morning packet,’ he said.
Elise blinked. ‘I took everything that was mine.’
Geo ground his teeth. The urge to yank her out of that chair and drag her home made his hands shake. He shoved them into the deep pockets of his greatcoat. A show of force wouldn’t melt her resolve. He’d pushed too far; demanded too much.
‘Did you?’ He let the question hang in the air. Elise nodded and raised her drink to her lips with a slightly unsteady hand. Confusion flickered in her eyes, followed by a flash of concern as he pushed away from the mantel and stepped toward her. Geo dropped to one knee beside her chair. ‘Because I’d say you left something rather important behind.’
The pinched look of concern left her eyes and one corner of Elise’s mouth quirked up. Geo bit his cheek to keep from grinning back at her. He knew that smile. He was forgiven, or as close to as he was ever likely to get.
‘You’re right,’ she said, leaning in until her lips nearly brushed his cheek and the faint scent of primrose enveloped him. ‘I forgot—’
Geo captured her mouth with his, cutting off whatever quip she was about to make. She sloshed the dregs of her brandy across the back of his coat and her glass fell to the floor.
‘Yes, you forgot,’ he said when he finally broke off the kiss. ‘Forgot you can’t go running off to the Continent without your husband.’
‘Non?’ She hung back, arms wrapped about his neck.
‘No.’ Geo swung Elise up and sat, pulling her into his lap. ‘Though if you were to ask, he might agree to accompany you.’
‘Lord George?’
‘Yes, Lady George?’
‘Would you like to escape your father, the gossips, and the disapproving ton, and run away with me to Paris for Christmas?’
‘Paris is a good start,’ Geo said, settling back into the chair, their collective weight causing it to creak in protest. ‘But I was thinking of going a bit farther afield, being gone a bit longer. What would you say to spring in Italy, summer at Lake Geneva, autumn in the Levant?’
Elis
e chuckled. ‘You were thinking that we should roam about the world until London finds something more scandalous to entertain them. And if they never do?’
‘Don’t be daft, woman. The Prince of Wales, or one of his siblings, will eclipse us before we’ve even made it to Rome.’
Finis
Author’s Note
The late 1780s is a period which fascinates me. It’s tumultuous on multiple fronts, multiple continents, in ways both micro and macro. 1787 marks a major milestone for the still fledgling United States: the signing of the Constitution. Uranus, Oberon, and Titan are discovered by Herschel. Mozart’s Don Giovanni is performed for the first time. In 1788, England’s George III experiences his first bout of madness, ushering in the Regency crisis which will last for the next twenty-plus years. London’s Daily Universal Register becomes the Times. The first convicts are transported from Britain to Australia, and Sydney is founded. 1789 marks the beginning of the Revolution in France, and the world will never be the same. The guillotine is invented. Mrs Radcliffe’s first horror novel, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne, is published. Fashion is also undergoing a major transformation, the likes of which will not be seen again until the flappers burst onto the scene more than one hundred years later. Hoops have been discarded in favour of false rumps, and soon even those will be gone as the fashion turns towards a Greek ideal. Vigée Le Brun has already painted the scandalous portrait of Marie Antoinette in her Robe à la Reine and the fashion has taken England by storm. The Duke of Devonshire is openly living with his wife and his mistress (the duchess’s best friend). The young Prince of Wales is illegally married to the Catholic Mrs Fitzherbert, and has likely already sired an illegitimate son. The Whigs and Tories are locked in combat in Parliament, each marshalled behind their leaders, Charles Fox and his former protégé, William Pitt.
