“It’s not finished,” she said. “Do you like it so far?”
“Lord, yes. But how?”
“It’s ours, well, it will be yours by law. George bought it years ago from Lady Mary Coker’s estate as part of my dowry. I suspect he wanted me settled somewhere other than Grosvenor Square. It’s been empty ever since. When I turned one-and-twenty, I thought to set up my own establishment with Iphigenia and a companion, but I rescued a bear instead.” She turned abruptly to face him. “Seelye, Phidge may need my assistance. You won’t object if I help her, will you? I gave her my word.”
“Does she need your help?”
“She has suffered terrible losses—first her fiancé then her brother. I’m determined to help her come about.”
“It’s what I’d do for my friends and you should do no less for yours.”
“I knew you’d understand.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
He untied her bonnet and let it fall. She flipped his tall beaver from his head and sent it tumbling to the floor with a hollow ‘clunk.’ He kissed her and felt her warm hands slip under his frock coat to push it off his shoulders and down his arms, deft as a valet. It pooled at their feet. He tugged her wisp of a shawl from her elbows and let it drop and started on the pearl buttons of her pelisse.
“I’ve gone to the warehouses to furnish the rooms but only one is ready,” she said, the low thrum of seduction in her voice. “Would you care to see it?”
His cock snapped to attention like a dutiful soldier as he slipped off her pelisse at the foot of the stairs and draped it over the newel post.
She removed her gloves then his to take his bare hand and draw him upstairs to the large door off the second floor landing. She swung it open. A magnificent bed, decked in rich white and ivory fabrics, stood from the wall, a bank of tall windows illuminated the space.
“If you have no objections—” she walked over to test the bed “—I’d like to celebrate your success with George by instigating a little outrage here and now.”
She lay back on the mattress, propped up on her elbows, and lifted a shod foot. He knelt to untie the first shoe and slip it off, then the other. He smoothed his hands from her ankle slowly up her calf, past her knee to the top of her silk stocking. He unfastened the garter deftly and rolled it slowly down her leg. He disposed of the other in the same, caressing way. She watched him intently, a blush staining her cheeks.
“May I?”
“You may,” she whispered.
He gathered her gown, petticoat and chemise up her legs past her hips, exposing her to his full appreciation.
“You are ravishing, Jane.”
He stripped off his waistcoat, shirt and boots, all the while staring at her, his cock filling at the sight. And she watched him focused on his arousal.
“If it’s scandal you want, Jane, let me feast on you,” he said and leaned close to kiss the silk of her inner thighs. His big hands stroked her bare flesh warm till her legs relaxed open to let him have her.
“What do you mean feast on—Oh!”
She lay back and moaned as soon as his mouth found her sex open like a flower between her legs. With great care, he teased the petals apart to suckle her tenderest bud. He spent long minutes at it and she began to respond to the light strokes of his tongue. Slowly, deliberately, he lapped her bud until at last she clutched at the linens, working her hips in rhythm with his caresses. As her excitement gathered, he delved into her with more hunger, savoring the dew of her aroused body. The taste worked on him like a beast in rut. His own organ was ready to burst its bounds. He hurriedly unbuttoned himself and returned to her.
“No,” she breathed. “No more. Please.”
He looked up. “You want me to stop?”
“Never,” she gasped.
He held her hips in his hands, the better to torment her with his mouth. Her climax was close. She moaned and writhed beneath him until he flung her into the midst of its crescendo. It came thundering down upon her and her entire body strained for more pressure, more contact, more sensation until suddenly she cried out, shuddered, and relaxed.
Afterward, Jane lay with handfuls of ironed cotton in her fists. She looked as if she’d run for her life. Her fair skin was damp and flushed rosy.
He climbed on the bed.
Poised above her, he whispered, “Better?”
“That was utterly indecent,” she said. “But won’t you make me yours?”
He shoved his falls clear of his rigid cock and mounted her in one thrust. He pinned her beneath him, as a male animal would, and kept himself fully sheathed inside her, filling her, delving deep to feel her body hold him. Only then did he lift his hips in slow, rhythmic strokes. He took her and took his time, something she begged him not to do but he knew better. Though it might hard-boil his bollocks, he would hold off till she experienced the little death a second time.
After all, a true gentleman strives to satisfy his lady.
“Please,” she begged.
“Patience, my love,” he said and drove himself inside her.
Jane undulated beneath him, straining to bring their bodies closer still. Her legs twined about his hips and drew him hard against her. In turn, he bore down and around till she panted with pleasure.
As he felt his own body about to plunge off the precipice, she grappled him to her.
“It’s too much—!” Her cry was desperate. “It’s—O-oh!”
Her body milked him. And in ecstasy, he thrust faster, deeper. Stroke after stroke, he drove into her until he filled her with pulses of his seed. And as his spent organ throbbed its last, exquisite relief washed over him.
Chapter 47
In which one farewell breaks many hearts. And another none at all.
How they restored their clothes was a blur to Jane, as she was stunned by their love-making. The musk of sex in the air intoxicated her. Nothing about their first encounter prepared her for his passion in their second.
She lolled in bed when Seelye went to fetch water for washing. He reappeared, looking earnest as a schoolboy, with a basin, towels, and her divested pelisse. He bathed her gently with a damp towel, dried her with another, and smoothed her wrinkled clothes carefully. She braided her hair slowly. And watched him clean and dress himself with proprietary satisfaction. He was hers as much as she was his. And he was magnificent.
At the foot of the stairs, he turned her slowly, re-buttoned the pelisse, and nodded approval before handing her the bonnet he’d dropped. She retreated to the foyer’s tall, gilt mirror to tie its ribbon beneath her chin.
In the hackney ride to Portman Square, she sat beside the man she had in turns adored, despised and now loved with a woman’s passion.
He escorted her from the hackney to Lady Abingdon’s front door. The butler, Skeaping, opened it to them.
“Her ladyship is not at home to callers,” he said. Once inside, he vouchsafed to Jane, “At the risk of speaking out of turn, she’s abed and doing poorly.”
Jane offered him her card.
“Will you leave it, my lady?” Skeaping asked without affect. “Or shall I announce you?”
“Don’t be silly, we must see her, of course.”
The butler allowed himself a smile and ascended the stairs. Soon after, he returned to usher them to her ladyship’s private rooms.
Jane entered the dim bedroom first.
The dowager countess lay in a tall poster bed, its heavy curtains drawn open. She reclined muffled in bed linens, knitted wool shawl, and lace cap on her head. Her face was thin, her features sunken, but life still animated her bright green eyes.
“My dears,” she rasped and held out a sinewy hand to Seelye. “Excuse me for receiving you here.” She swallowed with effort. “I prefer to stay abed.”
“We are engaged, Lady Abingdon,” Jane said skipping the preliminaries. “You are the first to know besides George, but we await the banns, I’m afraid.”
“No apologies. I’ve lived to see this day.” Her e
yes twinkled as she took Jane’s hand. “Best wishes, precious child. Congratulations, rogue, I’ll attend your nuptials in spirit,” she said and bestowed on both the benediction of a radiant smile.
“Our joy won’t be complete without you.” Jane leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I love you and shall miss you terribly.” Her tears fell freely and her voice faltered before she managed to say, “What will I do without you?”
“You will love this scamp, raise a family, and remember me fondly, I hope.” Lady Abingdon struggled for breath. “Seelye, I’m relieved you finally saw what was staring you in the face.”
“I was never as clever as you, ma’am.”
“Good lad, worth three of Exmoor,” she rasped. “You’ve won our wager.”
“Your blessing is payment in full,” he said firmly.
“And so you have it. I’m proud of you.” To Jane, she said, “I was never so happy as when this one took you in hand.” She tried to chuckle. “How you complained! But you were lucky.”
Jane recalled visiting her ladyship to bemoan Seelye’s Turkish treatment and declare him detestable. So much had changed since then.
“Yes, ma’am. I was.”
Lady Abingdon asked for the window curtains to be opened so her dimming eyes might see a little of the daylight, “and to Hades with the doctors’ worries about light in a sickroom.”
To the end of their visit, her ladyship was her redoubtable self—proof that the spirit persists after a body fails.
Skeaping knocked softly to ask if her ladyship was home to the Duke and Duchess of Ainsworth.
“Send them up,” she said. To Jane, she explained, “She’s come from Greyfriars Abbey and in no condition for the journey. I wrote her to stay, but like you, she is a willful, wonderful girl,” Lady Abingdon said and lay back in the bank of pillows. “You have made me very happy.”
First Jane, then Seelye, kissed her ladyship farewell.
On the first floor landing, they greeted the duke and duchess. Behind them, two wet nurses held tiny bundles, one of whom squeaked his protest. Prudence looked pale but resolute. Her husband watched her closely, his concern plain. But he smiled briefly at Jane.
The men greeted each other. Jane kissed Prudence’s cheeks and offered congratulations to the new parents. She peeked at the twins and said all the proper things about them, which expressed in small part her sense of wonder.
The next day, Lady Abingdon lapsed into unconsciousness, and when the Almighty beckoned, she joined her husband in the great hereafter.
Lady Abingdon’s solicitor called on Seelye and Jane privately after the formal reading of her will. Through him, her ladyship once again expressed her affection for Jane, bequeathing to her a gold-framed miniature painted on ivory, some favorite books from her library, and her engraved ivory carriage pistol. To Seelye, she bequeathed an amount three times her estimation of Lord Exmoor’s net worth after mortgages and debts.
Seelye objected strenuously.
To which the executor extracted a piece of foolscap from among his papers and said, “It so happens, Lady Abingdon anticipated your feelings on the subject, Lord Seelye. She herself penned the following, and I quote, ‘Seelye, don’t be a gudgeon. Every so often, life rewards the worthy, not just the firstborn.’”
One month later, after all the proprieties were observed, Lady Jane Babcock married Lord Seelye Burton in St. George’s, Hanover Square.
His mother smiled radiantly at the couple from one of the closest pews where she sat beside the taciturn Marquess of Exmoor, his marchioness, and three fidgeting sons. Also present were the Duke and Duchess of Bath, the Duke and Duchess of Ainsworth, Lord and Lady Clun, the Hon. George Percy and Lady Iphigenia Thornton. Many more friends and relations celebrated the nuptials in boisterous good humor at the following wedding breakfast in Grosvenor Square.
The announcement in the papers raised few eyebrows in the ton, but for one fair-haired pair.
* * *
Earl Rostand had taken the news from Ireland as well as Whitcombe anticipated. That is to say, not well at all. The earl’s man of affairs had been weathering the storm ever since. It was a month of his lordship’s voluble disgust with all things Whitcombe.
Denis Bowes Daly’s about-face was inexplicable, so gibbering anxiously to justify it seemed pointless. He held his head high and wished he were otherwhere whenever his employer enumerated his faults in a bellowed rant. Every day, he expected his dismissal with similar fatalism.
After a few weeks, Rostand calmed. He admitted the inconvenience of having to hire a replacement and graciously allowed Whitcombe to retain his post. But the earl’s man suffered ongoing bouts of ill-humored abuse whenever the earl imbibed immoderately.
When the wedding announcement appeared in the newspaper, Whitcombe bribed Rostand’s butler to remove the entire page when he ironed it for his lordship. Sadly, his forethought was rewarded with sudden unemployment anyway.
Rostand heard about it from his Hellfire Club cronies with whom he frequented Southwark in search of sport. There, they usually overindulged in spirits and practical jokes at each others’ expense. After which, they cleared their heads by crossing Westminster bridge on foot with their town carriages creeping along beside them.
For these reasons, the earl was stumbling over the bridge early one morning when another drunk Hellfire Club member leaned over the low wall and claimed to see a bear swimming down the middle of the Thames.
“‘At’s my bloody bear!” bellowed the earl. In his inebriety, he rushed to behold the creature and tumbled headlong off the bridge.
His friends laughed themselves sick and bet one another how soon and where the earl’s wet head would emerge downriver.
No one won the bet.
For once, Mr. Whitcombe was blameless, yet he found himself without position or reference after the earl’s untimely demise. In desperation, he sought employment with an East India Company merchant living temporarily in Jermyn Street. This nabob was about to return to the sub-continent with his new bride. He seemed a reasonable man, and quite open-handed, so Whitcombe accepted the position gratefully.
* * *
Over breakfast, Seelye read the earl’s obituary in the Times to his wife. Nothing more was said.
Epilogue
July 1817
Seelye consulted the gold watch Jane had given him as a wedding gift and marveled yet again at his lovely wife. She wore the pearl necklace he gave her, (about which she’d quipped, “My, such lovely things come of irritation.”) He smiled at her and rose from the table to kiss her shamelessly before the staff.
“I’m late, my lady.”
“For what?”
“Can’t say. Very hush-hush.”
“May I come with you?”
“‘Fraid not,” he said. “Dare I ask what you will do today?”
“Can’t say, it’s a surprise,” she said, her eyes bright with mischief.
Seelye stopped dead, turned, and said, “My surprises are never large, semi-wild, or distempered.”
“Neither are mine, for the most part.” She sipped her tea and assumed a saint-like expression of contemplation.
He knew he ought to demand further explanation but time was short. He was expected at Ainsworth House by half twelve to make good on George Percy’s damnable wager.
“No new projects, please, my love. I must go.”
“Such a hurry! Have you a bird of paradise now that you’re leg-shackled?”
“Jane.” He caught the waiting footman’s eye and sent him out of the room with an impatient gesture.
His wife had yet to outgrow her hoydenish tendencies—not that Seelye minded. Their bed play benefited considerably from her willful, brazen nature. However, he mustn’t be late. Percy would certainly add torments to whatever forfeit he’d devised for the loser who dawdled.
“Mistresses are no fit subject for one’s lady wife to raise.” He took a step toward the door.
“Your evasions do make me wonder.�
��
“And keep her with what? Your money? I think not,” he huffed and returned to stand over her. “Worked too hard for it to fritter it away on some second-rate female.”
“There must be a first-rate female or two among the current lot available,” she teased.
“How would I know? Not only did you shame me into being a terrible cheese-parer before we married, but you’ve spoiled me for other women since. Why waste resources on another noisome baggage when I’ve a prime one already stitched up?” He bent down to kiss her upturned mouth for the umpteenth time that morning. Loving her was something he’d never grow tired of doing. “What’s more, mine’s more than tolerable company out of bed, too.”
“From impossible to more than tolerable, you have worked miracles indeed,” she murmured and let him leave.
When Lord Seelye entered Ainsworth’s book room, he found the first losing bettor, the duke himself, sprawled shirtless on a sofa, stoic under the rapid tap-tap-tap of a Chinaman’s inked needle. Seelye was immediately struck by the white, gnarled scars disfiguring his friend’s well-muscled shoulder.
Clun sat on the edge of a chair, head down to study his own white-knuckled fists.
“This is Mr. Hsieh, Seelye,” the duke gritted out.
The man with a long, black queue nodded politely and returned to his work.
Ainsworth told him he preferred to suffer at the hands of a talented artist when he learned the nature of Percy’s forfeit. He obtained the referral from his wife and sent a servant to Limehouse to fetch him away.
Percy’s two other victims accepted his grace’s recommendation without demur, being too preoccupied with their upcoming ordeals to question how the duchess knew a Chinese tattooist under any circumstances.
His Lordship's Last Wager Page 40
