by Eliza Lloyd
Jack stepped aside and let him enter. Max did not even glance toward the bed. With his typical efficiency, Max emptied the tray and set up the table down to the linens.
As he left, he said. “Perhaps we can keep her this time.”
Jack chuckled. No one kept Imogene unless she wanted to be kept.
The food was tantalizing after their night of passion, but Jack was more drawn to Imogene and sat on the bed next to her. He leaned to kiss her, smelling the lavender scent of her bath. He pressed his lips below her ear and then her cheek.
“Imogene? Are you hungry?”
She rolled to her back and stretched. When she opened her eyes and smiled up at him, a pleasant pain pierced his chest and extended down to his groin.
“I want to sleep.” She gripped the lapel of his robe and pulled him close. “With you.”
“All in good time. I could eat a horse and the food is waiting.”
“No. This bed is too comfortable, the sheets are too soft and it is too far to walk across the room.”
“Let me help you then, princess.”
He swept her up in his arm, a sheet caught between them, but it fell away as he strolled toward the table. She looped one arm about his neck and curled in his arms. When he sat he kept her in his lap.
“Mm, that does smell good,” she said, followed by a sleepy yawn.
“Am I to feed you too?”
“Would you mind terribly? My hands are busy.”
Her fingers toyed with his hair at his nape. Her other hand had crept inside his robe and caressed across his chest. She finally reached for a hunk of cheese.
“What are we going to do today, since you convinced me to stay?”
“Either I am the most persuasive man alive or you had already decided.”
“We may never know.”
“As for what we are going to do, I think our options are fairly limited.”
“Why? Because you can’t keep up?”
“That seems unlikely.” He shifted a bit to make sure she felt his up press against the soft roundness of her arse.
She wiggled, wrapping both arms about him, “Oh Jack. If only we were just meeting for the first time.”
“So that after I was done molesting you, your brothers would strip my hide? No thank you.”
“They were grateful even though they knew what we did.”
“I wish I could have known Frank like I know your other brothers.”
“He’s the one you have to watch.” Imogene smiled and reached for bread.
“Here. Let me,” he said, slicing the roll and buttering both sides. “Jam?” She nodded then accepted his gift. “So what are we to do from here, Imogene? See each other once a year? Enjoy bed sport and return to our own lives?”
She plucked up a peach, one of the last of this year’s crop from the orchards in Deal. “For all of the changes in our lives, one thing hasn’t changed. You’re the earl, Jack. I’m an orphan, a whore, a woman who keeps other girls from becoming whores. My brother is a murderer, exiled to Botany Bay. This is all we have. I want to make this wonderful while we have it.”
Imogene took a bite out of the peach and then kissed him.
She turned in his lap, straddling him, and tugged at the ties of his robe. Beneath her shirt she was already bare, so it was nothing to lift herself over his erection and, with one long slide, take him deep. She squirmed to fit better and then lifted her legs, her weight making his fullness feel substantial and satisfying.
After another bit of her peach, she sought his mouth again and this time led, licking at his lips and using her tongue in playful little plunges.
Thrusting was nearly impossible so he wrapped his arms about her, cupping her arse cheeks. She gave him no help, forcing him to lift and then let her slide back down his shaft.
She smiled, full of him and wanting more. The shirt she wore was easily removed.
He caressed her waist and upward to her breasts. She leaned back, presenting them to his mouth and he greedily accepted, sucking at her nipples and tasting of the softness of her breasts.
Imogene had matured—a baby had changed her body. Rounder hips, fuller breasts, but still with lithe limbs and fine, compact muscles.
He cupped one breast, kneading and then filling his mouth. When he pulled away, he sucked on her nipple until it popped as he lost suction.
Somehow she braced her foot on a rung in the chair and began slow undulations over his cock. She was no longer playing but pleasuring herself in earnest.
“You know the door isn’t locked.”
“I don’t care,” she said. Her lids were half-masted, her mouth open as she breathed.
Would he ever find another lover so invested in their mutual pleasure?
And was this part of their liaison the most important?
How many nights had she curled into his lap while he had a last drink before bed, both of them staring into the fireplace and talking of nothing more important than a visit to the docks or how much money she’d won from Maxwell?
How easy and sincere her words.
How foolish and careless were his.
“Are you ready?” he said against her lips.
“Almost.”
He reached between her legs and toyed with the swollen button that would speed her toward another climax.
Imogene sank hard, taking him deep. She did not know women feigned their pleasure. She did not know how to fake anything.
Between kisses she moaned, her mouth hard against his.
When she became still, he watched—beautiful ecstasy written on every line of her face.
Whatever place she went, he wanted to be there with her. Forever.
* * * * *
Imogene lay flat on her back, arms spread, sure she could not take another minute of pleasure with Jack. She did find the strength to run the bathwater again and sank to her chin in bubbles while Jack slept.
Later, he pleasured her again, his mouth between her thighs. She’d nearly screamed, the thrashing and moaning escalated uncontrollably.
Now Jack was on his stomach across the end of the bed, arms folded, cradling his head.
She had one foot propped on his arse. She shook him. “Don’t fall asleep yet.”
“You’ve worn me out. I cannot move. My cock cannot move.”
“We haven’t played cards yet.”
“Are we trying to recreate our entire eight-three days in two nights?”
Maybe it was the only way to hold on to her memories of their time together.
“Will we see each other again after tonight?” she asked.
“What are you asking, Imogene? Should we see each other—or will we?” He did not open his eyes, as if he didn’t care about the answer.
“Both. I can’t be your lover after this. There are risks. Even this brief interlude.”
She had not given a thought to getting pregnant in those months with Jack. How simple and trusting she had been.
Pierre had tried to warn her about men’s behavior with regard to sex. Often it meant nothing more than a physical release. She could not, should not attach any emotion to Jack’s conduct with her.
If the truth of her feelings wasn’t obvious to Jack, they were to her. She’d rushed to him after Catherine died. Rushed, as if he were still paying for her time when what she hoped had everything to do with shared emotions. Would Jack ever love her?
“Maybe I should see if Maxwell is still awake.”
“I would imagine. He’s usually the last one to bed.” Jack yawned. He gripped her foot for a moment and then his hand went limp.
“Oh Jack,” she said.
Looking at him had always made her yearn. It wasn’t just about his dark good looks. He had a comfortable way about him, a way that made her forget the past and gave her courage.
And then he dashed those hopes.
She swung her legs away and out of bed. Her shirt was still bundled on the floor, forgotten this morning. She slipped it on and then dug in
her valise for her skirt.
Maxwell was hard to find. The house was nearly dark on the main floor except for a lighted room which Imogene peeked into. Max was busy sorting stacks of correspondence.
“I know you’re there, Miss Imogene. You are a bit clumsier than you used to be.”
“A mouse could not have been as quiet. Besides, I don’t have my shoes on.”
“You’ll be leaving us soon?”
“I must.”
“Would you accept a gift from me?”
“A gift?” Imogene sidled into the room. “Why would you give me a gift?”
“Well, it’s not really a gift. It belongs to you.” He pointed to a trunk near the door she’d just entered.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Gifts weren’t a common occurrence in her life. Only Pierre had been thoughtful enough, and rich enough, to buy her things. She’d always thought gifts were things you got that you didn’t need. Lily’s Parisian doll, for instance. Any doll would have sufficed. Pierre had to get her a lavish one with a porcelain face, silk dress and a velvet cloak.
Imogene knelt in front of it and lifted the latch. Her beautiful dresses. Her pink dress—how she had dreamt of such wardrobe! She’d left them all behind.
She caressed the soft material. “Why did you keep them?”
“Seemed a shame to throw away perfectly good dresses. And Lord Prescott did say they were yours.”
“They still look new.”
“I had the servants care for them. We didn’t just stuff them inside a trunk and forget them.”
“You mean you didn’t. So you thought I was going to come back someday?”
“I had my hopes.”
She glanced up at him. What could she say? She’d left them behind because she knew she’d be reminded of Jack. What seemed so terrible five years ago didn’t seem so bad now.
Ynez might be able to change the style slightly to make them more modern.
She dropped the lid and it snapped shut.
“You’ll take them,” he said.
“Yes, but only because you took such care to see that I got them back.”
“I’m sure he thought about you as much as you thought about him.”
“You don’t know any such thing.”
“He cares for you, Miss Imogene.”
She sighed and lifted her brows. She’d made so many promises to herself about Jack. Confessing her love for him again was the last promise she hadn’t broken. Telling Max was the same as telling Jack.
She pushed to her feet. “Got any cards? I wouldn’t mind winning a few pence from you.”
“Stealing, you mean?”
“You were an easy mark. Never bet against a Farrell, Max. We always come up aces.”
“There’s a deck here somewhere. And Miss Imogene?”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, when you leave, leave as a lady. Through the front door and not sneaking off as if you did something wrong. It’s not a crime to love someone.”
She accepted the pack from him and found a chair, pulling her legs beneath her. “And they say crime doesn’t pay. Neither does love. Now, what’s your game?”
“I suppose you’ll need an advance?”
“For a few rounds.”
“Confident? I think I am going to beat you tonight.”
“And old cadger like you? That will be the day.”
* * * * *
The night was too short. She disrobed and crawled in beside Jack, now comfortably sleeping beneath the covers. One foot acted as a bellwether—one of the many small things she’d forgotten about him—exposed to the night air.
He wound his arm over her, clutching her even while he was asleep.
No matter how she tried, she could not keep her eyes closed. Tomorrow she’d be home and, she thought, a little less sad about leaving Jack behind.
Being with him felt new and amazing. And comfortable, like her old shoes. There was the small fact he hadn’t asked her to be part of his life, but she couldn’t help dreaming about such a wonderful impossibility.
She rolled to face him and gazed at the arch of his brow and the sharp angle of his nose. Tempted to touch him, she fisted her hand instead, not wanting to wake him yet.
He’d mentioned that he was taking his mother to Bath and he had his sons to consider. A year of mourning. A seat in the House of Lords. How could she ever fit into his life?
Jack sighed and pulled her closer. “What are you thinking about so loudly?” he asked. His voice sent shudders through her. Raspy and deep.
“Life.”
“Mmm,” he said, and then pressed his lips to her neck.
“I’m anxious to be home,” she said.
“You are home.”
Being in his arms almost felt that way.
“I’ve decided what we’re going to do,” he said, his voice still sleepy.
“To do? About what?” She rolled to her back and he crooked his leg over her thighs, neatly trapping her in place.
His eyes had opened a smidgen. “After I return from Bath and my mother is better, I intend to let a home in Brighton.”
A shivery spasm passed through her. “Why?”
“Because there are things in life I want and those things aren’t in London.”
Imogene hadn’t cried much in the last five years—Pierre had made sure she was never unhappy. Tears pooled and slid to her ears.
“I don’t know when it will be,” he said.
She was too happy to think about the unhappy truths she would have to tell Jack. “But you don’t know where I live.”
“Yes I do.”
“Your coachman?”
“Yes, but I would find you even if I had to knock on every door in Brighton.”
Chapter Nine
There weren’t going to be many more beautiful days in Brighton before the winter winds and storms visited. The sea churned, though, much like Imogene’s belly had since she’d said goodbye to Jack. It wasn’t enough to be told he would come to Brighton.
He must. Oh, he must!
Imogene guided the children along the beach for one last frolic before it became too cold and wet to enjoy. Todd picked up any odd bit of flotsam and had shouted, “Look!” for the tenth time.
Lily hopped and skipped beside Birdie. They, too, would stop and bend over some interesting specimen, poking with sticks before venturing to touch. The other girls were running, trying to launch a small kite Mr. Brewster had made for them. Tiger, the growing pup, was nipping at the colorful, fluttering tail.
There was another family with children about the same age who seemed intent on a similar mission and they came together in the middle of the beach.
“Hallo,” Imogene said.
“Good morning. You have quite a flock.” The statuesque woman had dark, sparkling eyes and the children with her bore the same lean features.
“I’ve adopted a few here and there. The dark-haired child there is mine. The rest are children of my heart. I’m Imogene LeClerc,” she said, and held out her hand, which the woman gripped with confidence.
“I am Mrs. Robert Peel. Julia to my friends.”
“It is lovely to meet you.” Imogene gave Mrs. Peel a proper greeting. She had an important air. Imogene could always tell a proper lady by the tilt of her hat and the directness of her stare. And a dozen other things Imogene hadn’t mastered yet.
“We are here on holiday and the children insisted on a day at the beach.”
“I think everyone senses the end of a glorious autumn, the children most of all.”
Mrs. Peel turned to walk with Imogene. “And who is your husband?”
“I’m a widow, ma’am. He died in Paris several months ago. Pierre LeClerc.”
“But you are English and a true English woman would rather be home.”
“My family is here.” Imogene spilled her family history, omitting the dreadful details of homelessness and whoring. She made the Farrells’ last five ye
ars sound romantic even to her own ears. The past had faded. Was there a need to ever speak of it again?
Mrs. Peel mentioned that her husband was in the government and she smiled sweetly as she talked about her family. “After Christmastide, there will be a children’s ball at the Royal Pavilion. I would like to invite your family.”
“A ball? I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity for balls, but I thank you just the same.”
Imogene pressed a finger to her lips, mostly to keep from laughing. The Farrells had blossomed into a respectable family, but certainly not a family who attended balls, even country ones. The Royal Pavilion was well out of her league.
The only ball to which Imo had ever been was without an invitation—and while sitting on a rock wall and staring into the fancy ballroom. Had she entered wearing her trousers, she might have set the entire ton on its ear. And then been nicked and thrown into the gaol.
“I will send an invitation anyway. The ball is meant for children and I’ve not seen such a fine group in all of Brighton. We will be there, of course. You won’t be alone.”
“You are generous, Mrs. Peel.”
Imogene stared after Mrs. Peel and the gaggle of children following in her wake. Dreams were wonderful, but strangely, she had never dreamt of attending a ball. Pierre had taught her a few dances, but she wasn’t confident enough to perform those dances in public. She laughed and then called the children.
A ball.
She’d outgrown most of her fanciful notions. Going to a ball had no real appeal, so she put it from her mind.
That night at supper, though, Imogene related her tale.
Mr. Brewster asked, “Mrs. Robert Peel, you say?”
“Yes. Julia was her given name.”
“She didn’t mention that her husband is the Prime Minister, did she?”
“The prime minister? Of England? That can’t be.”
“Oh, I assure you it is. I read in the paper she is here with her children.”
Imogene laughed. “Me with the Prime Minister’s wife? Why, next month the Queen will be inviting me to tea.”
“You’ll need a new dress,” Ynez said, clapping her hands together.
“And shoes,” Birdie said.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Imogene said, though she couldn’t help but think of the trunk of nearly new, albeit out of fashion, dresses she’d brought back from London. For a moment, she could almost see herself dancing with Jack beneath the dome of the banqueting hall. She’d have to wear a sky blue dress to complement the Prussian blues throughout the pavilion. She could almost hear the distant sound of violins and taste the sweet warmth of romance.
