“I shall keep this hidden whilst we’re here at Torrington Park,” Alice replied, daring another glance up at Alonyius, realizing he must have intended to give it to her sometime that evening.
Probably when he proposed.
She didn’t have a chance to consider that thought before it was their turn to sit on the Yule log.
Glad for the linen that covered part of the bark—Alice was sure the sarcenet would snag if it touched the tree— she allowed Alonyius to help her as she lowered herself to the log. A moment later, he was next to her, and a round of applause followed before they were back to standing so the next servant could take a seat.
“Is this a waltz?” Alice asked as she became aware of the music.
Grinning, Alonyius nodded. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
Alice matched his grin. “I will.”
Chapter 45
Mornings Are Best for Wickedness
January 1, 1817
The sensation of fingernails gently parting his hair had Alonyius slowly awakening. A tickle skittered beneath his scalp, which set off a shiver through his entire body. Warm breath washed over his face before soft lips pressed onto his forehead. He couldn’t help the grin he displayed as those same lips moved to his temple, to beneath his ear, to the side of his neck. But he didn’t open his eyes until the musical sound of Alice’s giggle—a giggle!—broke the pre-dawn silence.
He had no idea how the earl had managed to procure a marriage license on his behalf. The only thing he could reason was that the Torringtons had paid a visit to someone important in Hexham the day of their sleigh ride. But the folded paper in his small gift box was his ticket to a wedding without the need for the reading of the banns.
We could have taken a trip over the border, he thought with a hint of amusement. Saved the earl the cost of the license and the vicar who performed the private ceremony the day before in the chapel of Torrington Park. Private because all the other servants had come to believe the two were already married.
Because Alice’s box was stuffed into one of his pockets, she didn’t learn what was in it until Christmas morning. The twenty-pound bank note was accompanied by a note from the earl suggesting she use part of it as her dowry and the rest for the bride clothes she would require when she and her husband paid a call at Mill House.
You are excused from service for two weeks for your wedding trip, but no more than that. My countess despairs at my poor attempt at styling her hair.
Alonyius slid a hand down her side and over the flare of her hips, the bare flesh warm beneath his hand. Although he didn’t want to move, his manhood certainly did. “You wicked woman,” he murmured as he suddenly flipped her onto her back and settled himself atop her.
Alice let out a sound of startlement before giggling again. “Good morning, husband,” she whispered as she lifted her legs to wrap them around his lower torso.
“It seems it is,” he replied as he slowly entered her, giving her an arched eyebrow when he realized just how ready she was for his hardened manhood. “How long have you been awake?”
Sighing when he was fully pushed into her, Alice slid her hands up his sides and to his shoulders. “Not long,” she whispered as she lifted her chest so the tips of her nipples grazed his crisp, graying curls. A tooth caught her lower lip, denting the plump flesh as if she had to suppress a cry of delight.
The move had Alonyius lowering his eyes to the flat pads of her breasts. He lifted himself a bit so her nipples were no longer touching him. Her mewl of disappointment was quickly replaced with a more pleasant sound as his lips took purchase on one of those nipples. Gently kissing it before laving the blade of his tongue across its tip, he thrilled at his wife’s reaction. With her head thrown back into the pillows and her torso lifted from the bed in a display of wanton lust, she might have been the most sought after courtesan in all of London. Instead, she was simply a woman with whom he had spent hours getting to know whilst traveling in a coach during one of the worst winters on record. Who would have ever believed a lady’s maid could capture his attention—and his heart—in such short order?
Short order? Christ! I’ve known this woman for as long as the earl has been married, he reminded himself.
When he was suddenly aware of fingers spearing his short cropped hair, he moved his attentions to the other nipple. He would have spent more time worrying the tender bud with his lips and teeth, but his manhood demanded surcease, as did Alice, it seemed. Her mewling and gentle pleas, not to mention how she clenched his erection, as if to coax the seed from his manhood, were all the encouragement he needed. His first few thrusts were slow, meant to tease and please.
When Alice’s palms moved to grip his buttocks, he increased the pace and plunged into her harder and harder. The feel of her undulations around his manhood set off his release, a spasm of pleasure gripping his body as hard as her hold on him. He swallowed her cry of pleasure with a kiss, one he couldn’t sustain when he was forced to take a breath. Gasping, he attempted to lift his body from hers. Lacking the strength, though, he slumped onto her, his head coming to rest next to her neck. Between gasps for air, he kissed her cheek before murmuring, “I may be too old for this.”
He felt Alice’s giggle burble up through her body before the musical sound erupted. Despite his momentary inability to move, a grin appeared on his face. “I know I have said it already, but your are a wicked woman,” he accused gently.
Alice slowly turned her head to regard him, her nose nearly colliding with his. “Ah, but I am a happy, wicked woman,” she countered, giving him a kiss on the nose. “Thanks to you. Happy New Year, by the way.”
Alonyius sighed. Happy, indeed.
Chapter 46
Snow is Best for the Rest
March 1817
Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, entered White’s at precisely seven o’clock, a footman quickly seeing to his greatcoat. His arrival each night was so precisely timed, other gentlemen set their chronometers based on when he stepped into the men’s club. One of the club’s butlers was even spied resetting a mantle clock above a fireplace a moment after the earl took his usual seat.
Milton’s visits usually lasted a mere forty-five minutes so that he might arrive home at exactly eight o’clock for dinner with his wife. Despite the short amount of time, he was afforded an opportunity to enjoy a pre-dinner drink. He spent the time conferring with other members of the peerage, taking a peek at the betting books, and listening to the day’s gossip. Ensconced in his favorite overstuffed chair, he sipped a brandy as he surreptitiously listened to the conversation of some gentlemen at a card table. Although Milton wasn’t a gossip monger, he still rather enjoyed hearing it whenever he had the chance.
“I have rather momentous news to share this evening,” a viscount was announcing proudly as he finished shuffling a new deck of cards.
“Did your horse finally win a race?” a baron asked, his elevated eyebrow suggesting his comment was made in jest. The viscount frowned. He dealt the cards as if he’d been doing it since he was in leading strings.
The explorer, Harold, Lord Everly, leaned in to pick up his cards. “Now, now. Don’t be making fun of his bay. That nag came in second last week,” the earl scolded. The adventurer had been in London only a fortnight, his most recent trip having been to the southernmost tip of Africa in search of strange fish. His avocation—the study of natural sciences—had him traveling around the globe more often than he was home in London.
Everly took a look at his cards and was about to scold the viscount for his bad deal when he decided he might be able to bluff his way through this hand.
“Thank you, Everly,” the viscount acknowledged with a nod. “No, gentleman, my wife has seen to it I will be a father. Probably before Parliament reconvenes in the fall,” he stated proudly. He picked up his own cards, giving them a quick glance before looking up to accept congratulations from around the table.
“My wife will be relieved to hear of
it,” a knight commented, his attention on his cards. “Only last week, she claimed your wife looked as if she was eating a few too many cakes at tea.”
Milton had to stifle a chuckle at the comment lest he be discovered listening. Just last week, he’d made a similar comment to Adele, although he was careful to add that he rather liked her with a bit more meat on her bones. She’d been far too thin when they married.
The viscount gave the knight a nod. “Well, she is, at that, but she is eating for two now,” he commented, his proud grin never leaving his face, even as he was forced to fold.
“She’ll be in good company,” the baron commented as he considered his hand and the growing pile of chips in the center of the table. “Seems there will be a crop of heirs born this fall.”
Lord Everly looked up from his hand, deciding he might not be able to bluff his way through this hand after all. “That would be due to that nasty snowstorm we had last December, just after Christmas,” he stated with some authority.
The viscount made a sound that could best be described as a snort. “As I understand these matters, Everly, snow had nothing to do with it.”
The other three gentlemen guffawed in response. “Oh, yes it does. What else are you going to do when you’re trapped in your country estate for three straight days?” the baron asked, making a rude gesture with his hands.
“And your wife complains of boredom and the cold?” the knight added rhetorically, his eyebrows waggling suggestively.
“I daresay, I remember wishing I was married during that long week,” the baron murmured as he pretended to study his cards.
In the middle to taking a sip of brandy, Milton stilled his movements.
We were in Torrington Park. There was that snowstorm just after Christmas Day.
He held the brandy on his tongue for a very long time, finally swallowing when the alcohol threatened to burn a hole in his mouth. He remembered that snowstorm quite clearly. Remembered where he was during the second and third days of it. Remembered where Adele had been—usually under him, although there had been those rather delightful times when she was on top of him—and he suddenly realized why it was she looked as if she’d been eating a few too many cakes at tea.
Lord Everly piped up and said, “Be prepared to bed your wife more frequently. Her appetite for your favors will be insatiable. At least, it is for most of the females of our species when they are breeding.” A hearty round of laughter erupted from the table as the viscount’s back was slapped and pounded.
Milton’s heart pounded in his chest. His pulse pounded in his head. How did Everly know such things? The earl wasn’t married. But he’s a naturalist, he reminded himself.
Milton’s breaths came a bit too quickly. He stared at his brandy as if he didn’t recognize it. I’m going to be a father. The words, barely formed in his mind, repeated themselves with a bit more certainty.
Downing the rest of his brandy as if he’d spent a week in the desert, he quickly made his way to his coach, his early exit from the club causing one of the butlers to pick up and study a mantle clock to ensure it still worked. The groom on the back of his coach, Higgins, did a double-take. “My lord?” he managed to get out as he moved to open the door and set down the steps.
“Stedman and Vardon in Bond Street, and make it fast,” Milton ordered, stepping into his coach. He was barely seated when the coach lurched forward to make its way up St. James Street. He took the opportunity to breathe, feeling rather proud that he had enough sense to stop at a jewelers to secure a rather expensive bauble before heading home for dinner. I’m going to be a father, he thought again. For a man of his age—he was past forty—to marry a widow—who, as near as he could tell was in her late thirties—to discover he was going to be a father, was, well, it wasn’t exactly a miracle, he knew. Lord Seward had fathered his fourth son when he was in his seventies, and although some claimed he’d had a bit of help in that regard (there had been rumors he’d been cuckolded by his wife), the boy was the spitting image of him.
Poor child.
But for Milton to think of himself as a father was ... almost unthinkable. He was the godfather to the sons and daughters of the ton, not a father.
Adele, bless her heart.
Why hadn’t she said anything? Was she afraid he didn’t want a child? She must have known he needed an heir. Was she waiting for the right time to tell him? Perhaps she intended to tell him tonight during dinner. She’d said something about arranging for his favorite meal to be served that evening.
Or did she even know she was expecting?
That last thought had him pausing suddenly. There was something different, he was sure now. It wasn’t just that she had put on a few pounds. She was ... more beautiful, to be sure, her smile more radiant. And she was certainly more willing to be bedded. Christ, she’d been in his bed as much as he’d been in hers this past month or so!
What had Everly said?
Be prepared to bed your wife more frequently. Her appetite for your favors will be insatiable.
He was still ruminating on insatiable appetites when the coach came to a stop in front of the goldsmith’s shop. He was out of the coach before the footman could even move to get the door open, hurrying into the shop at Number 36.
Scanning one of the display cases, he wondered what would be appropriate. He’d never bought jewelry for an expectant wife before. Necklace? Bracelet? Ear bobs? Brooch? All of the above? And with what gemstone?
“May I be of assistance, my lord?” Mr. Stedman wondered, stepping up to the counter where Milton’s attention was directed at a collection of necklaces displayed on black velvet.
When the earl looked up, a panicked expression on his face, one of Stedman’s eyebrows lifted. “Have you forgotten a special occasion, perhaps?” he asked, sotto voce. The jeweler noted the man’s nervousness. “Or, is there one about to occur?”
“Yes,” Milton replied with a quick nod of his head. Not knowing if Stedman could be trusted to keep a secret, Milton was trying to decide how to broach the subject of an appropriate gift.
“Does it involve your... wife?” Stedman ventured. He had to be careful—too many men of the ton purchased baubles for their mistresses—usually of better quality than the ones they purchased for their wives.
“Yes.”
Stedman nodded, pulling a tray of necklaces from another drawer. “Does she look better in blue or red?” he asked then, showing him a display of sapphire and ruby necklaces featuring his signature gold filigree chains and settings. He pulled out another tray, this one showing two rather ornate diamond necklaces. “Or white?”
Milton pondered the questions, thinking she looked her very best when she was wearing nothing at all.
Was there any reason he had to choose a color? Why not all of them?
“I’ll take one of each,” he announced, pointing in turn at one of each that he supposed would look especially lovely on his naked, expectant wife.
Mr. Stedman’s eyebrows lifted so they nearly joined his hairline. “Very good, my lord,” he answered with a nod, secretly wondering what momentous occasion could induce a gentleman to purchase three necklaces for his wife. Had the earl been caught with another woman? “Should I have them... delivered?”
His own brows furrowing, as if they had to even out Stedman’s still mighty high brows, Milton shook his head. “Heavens, no. I wish to give them to her tonight.”
“All of them, my lord?” the jeweler replied, obviously astonished by the earl’s proclamation.
“Yes. Of course. After dinner. Or maybe one during dinner, and one during dessert, and the other one after dinner.” He checked his Breguet. “Which is scheduled to start in fifteen minutes,” he said in a voice filled with enough warning that Mr. Stedman was motivated to move the selected necklaces into black velvet-lined boxes with great speed.
“Thank you,” the earl stated as he collected the three necklace boxes and headed for the door. “Wish me luck.”
Rathe
r happy to have made such a large sale, and to such an esteemed gentleman as the Earl of Torrington, the jeweler stared at the door to his shop for a long time after the earl had departed. “I might have wished him luck if he had actually paid for his purchases,” Stedman grumbled to the now empty shop. He took out a large sheet of parchment and prepared to complete a bill of sale to have sent to Worthington House.
Fifteen minutes later
Adele Torrington descended the central stairs in Worthington House, her shoulders pulled back and her head held as high as she dared. Glancing down, she was a bit dismayed to discover she couldn’t see the next step down. At least her lack of vision wasn’t due to her swelling abdomen, which wasn’t really that swollen.
Yet.
Her ample bosom was the culprit. Apparently Banks—she was still struggling to think of her lady’s maid having the same name as her husband’s valet—had tugged on her corset strings a bit more than usual. The swells of her breasts were mounded well above the neckline of her low-cut gown. The deep sapphire blue silk brought out the violet of her eyes and contrasted beautifully with her golden blonde hair, its streaks of gray indicating just the barest hint of her age. Her hair was caught up in an elegant coiffure featuring a series of curls across the front and a chignon in the back. Tiny sapphire ear bobs hung from her ears, bouncing against her neck as she took each step.
At the sound of the front door opening, she paused, hoping her husband had finally returned from White’s. He was late tonight—not especially so, but enough so that the flutterbies in Adele’s stomach had more time to fly about. After her walk with Clarinda, Countess of Norwick, earlier that morning, she had decided tonight was the night she would tell Milton her news.
She still hadn’t quite sorted how she would tell him, but she would.
The Christmas of a Countess (The Holidays of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 32
