A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  Jemima nodded. “Lord Burhill has asked that I take on some duties in his quarters, from five o’clock. He said he would tell you himself, but I thought I should, as I am here.”

  “Aye, that’ll be no bother to me, lad. Once news gets round of Harry, everyone’ll be flighty, so it’s probably best he’s got you under his care. Good man is Lord Burhill. One of the best.”

  “I do not know much of him,” Jemima admitted. She only knew what the gossipmongers had spread amongst the social elite, and they were often unkind in their judgments.

  “He’s got a sailor’s heart. Salt of the earth type of fella.” Ben smiled. “And I’m mighty glad he saved you from Harry. He was always a wrong’un. Odd tendencies. I should’ve known to keep a better eye on things.”

  Jemima shook her head. “It is not your fault, Ben. You have been nothing but kind and generous to me. I am only sorry that I did not keep my wits about me, for it would never have come to pass if I had.”

  “Nonsense, lad. Harry would’ve found a way. Bad sort, through and through. We can all rest a little easier, knowin’ he’s in the brig, where he ought to be.” Ben clinked his cup against Jemima’s. “Now, what d’you say we get started on them spuds? Take yer mind off things?”

  Jemima smiled. “That sounds like a superb idea.”

  * * *

  After finishing her day’s work, and preparing a tray of food for Lord Burhill, Jemima left the galley and headed back towards the Captain’s quarters. A few of the sailors offered her sympathetic glances as she passed, the news of Harry having spread like wildfire. It comforted her, to know she had their support, but she was still glad she no longer had to sleep below decks. Harry still had friends amongst the crew, and she did not trust them not to seek vengeance on his behalf.

  However, between Ben and Lord Burhill, she felt suitably protected from any errant acts of revenge. Ben had already said, several times, that he would take his cleaver to anyone who tried to hurt her again. She had appreciated the sentiment, but not quite the violent nature of it.

  Letting herself into the Captain’s quarters, she found Lord Burhill sitting at the long, worn table closest to the door. He was sifting through a formidable pile of papers and seemed to be engrossed in their contents. He lifted his head as she entered, a warm smile spreading across his lips as he saw her.

  Her stomach fluttered without warning, though she did not understand the sensation. Am I unwell? She did not feel poorly, but she had no other explanation for the sudden feeling.

  “I have brought your dinner, My Lord.” Jemima set the tray on the table in front of him, careful to keep it away from his paperwork.

  “Might you join me?” Lord Burhill replied.

  Jemima hesitated. “I have already dined, My Lord.”

  “Goodness, when you speak, it reminds me of the rather dull dinner parties my father forced me to attend.” He paused, realizing what he had said. “Not that you are remotely dull, Barton. I simply mean your tone is very reminiscent of the upper echelons, and I have been away from their company for some time.”

  She smiled. “I understand, My Lord.”

  “Then, will you accompany me whilst I dine? I do so hate to eat alone, and Captain McMorrow is otherwise engaged, since we are to sail on the dawn tide. I also believe, and you are not to tell him this, that he may have imbibed to excess last night.”

  Jemima recalled seeing him on the wharf and embracing a friend in front of one of the quaint tavernas. Judging by their bawdy exchange, she did not doubt that he may have been feeling somewhat fragile that day. Although, she did not say so to Lord Burhill, for she did not feel it was her place to cast judgement.

  “I suppose I may sit with you, My Lord.”

  “Then do so, please.” Lord Burhill gestured to the seat opposite.

  Awkwardly, Jemima took her place, and watched as Lord Burhill dined upon the rich, spiced beef stew that she had prepared for him. Learning to cook had been something of a revelation for her, and she had been more than surprised to find that she actually enjoyed the process. Then again, she had Ben as her mentor, who was as patient as he was skilled.

  “What are all of these papers, My Lord?” Jemima did not like the silence much, seeking to break it with polite conversation.

  Lord Burhill pulled a weary face. “They are inventories, from the products we have purchased to trade. I have acquired several cases of port, both ruby and tawny, to return to England. And there is a great deal more to come, before we go back.”

  “Silks and spices, yes?”

  “Very perceptive.” He frowned at her. “Do you read, Barton?”

  She nodded. “I do.”

  “And you can write?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “That is unusual for a sailor,” he mused.

  Jemima’s heart gripped. “My father taught me. He thought I might find it useful.”

  “Yes…very useful, indeed.” He paused. “I may even have you cast your glance over these, once I am finished dining. It will take me forever to work through them alone, and I can always use an assistant.”

  “I should be happy to help, My Lord. Although, in all honesty, I do not know much about trade.”

  He laughed. “Nor would I expect you to! Fear not, I will only need you to make sure there are no errors. These papers with the star on the top should match with these with the single line in the corner. As long as they are paired, without mistakes, that is all I require.”

  Jemima relaxed. “That I can do, My Lord.”

  As he returned to his feast, Jemima found herself watching him more closely. He was more handsome in the bronzed glow of the daylight, shining in through the windows. Indeed, the hazy light seemed to cast a halo of sorts around his head, illuminating the golden strands in his amber hair. And his unusual eyes appeared almost gilded, as she looked upon them.

  Yes, he was very handsome indeed.

  What on earth has come over me? She scolded herself inwardly for fixating upon the gentleman. After all, he would never look upon her as anything other than a slightly feminine young man, whom he had saved from an atrocious encounter. If he did look upon her as anything else, that would be cause for concern.

  And yet, she could not help but gaze at him as he ate. There was an aura about him that invited the eye and held onto the heart. Here, in person, he was a world away from the selfish oddity that the gossipmongers had painted him to be. He was warm, and kind, and humorous, with an easy smile and strong sense of justice. Even if he had not been so handsome, Jemima felt she would have been drawn to him, regardless.

  Then again, she had grown into womanhood with a distinct lack of charming gentlemen around her. Perhaps that was what made him so intriguing. By encountering him as Andrew Barton, Lord Burhill was free to be himself, in a way he would not have been if she had been introduced as Lady Jemima. And, in a strange way, she was grateful for that. For, now, she got to see him without any pesky etiquette getting in the way.

  “Do I have something on my face, Barton?”

  Jemima snapped out of her reverie and realized she had been staring. “A few crumbs, My Lord.”

  He dabbed his mouth with the edge of a serviette. “Better?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Now I really do feel as though I am at one of those tiresome dinner parties.” He laughed heartily, as he washed his dinner down with a large swig of wine. “Have you ever attended one of those tedious affairs, Barton?”

  Jemima nodded. “On several occasions, My Lord.”

  “And how did you find them?”

  Jemima grinned. “Very tiresome, indeed.”

  “Glad to hear it!” Lord Burhill smiled back at her, his golden eyes glittering with merriment.

  It thrilled her to be able to speak so freely with Lord Burhill, and to have him speak freely in return. She had never known liberation like it, unbound by the trappings of polite society and the rules that came with it. Here, she could be the version of herself that she had a
lways longed to be. Although, she wished she did not have to masquerade as a young man in order to achieve it.

  They spent the next few hours in companionable conversation, looking through the inventories and ensuring that everything was present and correct for the next legs in their voyage. Though she had no experience in the subject of trading, she found the topic rather interesting, as she delved deeper into it. Plus, Lord Burhill’s presence, and his enthusiasm, made it all the more intriguing.

  Despite her attempts to scold herself into not gazing upon Lord Burhill, she found it increasingly difficult, given their proximity to one another. In all her life, she had never been so close to a gentleman without a chaperone present. Even then, she had not much cared for their company. But Lord Burhill was different. His company was easy and good-natured, with no airs and graces.

  In truth, she began to wonder if her warmth towards him was simply due to the fact that he had come to her aid, in her very darkest hour of need. It was the only reason she could conjure up, though it did not prevent her from watching his lips as he spoke, and admiring the soft, plump shape of them.

  What would they feel like, pressed to mine? She dropped her gaze immediately, instantly believing that she had somehow caught the madness that Ben had spoken of. This sort of behavior was so unlike her. And yet, she continued to wonder what his lips would feel like, pressed to hers.

  “Barton?” Lord Burhill nudged her gently. “Am I boring you?”

  Jemima shook her head. “No, My Lord. I apologize, it has been a rather trying day, all in all.”

  “Of course, forgive me,” he replied softly. “I had almost forgotten the reason I invited you to remain in these quarters. You must think me a terrible sort, not to ask how you are faring?”

  “Not at all, My Lord. I had quite forgotten myself—these inventories are certainly distracting.” As are your lips…You must desist!

  “You did not answer my question.” He turned to her. “How are you faring?”

  She shrugged. “I am as can be expected. It is a comfort to know that Harry is locked away, and that is all I may ask for.”

  “You are a brave soul, Barton. Far braver than I should be, in your position.”

  “I do what I must,” she said quietly.

  “Still, I find your courage remarkable. I mean it. There are far larger, stronger gentlemen who would crumble under the same circumstances.”

  Jemima smiled. “Then, perhaps there is a benefit in being slight and small.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, perhaps.” He stretched out, revealing the outline of taut muscle beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Jemima looked away immediately, feeling flushed. “Now, I should very much like that bath, if you would do me the courtesy? You were quite right about that soreness in my neck. I have been trying to resolve it all day, to no avail.”

  “Yes…yes, of course, My Lord.” Jemima rose from her chair, flustered. She had hoped this moment would not come, for she did not know what to do. However, she could not reveal her ineptitude, for he would surely find it suspicious.

  He stood, too. “Very good, then I will expect it in my bedchamber shortly. Again, if you require any assistance, you may speak with Brockmire.”

  “How is he?” Jemima was eager to purchase more time.

  “A pleurisy of the lungs, though I am grateful it is not a contagion. Dr. Simkins has assured me that it will not spread, but Brockmire shall be restricted to his bedchamber until he is fully himself again. He will not mind the intrusion, though. He will make himself quite mad, alone in that room, I am quite certain of it.” He smiled and crossed the room, heading into his bedchamber and leaving Jemima in a state of panic.

  How am I to do this without giving my identity away? Truthfully, she had no clue.

  Chapter 19

  Simon looked up as Barton entered with the last of the water for his bath. He had felt lethargic all day, made worse by the incessant twinge in the side of his neck. He had not remembered falling asleep in the armchair the previous night, but warm Port tended to have that effect upon him. And now he was suffering for it, but it was nothing a hot bath could not resolve.

  He had watched Barton go about the task of filling his bath in a rather curious manner, though he had not intervened. It was something his father had taught him, many years ago—You must let a person figure something out by themselves, or else they shall never learn. Simon supposed his father had not intended for him to figure out the merchant trade by himself, but that did not matter now. His father was not here to see any of his success. Nor would he have been particularly congratulatory if he had been.

  They had shared a somewhat tense relationship, which had not lessened towards the end of his father’s life. Even then, he had continued to bombard Simon with words of judgement and disappointment, forever letting Simon know that he had not quite been the son that his father had wanted.

  Simon supposed that was what had led him to this life in the first place, for he had never felt as though he belonged in the upper echelons of society. And so, he had shunned it all—balls, soirées, dinner parties, all of it. And had become much happier for it, even though he knew he could not wholly abandon his duties forever. At one point, he would have to settle down into a more domestic existence…but not yet. There was still plenty of time for that, or so he hoped.

  “It is done,” Barton said, perspiring profusely from the effort. Simon had to wonder if Brockmire had instructed him incorrectly, on purpose, as a means of maintaining his position, despite his illness. Nevertheless, a bath had been drawn, and it looked to be a pleasant one.

  “Thank you, Barton.” To his surprise, Simon had found that he had rather enjoyed the company of the strange young man. He was quick to learn and had an excellent eye for detail. Truly, he knew he would still be toiling away at those inventories if it had not been for Barton’s sharp mind.

  It had begun as a feeling of duty towards the boy, after what had happened to him with Harry, but now Simon was beginning to wonder if Barton might actually make an excellent manservant. He had the potential to be a good companion, with a skill for easy conversation and an amusing sense of humor. He supposed he would discover with time, though he could not deny that he liked having the boy around.

  He crossed the room to the tin bath and began to remove his clothes. Ordinarily, that would be done by a manservant, but it was an aspect of such a relationship that he had never been fond of. And so, he preferred to do it himself. He let his shirt drop to the floor and began to unbutton his trousers. Barton, meanwhile, was holding the bath sheet up so high that it covered his face entirely.

  He must be shy. Simon could understand that and did not seek to point it out as he shed the rest of his clothes and stepped into the draped tub. Sinking down into the hot water, he let out a sigh of relief, the comforting liquid enveloping him in a luxurious embrace.

  “Do you enjoy a bath, Barton?” he asked, as he closed his eyes in pleasure.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Barton stammered in reply.

  My goodness, he really must be shy.

  * * *

  Jemima did not know where to look, her face turning a worrying shade of scarlet. She had not been able to turn away when Lord Burhill had removed his shirt, to reveal a broad, muscular torso. In all her life, she had never seen so much bare skin. To her eyes, it looked as though he had been carved into life, instead of coming into the world the natural way. However, she had immediately averted her gaze when his focus had turned to his trousers.

  Now, he was lounging in the tub, casually soaking away the grime of the day. Taking a sodden cloth, he proceeded to draw it across his muscular limbs, cleansing himself of any sins that might be lingering upon his dewy, wet skin. Jemima had never seen anything more beautiful, though she was cautious to stay behind him, so that his upper body blocked her from seeing anything she should not.

  “Might you wash my back for me, Barton?” Lord Burhill asked, holding out the cloth.

  Jemima balled he
r hands into fists, absolutely mortified. “Certainly, My Lord.”

  Taking the proffered cloth, she approached as Lord Burhill leaned forwards in the water, hugging his knees to his chin. Kneeling behind the tin bath, she paused for a moment, cloth in hand. She knew she could tell the truth right then and spare herself the embarrassment of washing him. But, if she did that, he would send her straight back to England. No matter how flustered she was, she could not allow that.

  Steeling herself, she began to smooth the cloth across the contours of his back, admiring the flex of lean muscle as he moved. Soon enough, she began to relax into it, sweeping the cloth in circular motions to ensure that all the dirt and perspiration was sloughed away. Her maids had done the same for her, back home at Cowden Manor. Now, she began to have a greater respect for the work they had done for her.