by Jenn LeBlanc
“Quit playing games, you can’t be in debt to that many books,” the man growled.
Hepplewort stopped, his eyes wide. The respite from his panic was only momentary as understanding spread across his face, followed soon by terror. It wasn’t Roxleigh, but it wasn’t good.
“I— Yes, I dare say I’ve been forced to remain in the country. I was unable to return as I’d promised. My wedding, you see, it never did take place, which is why I didn’t return. It’s of no matter. I can make arrangements with Gunn himself while I’m here.”
“Yes, you will make arrangements with Gunn. In fact, you will be arranging things with Gunn at first light—you know where. And just to be sure, don’t forget that I’ll be watching. I knew you were here, I’ll know if you attempt to skip.”
Hepplewort nodded slowly, considering the toothy grin breaking across his intruder’s face. He was no gentleman. Regardless of his speech and carriage. The man moved toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a gruff chuckle before he walked calmly through the entry and out into the night.
Hepplewort moved as quickly as he could to the front window, but the man was gone before he reached it. He let out a relieved sigh. He wasn’t sure whether this was better or worse than being on the wrong side of the viscount and duke.
He would have to meet with Gunn, he would need to square things with him sufficiently so he could find a bride and get back to his estate before Roxleigh and Trumbull got wind of him here in London. He knew they had not filed their grievance with the House of Lords as yet, because he hadn’t been formally summoned. He assumed they would deal with it after Gideon’s wedding, when a scandal would be less threatening. He hoped so, anyway.
Hepplewort turned and left the parlor. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” the butler asked.
“No— Wait, yes. Have Cook send up a tray of cuts. No fruit, just cuts and sauce. Wine, too. Red.” A bit of drool collected on his lower lip.
The butler grimaced and nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Lilly.” Perry sing-songed her name through the open doors between their bedchambers. “Oh sweet, sweet Lilly, I have a present for you.”
Lilly stood from her dressing table, laying the brush aside as the sound of his sultry voice drifted to her ears. She smiled and turned.
“Yes, my lord,” she enunciated perfectly, singing sweetly as she glided through the bath chamber toward him.
She crossed the threshold alert and aware of her surroundings. She’d never set foot in here. He was accustomed to visiting her bed, or her bath, or her sitting room. She had not yet had occasion to enter his inner sanctum. The tall heavy drapes were open to the full moon, which glistened through the windows on a cloudless night. The sight took her breath away, as though the moon was drawn up just for their pleasure.
The draperies and thick rug on the floor were a blue so deep they absorbed the night, and the bed, which caught her eye easily as the centerpiece of his room, was draped in the same deep tones. The sheets were a softer, more subtle color, but also in blue, made from dreamy, wispy fabrics that rested carefully on the surface as though the slightest breeze would carry them away.
A heavy velvet counterpane anchored the sheets at the end of the massive structure, which appeared to be carved out of the deepest of burgundy-colored hardwood. There were no patterns in the tall, sturdy posts that reached close to the ceiling, but there were rings built into them, three to each post, one low, one high, and one midway. They accented the square design of the bedframe nicely. She moved closer and noted the enormous headboard, which also boasted several decorative rings.
A breeze drifted in from the open window and the sheets on the bed fluttered invitingly, begging for occupation, touch, enjoyment. She sighed, her eyes falling wide as she finally caught sight of his figure on the other side of the bed.
He felled the tent where he stood, becoming momentarily hidden from view.
She waited, her breath heavy, beads of perspiration running down her rigid spine.
He watched her from just out of sight.
She knew he was there in the shadows; she could feel his eyes grazing her, even though she couldn’t see him.
She shuddered, and he felt his stomach tighten as he saw her nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of her chemise. He groaned and she turned toward the sound, waiting patiently.
He heard the change in her breathing and waited for her to bolt, but she did not. He moved one hand to the post at the end of the bed and tapped it, the sturdy jingle of the rings drawing her gaze.
“What?” she asked as she lifted a ring with her finger.
“That, my sweet, is not a lesson for tonight. Tonight we’ll learn our letters.”
She shook her head and looked on him for the first time as more than a shadow, his large frame dwarfing her easily, naked as the moon hung in the sky before her. She gasped and turned away.
He chuckled and reached for her. “My innocent Lilly, are you ashamed by my body?”
“No,” she breathed.
He grasped her wrist gently in the circle of his fingers. “Well then, my dear, why won’t you look at me?”
“Oh, I— Oh my!” She exclaimed when she turned back and saw him in his full glory, lit now by the moonlight and the single candle in his hand. He glowed warmly, reflecting the glittering light, his body covered in painted symbols.
She stared boldly, inspecting the marks. “Is this what you have been doing through supper?”
He chuckled lowly, the circle painted around his belly button dancing. “Yes, my sweet, I couldn’t have help with this endeavor. I had to complete my work in solitude. I realize now my approach may have been off. Perhaps for our next lesson, you will do the honors?” He gave her a wry smile as he pulled her close.
She was mesmerized by the living, breathing words before her. She lightly traced the letters, sending a current through his already heated skin. She glanced up to see his smoldering eyes locked on her hand. His breath stilled, and his muscles tensed. She pulled her hand back, drawing a thick groan from him.
“I’ll never learn a thing this way.”
He grunted and pulled her to him, placing gentle kisses on the edges of her mouth until he felt her shift. He pulled her with him to the bed, crawling across toward the large headboard. He spread her out next to him and removed her chemise. Then he leaned over her, reaching for something on his side table.
“You should keep your eyes open for this,” he said.
She opened them slowly, not sure what to expect, then her breath hissed as she felt a cool, wet touch on her shoulder. She looked up to find him hovering over her with a paintbrush, tracing blue lines across her heated skin.
“A,” he said quietly.
“A,” she repeated.
“Find the A, my sweet.”
She glanced up into his face, confused, and shook her head quickly.
He retraced the letter on her shoulder.
She concentrated, then looking him over carefully with the candle, she found the A in much the same place where he had placed it on her. She smiled. “A,” she said proudly.
“A is the first letter in the word arm,” he said, then paused to trail kisses from her wrist to her elbow.
She gasped and pulled away, and he laughed, pushing her flat on her back beneath him. He swiped the brush through the cup of paint then reached for her again, straddling her thighs. Her face flushed and her nipples hardened as the brush lit on her smooth round breast, tracing one cool, wet loop above, then one around her budding nipple. The way she responded to him was simply magnificent.
Lilly wriggled, clutching his thighs. “Oh my, oh—oh my.” She looked to where the brush swept across her flesh. “What—oh—what letter is this?”
“You tell me, my sweet. If the A is upon your arm, what letter would lie here?”
“Upon my, ah, upon my breast.” Her voice wavered as she sounded out the letter B.
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br /> Perry smiled. “Yes, my sweet Lilly, B is the letter I have written upon your shapely breast.”
She stared at the center of his chest. “What’s this? ‘Tis a full word.”
“Yes, above my heart there lies a word, which we will return to in due time.” He dipped the paintbrush, then shifted lower across her knees and left a mark on her thigh.
She traced the matching one on his. “Leg?” she asked tentatively.
He beamed. “Yes, leg, the first letter being L.”
She glanced back to the word over his heart. “L,” she said quietly. “L, leg, la la, Lilly,” she breathed, tracing the letters across his heart. “It says Lilly.”
Her breath hitched, and she placed her hand full over his heart, over her name.
He leaned down and kissed her. “Yes, sweet, that is your name, just where it should be.”
“Put your name on me, show me your name.”
He sat back slowly. “Where would you have it, sweet? Where would you have my name on you?”
“Just the same, Perry,” she said, staring into his eyes.
His hand trembled as he painted his name across her breast.
She touched it, feeling the wetness, and pulled her hand back, looking at the letters transposed across her palm. She pressed it to his abdomen, below her name.
“Perry, Perry, forever on my heart. Forever.” She studied the shapes. “What letter is this?” She traced the first.
“You have jumped ahead of your lesson. I had so much more planned to teach you. That, my sweet, would be the letter P. What else begins with the letter P?” he asked with a wicked grin.
She smoothed her hands over his muscles and down his figure, quietly naming his unnameables until she reached his thighs. Between them she found her letter. Her perfectly formed mouth dropped into the most precious little O and he smiled. Placing the brush in the paint cup on the side table, he pulled her up to sit before him as he remained straddling her thighs. His lips burned into hers, searing her mouth with the heat of his passion.
Surprised by the heat, her mouth fell open and he took advantage, sweeping boldly through her as he held her tightly to his chest.
Her fingers searched, reaching for him bravely, and found.
He gasped and leaned back on his heels, shaking his head with a deep chuckle. “There is so much for you to learn,” he said gruffly.
Her smile beamed and she reached for the candle, twisting her legs and unseating him. He landed on his back and she loomed over him with the light, looking for unknown letters. She rested just above him, holding the candle close to see the slightly smudged letter encircling his bellybutton.
“This isn’t a B,” she said. “This has just the one circle.”
“Yes, and what sound does your mouth make when it makes that shape?”
“Oh,” she said, tracing her lips. “Oh?”
He smiled and nodded, then his stomach shook softly with laughter, bouncing the candle in her hand and spilling hot wax across his abdomen and into his belly button. He hissed at the shock, then glanced up as his jaw dropped. “Oh!”
“Oh!” she repeated, then leaned over to blow gently across his skin, hardening the wax before reaching out and peeling the trickle away from his stomach, lifting it from the indentation. She turned the long waxen thread over in her hand, examining the smooth side that had rested against his skin, the thick side where the wax had flowed, then the little cone of wax where it had filled him. She blew lightly across it, hardening it further as he watched, his eyes darkening in passion.
She placed the candle and the wax on the side table and reached for the paint cup and brush. She swept the paintbrush across his abdomen, cooling the thin red welt.
Perry groaned and shifted. She traced her name across his heart, saying it carefully, then painted it again with a shaky hand. “And this letter, what is this?” she asked, as her hand skimmed the letter around his nipple.
He choked out, “I’ve no breasts as you do, my sweet.”
“Chest,” she whispered.
“The letter you seek is C.”
She smoothed over it again. “C,” she whispered. “And this?” She followed a staggered letter. He swallowed beneath her brush. “Na, na, neck.”
He nodded and she laughed, the paintbrush streaking his chin.
“Oh!”
“No,” he said quietly. “N, for neck. Where was O?”
“O was here,” she said, tracing it yet again. She shifted, looking at him with a twinkle in her eye. “And P—”
She cried out as he seized her wrists, the paint spilling over his abdomen, his muscles clenching.
He could no longer stand her attentions. “This was a mistake,” he growled.
“Oh, no. No, please don’t say that.”
He smiled up at her, then pulled her across his paint-streaked belly.
She slid up his torso, gliding on the wet splash of paint, laughing until he kissed her and captured the sweet sound between them.
He pushed his hands into her hair and held her right where he wanted her, just within reach. He spent the rest of the night teaching her letters, making it all the way to Q—for quiver.
Hepplewort left early, heading to Lower Queen Street on the Limehouse Reach, near the commercial docks. Mr. Gunn could be found every morning breaking his fast in an old pub house frequented by wharf-rats and sailors. The sign outside the pub dangled askew, the painted-on name long washed away with the weather. It was known as Queen’s Pub and the owner never argued; as long as the patrons made their way in the door, he couldn’t be bothered what his pub was called.
Hepplewort stumbled through the door, tripping on a loose piece of flashing meant to keep out the weather. Cursing, his gaze fell on Gunn, a lithe, dark man propped in the corner against a buxom woman. Hepplewort startled when he was prodded from behind, pushed farther into the pub. He turned to find the gentleman from the previous evening leaning jauntily on a cane.
“Humph,” he said as he turned and walked toward Gunn. “Mr. Gunn,” he said, grumpily sidling up to the table, “I am here to make arrangements for recompense as requested.”
Gunn looked up, chewing a piece of ham as he considered the squat disrupter. “You disappeared,” he grumbled. “You were to return straight from the wedding and make your reparations.”
“I understand, Mr. Gunn. I do beg your pardon. Had bit of a tiff with an angry duke, you see. Lost my betrothed, but I am back in London to find another. Then I’m off to the estate before someone discovers.”
“This someone you’re hiding from, mightn’t that be the angry duke?”
Hepplewort shifted uncomfortably. “One and the same, Mr. Gunn. Now, as you see, I have a schedule, and it is necessary that I get about my business and return to the country as soon as is possible. Let’s get on about this, shall we?”
Gunn watched him.
“I have rooms on Talbot Square, off Oxford Street, as you apparently already know.” Hepplewort glanced at the other gentleman. “I’ve no longer a need to be in the ton, and so would part with them. The rooms are easily worth more than your note on me. I will sign them to you the day I leave.”
“You will sign them to me now, or not at all.”
“Mr. Gunn, you do understand I have need for the rooms until I procure a bride and retire to the country? I also need to arrange to move the household items and—”
“You will sign the deed to me now. You may remain in the house until you remove to Shropshire. How long do you need?”
“I am unsure—merely as long as it takes to find a bride. If you are game to help, the sooner I’ll quit London.”
Mr. Gunn smiled wickedly. “I suppose you have requirements for this bride?”
Hepplewort nodded, wary of his new partner. “She must be chaste. And demure. I require a lady in bearing and upbringing. Nothing else will suit.”
“You expect to fetch a highborn chit?” Gunn asked skeptically.
Hepplewort’s eyes b
ulged. “I beg your pardon? I carry an earldom. Any well-bred lady would be honored to accept my suit and be my countess. The mother of the future Earl of Shropshire is a very tempting position, if I don’t say so myself.”
The other two men stared in shock and disgust. “You’ve quite the work cut out for you, Calder,” Gunn said with a smile at the second gentleman.
Calder shifted his gaze from Hepplewort to Gunn and back again. His expression of shock deepened gradually until anger overtook him.
Gunn’s shoulders shook with laughter. “You had better get yourself busy. You have balls to attend, invitations to accept.”
Calder’s eyes narrowed on Gunn, then he turned for the door, rapping his cane on the floor as he strode out. “Hepplewort!” he yelled from just outside the door.
Hepplewort jumped, then ran as fast as his pudgy little legs would carry him.
“There can be no doubt about who he is and what he is here for,” the rumbling voice said.
Lilly stopped at the top of the stairs and went perfectly still.
“I can’t believe he has the gall to show his face in London, after what we told him. After what happened.” This came from Perry.
Lilly’s heart stuttered and she sank to the top stair. “It’s him,” she whispered, her hand coming up to her mouth.
Perry felt her presence before he turned, hushing the gentleman with him. He saw her sitting at the top of the staircase, and his own heart skipped a pace at her pallor. “Lilly, sweet, are you ready to break your fast?” he asked casually, attempting a change of subject. It was obvious from her shocked expression that she’d heard at least some of their discussion.
“Don’t.” She pointed at him.
Perry glanced at the gentleman, then walked slowly toward the stairs. “Lilly, I—”
“It’s him, isn’t it? You are talking about him. The man who ruined me, who tried to kill me. The man who thought he had succeeded.”
“Lilly—”
“Don’t you dare, my lord Trumbull. Tell me the truth, or I will walk from this town house and never look back,” she said severely.
