Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  After pouring himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot, he took a seat at the table and grinned at both women. “Now how could his lordship go off and leave a pair of beautiful ladies like you all alone? Surely, he knows that you’d be a tempting armful for any marauder that might wander by?”

  “I think you forget that I am increasing,” Emily said, grinning back at him.

  “Yes, and very nicely, too,” Simon murmured outrageously. Both Emily and Cornelia burst out laughing. Cornelia tapped him on the wrist with her spoon. “I see that your behavior has not improved since the last time we saw you.” There was no censure in her voice, only fond amusement. “But enough of this nonsense. Why are you here? Will you be staying long?”

  “Actually,” Simon began, “I won’t be staying here at all.” At Emily’s and Cornelia’s look of surprise, he added hastily, “Not that I wouldn’t prefer to do so, but I am here with Lord Padgett and William Stanton. Padgett is interested in some horses that Lord Broadfoot has for sale; the three of us are staying at a small property nearby that Stanton inherited recently from his great-grandmother.” At Emily’s raised brow, he added wryly, “I know, I know. Broadfoot is the last person to buy a horse from, but Padgett is keen on a stallion that Broadfoot wishes to sell. We’re to meet with him at Broad View tomorrow afternoon.”

  Emily frowned. “Padgett and Stanton? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you mention them before. Are they particular friends of yours?”

  Simon made a face and shook his head. “Padgett and Stanton aren’t exactly the sort of gentlemen I want to be friends with—or that I’d introduce you to—and let’s leave it at that. I know Padgett, but not well—he was more Tom’s friend than mine.” He looked thoughtful, saying, “I’ll admit the invitation surprised me and initially I declined—I didn’t want to leave Mathew alone at Monks Abbey.” He grimaced. “But Mathew has been in such a surly mood this past week, I decided I’d better vacate Monks Abbey before one of us tried to kill the other.”

  Her features concerned, Emily said, “Poor Mathew! I cannot be sorry for Thomas’s death, he would have murdered Barnaby and Lamb after all, but I am very sorry that Mathew hasn’t come to accept that what happened was not his fault.”

  Simon nodded, his eyes bleak. “There are days he realizes that, but there are times ...”

  He sighed. “There are times when he is best left alone.”

  “Hmmm. Aren’t Padgett and Stanton also friends with Miles St. John?” Cornelia asked abruptly.

  Surprised, Simon said, “Yes. Padgett, Stanton, St. John and, to some extent, Canfield were all members of Tom’s London set.”

  Cornelia had a wide circle of friends that she kept in touch with by letter and hearing those names, she frowned. “Not one of them a person I’d be happy to see cross my threshold,” she muttered. “Welbourne’s whelp, Canfield, is the worst of the lot—he was at High Tower, but apparently a few days ago he took up residence at The Ram’s Head.”

  “How do you know that?” Emily asked, puzzled.

  Cornelia waved a dismissing hand. “Walker was at The Crown last night and Mrs. Gilbert told him. He mentioned it to Agatha and she told me.”

  “Of course, nothing gets by Mrs. Gilbert,” Emily said ruefully. Agatha Colby had been Cornelia’s maid for decades, and the relationship between the two was close—anything Agatha knew, Cornelia knew and usually within minutes of Agatha learning of it.

  “Well, I can’t say that I’m happy to learn that,” Simon admitted. “Padgett and Stanton are tolerable, but Canfield ...” He grinned at Emily. “I may end up begging you for a place to lay my head, after all.”

  “Serves you right for accepting the invitation in the first place,” retorted Cornelia. Frowning, she said, “Padgett’s invitation is odd, though. I wonder why he invited you along.”

  “Apparently, Padgett hasn’t ever been personally introduced to Lord Broadfoot, and since it’s well known that the Joslyn family and the Broadfoot family are friends and neighbors, Padgett thought that my presence would ease any constraints that might arise between virtual strangers.”

  Cornelia nodded. “Lord Broadfoot is normally a genial gentleman, but having a stranger like Padgett come on too strong could put his back up. Padgett was wise to invite you along.”

  For several moments the conversation was general, and having finished his coffee, Simon rose to his feet. “Ladies, I must be off.” His eyes danced. “I must go and prevent Padgett from buying a three-legged wonder from Broadfoot. Or is it a wind-broken, tied-at-the-knees pacer?”

  “You’ll come to dine one night while you’re in the area, won’t you?” Emily begged.

  “Be assured of it,” he replied. “Now where can I find Barnaby and Luc? It would be rude of me not to say hello to either one of them.”

  Simon was disappointed that he had missed Barnaby, but the news that Luc was now the proud owner of Ramstone Manor delighted him. A smile spread across his face. “By Jupiter! This is excellent news.” He shook his head. “During the Season, London was all agog at the devilish luck of Lucifer Joslyn. I heard that one member of the peerage who should have known better left vowels lying on the table amounting to over thirty thousand pounds. Looks like Luc is investing his winnings wisely.” He laughed. “I suppose next you’ll tell me he’s hanging out for a wife.”

  Already on his way out the door, Simon didn’t see the look the two ladies exchanged. The door shut behind him and Cornelia said, “Now, where were we?”

  Emily grinned. “Planning to call upon Mrs. Dashwood next week.”

  Unaware of the interest of the ladies of Windmere, Gillian and Sophia were settling in at High Tower. Stanley’s determination to put his best foot forward and the absence of Lord George Canfield made the process enjoyable. Of course, Uncle Silas was a dear, and Gillian berated herself daily for not having accepted his many invitations to visit in the years since Charles had been murdered.

  She’d had her reservations about living at High Tower—she’d run her household without any male interference of any sort since Charles’s death, and she’d feared that living with Uncle Silas might be very different from visiting with him. To her gratification, Silas was as kind and considerate as always.

  It was difficult for her after being married to Charles not to harbor the suspicion that behind a man’s smiling façade a monster hid. Not, she admitted hastily, that she’d worried her uncle would suddenly turn into a tyrant. In fact, he was entirely the opposite, telling both women that since they were the women of the house now, that he was turning over the reins of the household to them. His eyes twinkling, he’d added, “This has been a bachelor household for too long, and while my housekeeper, Mrs. Amerson, has always done an excellent job, I think she’ll be happier with a feminine hand at the helm. Meacham, of course, is already at your feet.”

  And just that easily, Gillian and Sophia found themselves running the household at High Tower. To Gillian’s surprise, Stanley made no objections. In fact, there was much about Stanley these days that surprised her.

  With Canfield gone, other than a friendly hand or two of cards and a snifter of brandy with Silas, Stanley no longer spent his nights gambling and drinking at the tavern in the village. Even more astonishing, her half brother appeared to be absorbed in learning as much as he could about the running of the estate and lifting that burden from his uncle. Some suspicion and curiosity about his motives remained, but both she and Mrs. Easley thought that his actions were sincere.

  Happier than she had been for a very long time, Gillian woke each morning looking forward to the day. It was only her nights that were troublesome—vivid, disturbing dreams of Luc Joslyn brought her awake with her body aching and burning with elemental needs she’d never thought to feel again. Telling herself that she was a fool to give him more than a second’s thought did no good, nor no matter how often she scolded herself did it have any effect on those explicit dreams. Night after night, Luc came to her in dreams, his azure eyes glitteri
ng with desire and a carnal curve to his lips. Those same lips that in her dreams caressed her cheek before sliding warmly to find her mouth, kissing her deeply with a rough passion that swelled her nipples and sent desire spiraling through her.

  After another night spent tossing restlessly in bed, her body desperate to feel one man’s touch, she stared grimly at herself in the mirror on Thursday morning. Hardly aware of what she did, Gillian brushed her hair and tied the sable curls at the base of her neck with a bronze-green silk ribbon, her thoughts on those agitating dreams. What was wrong with her? She had no business entertaining lewd dreams about Luc Joslyn. His similarities to her husband should have sent her fleeing, but did they? No. She dreamed of him, dreamed of that sensuous mouth moving over her lips, her throat, her breasts, and she woke longing to feel his naked flesh sliding against hers.

  Remnants of those dreams taunting her, Gillian swallowed as she stared into the mirror, painfully aware of the throbbing of her breasts beneath the modest bodice of her cinnamon wool gown and the heavy moisture pooling between her thighs. If dreams affected her thus, she thought acidly, heaven help her if she was ever alone with him again—if he kissed her as he had done that night in the garden, she’d not deny him ... anything.

  She closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of her own eager half-parted mouth at just the idea of Luc kissing her. I am a respectable woman, she reminded herself fiercely, and no silly virgin to be swept off my feet by an attractive male. Her eyes opened and she made a face in the mirror. She’d already let one man with a handsome face and charming manner dazzle her, and look where that had led; marriage to a man who had gambled away her money and traded her body for his vowels. Thinking of that terrible night, of the look in Winthrop’s eyes, she shuddered. No. She’d not be taken in again. She was old enough, she told herself, and wise enough to avoid the dangerous appeal of someone like Luc Joslyn. But if she was, whispered a sly voice, why couldn’t she put him out of her mind?

  Nan Burton bustled into the room and, seeing Gillian sitting at her dressing table, said, “Mrs. Easley is in the breakfast room and is waiting for you to join her. Shall I tell her you’ll be down in a few minutes?”

  Gillian rose to her feet and after one critical glance of herself in the mirror shook her head. “That won’t be necessary. I’m on my way.”

  Since Stanley and Silas tended not to be early risers, as often happened, Gillian and Sophia had the breakfast room all to themselves. Helping herself to a cup of coffee, a piece of toast and a small serving of scrambled eggs from the buffet, Gillian took a seat across from Sophia.

  There was the normal morning chatter between the two ladies until Sophia said in her usual brisk manner, “I suggest that we go through that last trunk from the cottage this morning, what do you think?”

  Over the past few weeks their belongings had been unpacked and put away, but there was one remaining trunk still to be gone through. The majority of the furniture from the cottage held no great sentimental value for either woman and the largest pieces had been left behind, leaving only clothing and personal items to be transported to High Tower.

  Since others had overseen the dismantling of the household and the packing of their belongings, the ladies had discovered a few things that had been sent along that could just as well been given to the rag man—or thrown away. One day last week, watching Nan shake out the faded and patched blue gown she’d worn to weed the garden, Gillian laughed and said, “Surely that garment could have been left behind? I doubt I would ever wear it again and certainly not here.”

  “Indeed, and these along with it,” said Sophia, viewing with disfavor the old shoes she’d worn to gather eggs from the henhouse. “I’m sure that our uncle will not expect us to pick eggs or pluck weeds from between the vegetables.”

  Gillian had not been left destitute by Charles’s death, but the past two years had not been pleasant. Except for the cottage and a small annuity, there had been little else in Charles’s estate and Gillian had learned quickly how to make every penny count. There’d not been enough to keep on the staff that Charles had felt was necessary for his consequence, and except for Nan and her two sons, fourteen-year-old James and sixteen-year-old John, all of the other servants had been let go. His horses, vehicles and the London flat had been sold to cover his gambling debts, and there’d barely been enough to cover them. She shuddered. If Winthrop had presented the vowels Charles had given him ...

  Pushing aside the gloomy thought, Gillian glanced around her. It was a charming room in which she sat, the walls covered in gold-flecked cream wallpaper, an oak buffet littered with pewter trays and silver covered dishes was against one wall and a thick wool rug woven in shades of blue, gold and ivory lay upon the floor. She shook her head. While the cottage had been a pleasant home for a gentleman of moderate means, it bore little resemblance to the luxury of High Tower, and she found the change in her circumstances breathtaking. Only a few weeks ago she’d been worried about the root vegetables stored in the cellar and if there was enough grain and hay in the barn to feed the chickens, cow and sow over the winter, while today ... she glanced around the room once more and smiled.

  Setting down her cup of coffee, Gillian said ruefully, “Realizing how different our lives are now, I wonder if I shouldn’t thank Canfield for trying to blackmail me.”

  Sophia snorted. “You hardly need to go that far,” she said. “All things considered, I suspect that we would have ended up at High Tower even without his machinations, but it most likely wouldn’t have happened so swiftly.”

  “I cannot argue with you about that,” Gillian said. “It was always troublesome knowing that Uncle had only servants to look after him—or question his absence. When I think of what could have happened the night Uncle Silas broke his arm if Mr. Joslyn had not come across him, and I see how happy he is that we agreed to live with him, I cannot regret our decision—even if Canfield precipitated it.”

  Sophia eyed her slyly. “And what of the handsome Mr. Lucian Joslyn? What part does he play in your having no regrets?”

  Gillian stared tongue-tied at her cousin. Her cheeks flaming, she finally managed, “Thoughts of Mr. Joslyn never cross my mind.”

  “What a rapper,” said Sophia and when Gillian would protest, she added, “But I won’t tease you. After you finish your coffee, let us go see what delights await us in that trunk.”

  On that same Thursday morning, Simon woke shortly after the conversation between Gillian and Sophia with his mouth tasting like the bottom of a swine pen. He’d had his reservations about accepting Padgett’s invitation, and after last night’s trip to The Ram’s Head, the reasons for his reservations had been confirmed. Padgett and Stanton were definitely not men he wished to call friends. He held the same opinion of that insufferable Canfield, and as for Townsend ... His lips thinned. Townsend might be Emily’s cousin, but the man was a fawning weasel, and if he had to spend another night in the company of any one of those four men, he’d be hanged for murder.

  Not eager to rise, he lay there staring into space, his thoughts on the previous day ... and night. The day had been pleasant enough. The introduction to Broadfoot had gone well. He grinned. And for once his lordship actually had a decent animal for sale. The bay stallion was nearly everything Broadfoot had claimed the horse to be, and a deal was quickly struck. By the time they left Broad View for Stanton’s house in the late afternoon, Padgett was the new owner of prancing bay stallion.

  And after that I should have bolted for Windmere, Simon reflected sourly. There had been no reason for him to stay another night at Stanton’s place or to accompany Padgett and Stanton to The Ram’s Head last night, but for reasons that escaped him, he had.

  He frowned, thinking about last night. It had been ... interesting. Not the drinking or the ruinous gambling, he’d seen that in London often enough to be inured to it, but the relationship between the four men ... and Nolles had caught his attention.

  Canfield had been clearly surprised to see
Padgett and Stanton, but Simon had the impression that Townsend and Nolles had been expecting the other two men. Now how was it, he wondered as he lay there, that Townsend and Nolles appeared to have been aware of Padgett and Stanton’s arrival in the area, but Canfield had not?

  His frown deepened. Though Padgett and Nolles acted as if meeting for the first time, Simon couldn’t shake the feeling that they knew each other very well, which led him to consider the common denominator between two such divergent individuals: Tom Joslyn.

  He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were leading him. His brother Tom may have been Nolles’s main backer, but that didn’t mean that his brother had been the only one to press money into Nolles’s hand. If he’d had to name one person as Tom’s best friend, it would be Padgett. So had Padgett been investing in Tom’s smuggling operation? More importantly, had Padgett stepped into Tom’s shoes?

  Simon’s eyes narrowed as he played back in his mind the events of last night. He wasn’t much of a gambler, but he’d lay money that Padgett, Stanton, Canfield, Townsend and Nolles were involved in some sort of enterprise that wouldn’t bear close scrutiny, and he had a fair notion precisely what that enterprise was: smuggling.

  He sighed. Before he’d leaped to any further conclusions, Simon concluded that a conversation with Barnaby was in order. Perhaps Barnaby would laugh at his conclusions, he told himself hopefully, but the prickle at the back of his neck made him doubt it. He sensed trouble.

  Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, Simon moaned as the room spun. Christ! How much had he drunk last night? Far too much, he decided when his head stopped spinning.

  Gingerly rising to his feet, Simon walked to the small washstand in the corner and was grateful to find the pitcher held water. Thinking of Stanton’s two servants, Mr. and Mrs. Archer, Simon grimaced. Mrs. Archer might be called the housekeeper and Stanton might refer to Mr. Archer as his butler, cum-factotum, but Simon couldn’t remember when he’d laid eyes on a more rascally pair.