by Wilma Counts
She gave herself up to responding with the sort of intensity she had, without quite realizing it, dreamed of since that kiss under the Christmas kissing ball. As he sought to deepen the kiss, she pressed herself closer and opened to his entreating tongue—he tasted of cognac. She welcomed the caresses of his exploring hands. His mouth moved from hers to nibble at her neck and then nuzzle the tops of her breasts at her stylish, but almost scandalously low neckline. One hand cupped her breast and she drew in a sharp breath as she felt her nipples harden and knew that he felt them do so as well. She groaned and twisted in his arms, but did not pull away. Instead she turned her face into his neck and drank in the smell of him. He lifted her chin and moved his mouth to hers again, softly nipping at her lower lip, silently urging her to open to him.
Which she did.
Then she moaned softly and pulled away, but only slightly. “I . . . I . . . this is . . . it is not . . . we must not . . . I cannot allow—”
“Cannot allow what?” he teased as he kissed her again and she—God help her!—responded again.
She pushed away from him and sat with her hands clasped in her lap. Her voice became steady as she managed a stronger hold on herself. “I cannot allow this to go any further.”
“Why not? You want it as much as I do. I know you do.” He had released her, but his hand still idly caressed the nape of her neck.
She spoke more firmly. “I lied. It is not that I cannot, but that I will not. We—we are wholly unsuited to each other, Mr. Bolton.”
“Jake. In view of the way you just kissed me, at least call me by my name. Jake.” He sat up straighter and moved farther away from her.
She instantly regretted the loss of his touch, but she would not weaken her resolve now. “All right. Jake. I will not indulge you—or myself—in some sort of tawdry affair.”
“And I suppose marriage to the likes of me is out of the question, though that kiss alone would put the lie to our being ‘wholly unsuited to each other.’ We—you and I—are more ‘suited’ than you care to admit even to yourself, my lady.”
“Retta. If I am to address you as Jake, you must use the name I prefer in private conversation.” She sounded rather stiff even to her own ears.
“Whatever you say, my la—uh—Retta.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“I am not admitting to ‘understanding’ anything of whatever it is that is between us.”
Her tone softened as she added with a sigh, “Perhaps one day we can both be more honest with each other.”
“Perhaps.” He leaned towards her and kissed her cheek. “Meanwhile, if you change your mind about an affair, do let me know.”
“I will,” she said lightly. “Meanwhile, though, we just carry on as before.”
“As you please, my lady. Retta.”
Chapter 16
Retta had spent some time that evening reassuring Annie that whatever might come of the incident, the young maid was to feel secure in her position. The truth was, though, that this event could very well become the latest bit of salacious gossip if it became widely known that a certain lady of the ton had as her personal maid a former prostitute. She would stand by Annie, but Retta knew the countess would, as Jake might have put it a few weeks ago, “throw a reet proper tantrum” at such a woman remaining in her household. Another reason to welcome the freedom my birthday is going to give me, Retta thought grimly.
Once she had calmed Annie down and sent the girl off to her own bed, Retta settled into trying to come to grips with the event—and the man who, for her, was at the heart of it. Having eased her conscience with regard to Willitson, Retta was able to clear her mind of him at will. Try as she might, she could not do the same with Jake. He simply dominated her waking thoughts and her fretful dreams. Three times now she had seen him leap into action to rescue others. Yet he had treated each incident as less than the extraordinary feat that it was. Was she just some starry-eyed schoolgirl looking for a hero? Perhaps she had missed that stage of her growing up years and was reverting to it now.
As she had repeatedly noted before, there was far more to this man than he allowed others to see—or at least more than he had allowed her to see. She sensed a depth in him that was simply absent in other men of her acquaintance. She had spent hours and hours in his company in the last four months, watching his expressions as they discussed this or that topic, watching as amusement or empathy stirred him. She felt that much of what he had told of her of his childhood and family was true, but what had he left out? She had actually seen him working on the docks, but had no real knowledge of how skilled he truly was at that job. He told a good story of being years on a merchant ship; now she questioned that—but, again, she had no concrete reason to disbelieve him. He seemed knowledgeable about farm work, but had clearly learned riding skills that exceeded those of an ordinary farmer. His speech was impeccable now. Too much so? Two women from very different elements of society had thought they recognized him and both times he had brushed off such a possibility. The second woman’s comment about “college boys” would explain some of what was troubling about Jake Bolton, but there was more—much more.
And there were those kisses. She recalled every nuance of those encounters: the way his lips moved on hers, the rough feel of his shaven chin pressed against her skin, the scent she had come to recognize as his, the controlled power she sensed in his body, the gentleness of his touch. Most of all, she kept reliving the way her body responded to him—and that aching desire for more—much more. She was nearly twenty-seven years old, but never had she experienced the sheer physical attraction she had for Jake Bolton!
If it were only physical and only desire, she thought she might be able to cope with losing him in a few weeks. But it was not. He might not have been forthcoming about his life experiences, but she was sure that the values and interests he had expressed were real—and that they fit in perfectly with her own—just as his body had fit hers so perfectly during that waltz and beneath the kissing ball. Feeling wicked even as she thought about it, she wondered if their two bodies would, indeed, fit perfectly in other circumstances.
In three weeks she would be twenty-seven years old. And still a virgin, she muttered to herself. But—she would be in total control of a very considerable fortune. She would no longer be dependent on her father’s allowance—generous though it was. No longer subject to the strictures of a stepmother who disproved more often than not of a daughter who just happened to have come with the marriage certificate. Retta could establish her own place, be her own person. And if she were to invite Jake Bolton to share her life, who was there to say nay? Of course there would be talk; they might even be ostracized from the most exalted circles. Members of her own family would be divided, though she was sure she could count on the loyalty of Uncle Alfred, Aunt Georgiana, and her brothers. Harriet and Hero might advise against what she was contemplating—what she had not thought through enough even to verbalize fully to herself yet—but they, too, would stand by her.
She slept only intermittently that night, engaged as she was in the on-going argument with herself.
Such improper behavior for one who has always at least technically observed the rules.
Sometimes the rules just need to be broken. As an ancient writer put it, Carpe diem—seize the day.
But at what cost? Which friends and relatives are you willing to forego?
The countess, surely. Papa? Perhaps, but he and I have not been close since he sent me away to school. True friends will stick by me.
You will have no place in society.
I will still have my work with Fairfax House and the Literary League—and music. I will still have music—we will have music.
What if Jake flatly rejects your overtures?
In that case, my life, on the surface, will not change much. I shall be heartbroken, but people do survive broken hearts.
> Having slept so fitfully, it was very late in the morning before she woke, far too late for her morning ride even if the weather cooperated. Still not absolutely certain about what course of action she would take with Jake, she dawdled over her morning ablutions and even in choosing what to wear.
Finally, she sent Annie to summon Mr. Bolton to the drawing room. Annie returned very shortly.
“Mr. Bolton is not here, milady. He left early as you hadn’t sent for him. This is his half-day off, you know.”
* * * *
Jake, too, had spent a rather sleepless night. The object of his turmoil was mostly Lady Henrietta. Though he was well aware of her charity work with the Fairfax sisters, her taking a former prostitute under her wing came as a surprise. Or did it? Retta was a rare woman. She conformed to behavior that society expected of women of her station, but she flouted conventions when doing so suited her sense of right and wrong. Witness her trips to Spitalfields. Still—a former inmate of a brothel as a ladies’ maid? He doubted that would go down well. A society that tolerated eccentricities in the rich and powerful would probably not accept such aberrant behavior in a young woman of marriageable age, no matter who her father was.
But Jake Bodwyn loved her all the more for it.
Loved her?
Yes, loved her. He might as well admit it, at least to himself. He loved her spirit of generosity, her determination to help the less able. He also loved the way she toyed with a strand of hair as she thought seriously about something, the way amusement started in her gray eyes and erupted in an honest laugh, her sense of loyalty to people she loved such as her aunt and her uncle, and the easy rapport she had with her brothers. And there was more, of course: the honest enthusiasm of her kiss, that woody-floral scent she wore, and a body that had a man fairly salivating—this man, anyway.
He tried to reason with himself. This was ridiculous so long as he was in Blakemoor House under false pretenses. But as soon as this damned mission was finished . . .
Thinking of the mission brought him to an idea he would discuss with Peter Fenton.
At Jake’s request, they met for lunch at one of their pub haunts that served an excellent shepherd’s pie, a tasty apple tart for dessert, and good selection of beer and ale. For the midday meal, the place was rather crowded, but they were able to secure a corner table in the back. When their food and drink was spread before them, they turned first to the serious business of appreciating good food, discussing other matters as the drift of conversation took them.
“Thought you would like to know that your brother has returned to town,” Fenton said. “The Marquis of Burwell and his lovely wife have taken up residence in Holbrook House.”
“I know,” Jake said. “At least I surmised such when I observed increased activity around the house. Did anyone else accompany them?”
“Not yet, but others are expected. Have you been lurking around Holbrook House?”
“Couldn’t help trying to satisfy my curiosity. But I am not going back on my promise to keep my distance for another few weeks.”
“Good. I know it is hard, but it is for a good cause, you know.”
Jake snorted. “Don’t lay that sanctimonious rubbish on me. I’m good for the time I said I would be.”
Fenton shoved his dishes aside, and reached for his beer. “Now, just what was is it that you have in mind?”
Jake finished his last bite of the tart and pushed his own dishes aside. He leaned toward Fenton. “You won’t like it, but I think we should bring Lord Alfred into the picture.”
Fenton thought about this for few moments before replying. “I take it you no longer have any reservations about his lordship’s involvement?”
“I suppose there is an outside possibility—who knows why some people do the things they do? But his being party to this?” Jake shook his head. “It comes down to motivation, and it simply makes no sense for him to be involved. He’d have nothing to gain and I’d stake my life on his being totally loyal.”
“If you are proposing what I think you are, you may be doing just that,” Peter said flatly. “You do remember what happened to Richter, do you not?”
“Yes, I do. But I believe that Lord Alfred is unaware of what his secretary is doing.”
“Right under the old man’s nose?”
“Even under his very nose. Lord Alfred is a trusting soul and he comes from the old school of loyalty to country and to family. And distant though the relationship is, he considers Morrow family. I think he also trusts that Morrow has a natural sense of gratitude to himself and to the earl. After all, Blakemoor and his brother rescued three of them from utter penury once they escaped to England during the revolution.”
The barmaid came to replenish their drinks and retrieve their dirty dishes. Fenton watched idly as she did so. When she left, he asked “So what, exactly, are you proposing?”
“I think we should go on the offensive with these scoundrels. Ask Lord Alfred to give Morrow a phony list of regiments and locations, complete with logistical support for them to make it look authentic. He gives the list to Morrow who encodes the information and passes it on to Lindstrom who, in turn, passes it on to his contacts.”
“Without involving Lord Alfred’s superior? If the Duke of York finds out, he will not be very happy about his being overlooked. And, as you well know, an unhappy duke is a force to be reckoned with.”
Jake took a long drink from his beer, then set the stein down. “Yes. I, of all people, am aware of that.”
“Ah, God, Jake, I did not mean—”
Jake waved his hand to dismiss his friend’s apology, “I know. Back to York. I doubt not that York himself is all right, but that business a few years ago of his mistress selling commissions and lining the pockets of her friends is troubling.”
“York spent years out of favor for even seeming to be involved in the scandal that erupted.”
“But he still has the same mistress, has he not? And even if there is a new one, well . . .” Jake allowed his voice to trail off.
“I see your point. And you are right that we should take the offensive however we can. Feeding them false information is a start.”
“Were you able to find out who lives at that address I gave you?”
“Yes. The house is occupied by a deputy to the ambassador of Rome.”
Jake’s eyebrows darted upward. “Rome? Now the Italians are involved too? What a rat’s nest.”
“It gets worse. You may remember that Napoleon tried to establish ties with major provinces on the Italian peninsula—made one of his brothers king of Naples.”
“And . . . ?”
“And his sister, Pauline—his favorite relative, by the way—is married to a Roman nobleman. Mind you, she is separated from him, but she maintains her home in Rome. And she and their mother have not only visited Bonaparte on Elba, but are rumored to have smuggled money and jewels to him.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, stunned. “My God, it never stops, does it? So now Napoleon Bonaparte is back in the picture?”
Fenton nodded. “He may be. So feeding them false information about our army positions on the continent is a good idea. Though, truth to tell, Boney is pretty well trapped on that island feeding his grandiose dreams with false hopes.”
“I’ve always thought his ‘prison’ was a little too plush. Should treat him like those poor bastards—French enlisted men—we assigned to the hulks.” Jake referred to the English practice of using old, unnavigable navy ships as makeshift, overcrowded prisons.
“I agree, but you and I, my friend, are not in charge.” Fenton finished the last of his beer. “Nevertheless, I see no problem with your enlisting Lord Alfred’s aid, if you are absolutely sure of him.”
Returning to Blakemoor House, Jake took his customary position in the library, well out of the way of Lord Alfred and his secretary, who were
discussing the disposition of troops in Ireland, the secretary making notations on a map as Lord Alfred directed. Then his lordship outlined points he wanted in a letter regarding a local militia to be stationed in Derbyshire.
“There. It is late, Morrow. That letter can wait until tomorrow. You are free to leave now.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Pretending to be absorbed in his book, Jake waited until the secretary had gathered up his papers and neatly stored them away in the desk. When Morrow left, Jake stood and tucked his book under his arm. “Sir? Might I have a word with you?”
“Of course, Bolton, but what say we do that over a drink before it is time to change for supper?” Lord Alfred went to the cabinet housing the bar and poured out two generous servings of whiskey. He handed one to Jake, motioned him to one of the winged chairs flanking the fireplace, and took the other himself. “What’s on your mind, lad?”
“The truth.”
“Hmm. A weighty subject, but usually a good place to start.” Lord Alfred sipped at his drink.
Jake was finding this harder than he had anticipated. “Do you recall how you challenged me after that incident with the Davenports’ child?” Lord Alfred nodded and Jake went on. “You were right, of course. Like you, I am an army man. I served in the peninsular as a corresponding officer. My name is really Jacob Bodwyn.”
“Bodwyn?” Lord Alfred sat up straighter. “That is Holbrook’s family name.”
“Yes, sir. Holbrook is my father.”
The older man’s expression hardened. “So—what are you doing in this house as Jake Bolton?”
“As I told you, I needed to be in this area of London, and events just fell into place to put me here. I am temporarily, at least, assigned to the Foreign Office. We have been trying to locate the sources of leaked information—a leak that is, to put it mildly, causing frustration among our people in Paris and Vienna.”
Lord Alfred’s temper flared immediately. “I am well aware of that—the Commander-in- Chief is not entirely uninformed, you know. And you come here suspecting me and my family? How dare you?”
