by Erin Rye
“Delicate questions?”
Rosalyn eyed the woman. She was clearly a well-educated, sophisticated woman of the world, and as such, Rosalyn drove closer to the point than she otherwise would have. “My lady, many debutantes who come to me know very little of what might please a man, or the details of what to expect. I try my best to provide such advice, as much as I can.”
A gleam of what Rosalyn could swear was amusement flashed across Lady Elana’s face, but it vanished before she could be sure.
“Quite admirable.” The woman offered a warm smile, then leaned closer. “May I be blunt, my dear?”
“Please, do.”
“Ethan’s intended is a keen-witted, enchanting, and very lovely young woman who is not lacking in such knowledge—which is a boon, to be sure. Men such as Lord Brodie prefer experience in the boudoir, and they find nothing more seductive than a woman who is not, shall we say, inhibited.”
Rosalyn arched a brow. “I mean no offense, my lady, but while men may prefer experience, they most often do not marry it.”
The woman laughed, but didn’t appear offended in the slightest. “Lord Brodie does not suffer from such a mindset, my dear, but enough of him. It is the young lady that desperately requires your aid. Indeed, if you cannot help her, then I fear no one can.”
The twinkle in the woman’s eye seemed quite at odds with her words. Rosalyn drew her brows in a puzzled line. “I do not understand.”
Lady Elana cleared her throat and her expression lost its levity. “The match is perfect in every way, but the intended bride has, unfortunately, lost interest in men.”
Rosalyn suppressed a snort. She certainly understood that well enough. “I fear I am not in the business of making matches, Lady Elana.”
“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” Lady Elana smoothly replied. “But your evaluation is precisely what I need. I need your report to titillate the young lady. An investigation of hygiene, behaviors, and personal habits would doubtlessly pique her interest. Lord Brodie is, shall we say, a very interesting subject. A simple evaluation is all I require. The rest? Let us say, after that, fate shall take a hand—or not.”
“I understand.” Rosalyn nodded, somewhat mollified.
“Then you shall agree?”
Rosalyn hesitated. It smacked of matchmaking, but then, if the man was a cad, the intended bride would be well served knowing she should continue with the comfort of books and tea. Besides, Rosalyn hardly felt it polite to deny her aunt’s—and Stirling’s—friend. Still, there were obstacles. “I shall be happy to assist you, though it might prove difficult. The man is rarely seen.”
Lady Elana laughed and appeared to relax. “I can help you with that, my dear. Your aunt accepted my invitation for a holiday in Brighton, but I’ve encountered the most unexpected delay. Rather than cancel a trip that would prove so invigorating for her health, I’ve arranged for Ethan to host her in my stead. You may not know, but Ethan was a dear friend of your late uncle and thought of him as a father.”
Mention of her uncle threatened to bring tears to Rosalyn’s eyes. He’d died abroad only the previous year and she still missed him sorely. “I see,” she murmured with emotion.
Lady Elana gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand, then smiled brightly. “I do believe it’s a splendid plan for all involved.”
Rosalyn began to nod in agreement, but then something in Lady Elana’s tale caught her attention, and she raised a brow. “It sounds as if you know Lord Brodie more than well, Lady Elana. Why not write the report yourself?”
Lady Elana blinked and nodded several times, yet continued to smile all the while before finally answering, “I know him, yes, but it is your reputation for finding the secrets men hide that I need, my dear. The young lady in question would not simply take my word on the matter. Please trust me on that. You are very much required.”
It made sense. “Then how can I say no to a holiday in Brighton?” Rosalyn replied lightly. “I would be delighted to assist you.”
Chapter Three
Forbidden Fruit
“The carriage comes, my lord.”
“Very well.” Ethan Brodie set his edition of The Morning Chronicle aside and rose from the breakfast table.
“Your coat, my lord.” Another man held out his favorite tan cutaway with burnished silver buttons.
He shrugged it over his shoulders.
Ethan had sent Lady Sarah his most comfortable coach the night before in order to give her ample time to pack. As for himself? His butler had left with his trunk at dawn, along with a cart groaning with the balloon and its paraphernalia.
“Your hat, my lord.”
With a wide yawn, Ethan clapped the black silk top hat on his head, and as two footmen rushed to open the front door, stepped through and out into the bright summer sun.
Lady Sarah. The day he’d delivered the heartrending news of her husband’s death, ranked among one of the worst in his life. She’d loved the man. By God, he had too. It had been a year, but that fateful day in France still hung fresh in his mind. He’d held the dying Lord Stafford in his arms, and at the man’s request, swore the most sacred of oaths that he’d leave the service, find a wife, and settle down to the business of living for himself.
It was an oath Ethan had kept…well, the part about leaving the service, anyway. He’d dabbled at finding a wife, but the vapid collection of candidates on display had quashed his interest. He’d skipped straight on to the business of living. After all, who could feel more alive than sailing over the trees in a hot air balloon? Doubtless, Lord Stafford would have agreed.
As for the wife? His brothers had fathered a small regiment of children, giving him, as the Brodie of Clan Brodie, heirs aplenty. As for female companionship, he preferred non-binding affairs, a habit from his days as a spy, and from what he’d seen of the Season’s marriageable females, it would stay that way. They were dull. The type that spent their days gossiping behind their fans. Hardly what he wanted in a woman. He needed fire, passion, and heat, a woman who ignited his blood the moment he laid eyes on her and a lass with an adventurous streak in her soul. Such women were rare—if not impossible—to find.
The only one who’d stirred his interest was a particularly voluptuous opera singer, a woman of talent both on stage and in bed, but with no interest in adventure. He could hardly marry her, but she satisfied his needs, and they’d come to an arrangement beneficial to both.
Of late, the balloon had consumed him, and he’d sent her his regrets—a blunder on his part. His bollocks hung heavy and ached for release, but now he was off to Brighton. It was damn unfortunate. She had such a lovely mouth, talented in so many ways. His groin tightened at the thought. He’d simply have to bring her to Brighton for a few days of rowdy bed sport.
The sound of hooves interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to see his gleaming carriage on the drive. It was a thing of beauty, pulled by four perfectly matched grays. Prime specimens of horseflesh. He nodded, pleased, and watched the way they moved until they trotted to a stop before him.
The footman hopped down from his perch and opened the carriage door. “My lord,” he murmured with a low bow.
“James,” Ethan acknowledged the man as he swept past him and set foot on the brass-grillwork step. The carriage dipped under his weight as he ducked inside and raised his finger to the brim of his hat. “Good morning, my dearest lady.”
Lady Sarah sat on the leather seat, swathed in a large shawl and looking as if she’d aged a year, even though only a month had passed since he’d seen her last. She held out her wrinkled hands in greeting as a strand of gray hair slipped from her bonnet to rest on her withered cheek. “Ethan, it’s such a pleasure to see you, child.”
“It’s been far too long.” Ethan smiled warmly in return. “I’ve been remiss in visiting.”
“Nonsense. Lord Stafford would be proud of how often you drop by.” Tears misted her eyes. “But here is my niece, Rosalyn Beaumont. Finally, the two of you meet…”
Ethan turned his head and Lady Sarah’s voice simply faded away.
The lass before him was a vision well worth beholding, a visual treat wrapped in a snug lilac gown with a neckline low enough to catch his eye. Though slimly built, her breasts were ample handfuls. The sight of those visible creamy swells pushing up against the fabric teased a half-smile to his lips. He slid a quick, appreciative gaze over her slender waist and halfway down her thighs before the fact she was Lord Stafford’s niece belatedly registered in his mind. As such, she would be a lass of genteel upbringing and hardly one to ogle. What had possessed him to forget? It was quite unlike him.
He lifted his gaze toward her face and noted first the dark silky strands of her hair slipping from her bonnet to fall over her shoulder in soft, loose curls, just the kind he liked to twirl around his fingers. And her mouth? Such pouty lips, warm and wet and so very pleasingly plump. Then finally, her eyes, a heart-stopping pair of honey-gold orbs, fringed with sooty lashes.
She was watching him. Closely. Almost as if she could read his innermost thoughts, and the expression there announced she’d definitely noticed his quick perusal of her charms. He locked gazes with hers. Few women possessed such sultry and sinfully wicked figures. They were works of art and to be greatly admired.
Her lips parted. “Pleased to meet you, my lord.”
“I assure you, the pleasure is mine, Lady Rosalyn.” Remarkably so. The journey would be a damn sight more stimulating now.
“Allow me to vacate your seat, my lord.” She rose.
The perfume of her hair teased his nostrils as she edged past him and took her place beside her aunt. By Jove. Her backside was just as exquisite. Really, it was nothing short of a travesty she was Lord Stafford’s niece.
Once they’d settled, he rapped on the window for the coach to start and the horses were off.
Lady Sarah began to chat. What about, Ethan had no clue. He did try to pay attention, but the more he tried to ignore Rosalyn’s physical charms, the more he only noticed them. The lass was damn attractive—and rather a tease, if truth be told. Surely, she knew the effect her breasts had on a man. Her neckline bordered on scandalous. The creamy mounds swelled in delicious handfuls, curving dramatically to her tiny waist, drawing attention to their size as well as the slenderness of her build at the same time. Was she athletic, perhaps? She seemed lean and muscular and her cheeks glowed a healthy pink.
Dimly, he heard Lady Sarah chattering as they trotted through London and out onto the open road. The topics ranged from plays, the weather, and her garden, but he found himself uncharacteristically distracted and recalled little of what was said.
Time passed.
Still, Lady Sarah continued to chat with liveliness he hadn’t seen in her for months. He tried his best to engage, but Rosalyn’s dark-lashed honey eyes proved beyond distraction. It was only when he saw her eyes widen in surprise that he realized he might have murmured a mindless ‘yes’ one too many times.
“I am amazed,” Lady Sarah was saying. “I never knew you were such an expert on raising radishes.”
Radishes?
“Do tell us,” Rosalyn chimed in with a wicked smile. “Surely, such unparalleled expertise wouldn’t mind sharing a tidbit or two.”
He locked gazes with the devious little tease, but instead of admitting his mistake, foolishly blustered on, talking through his hat of the details of radish care, keenly aware of Rosalyn’s mirth.
Never had he been more relieved than to see the inn appear on the horizon.
“I shall look forward to your radish carving demonstrations,” Lady Sarah said as the carriage rolled to a stop.
Ethan quirked his lip in dry amusement. Had he agreed to that as well?
He handed out Lady Sarah first, then Rosalyn and, as her gloved fingers brushed his, pleasure stabbed through him.
“Indeed, my lord,” Rosalyn murmured as her feet touched the ground. Though somewhat taller than the average woman, the top of her head still barely reached the bottom of his chin. “I would so dearly love to see your garden and these world-renowned radishes with my very own eyes.”
She lifted her sultry gaze to his. Obviously, she knew damn well he’d never gardened in his life. The minx. He merely chuckled and again, their gazes locked. He was the first to look away, but only because by standing so close, she afforded him quite the view of her snug little breasts’ attempt to escape up through the neckline of her gown.
Of course, she caught him, but to his utmost delight, didn’t huff or immediately step away. She let him look with the demeanor of an uninhibited woman, comfortable with her body, and who, no doubt, did what she pleased.
“Shall we?” she asked, and coolly waited for his eyes to slide back up to hers.
A deeper admiration rippled through him. More intrigued by the moment, he stood aside and swept out his arm in invitation for them both to precede him.
The rambling inn smelled of smoke and stale beer, but the private dining parlor that Ethan procured afforded a more pleasant environment. As they arranged themselves around the table to await their meal, the conversation resumed. This time, they spoke of a variety of subjects, and when the hearty meal arrived—coach fare, but decent enough—the topic of conversation turned to books.
“And what novels do you prefer, Lady Rosalyn?” Ethan asked, as the maid set a platter of freshly baked buns on the table.
“I enjoy the modern and obscure,” she answered at once.
An interesting response. Most ladies were trained to parrot praise of the classics. “Such as?” he prodded.
She smiled, and the sight alone stirred his blood.
“Lady Bessborough recommended a clever read. She claims it has a rather stupid ending, but I find it enjoyable enough. The title is Sense and Sensibility.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Ethan admitted, and paused a moment to recall just where. “Ah yes, Princess Charlotte compared herself to the heroine at dinner, some weeks ago.”
“You dined with the princess?” Lady Sarah interjected, mildly surprised.
It had actually been the Prince Regent. The man had summoned him for an opinion on a matter in France, but Ethan didn’t feel compelled to explain. “Not often.” He politely brushed the matter aside and turned back to Rosalyn. “Would you say the novel is worth reading?”
Again, the dry humor gleamed in her gaze. “A man of the classics might not care for such a tale. I would think it more interesting for women as it is written by one. Though surely, one could never know as it was published anonymously as simply by A Lady.”
That mouth. He couldn’t take his eyes from it. He wanted to taste it. What would she do, should he catch those lips in a kiss? Surely, she’d kiss him back. Passion lurked beneath the surface. He was sure of it. No doubt, she was a bold kisser. Perhaps even a biter. He preferred women who nipped and raked their nails across his back. Rosalyn certainly seemed the type…
Then, unfortunately, the fact she was Lord Stafford’s niece asserted itself and the thought had an unpleasantly cooling effect on his blood.
Ethan realized she waited for a response. Ah, yes. Books. Something about the author being female. There was a standard reply for such things. “If it is written by a woman for women, I would think all men who desire to understand the fairer sex should read it.”
Lady Sarah chuckled.
Rosalyn levelled him a look that announced she knew right well he was far more interested in the mysteries between her thighs than the workings of her mind. He found her response telling. So, the lass wasn’t quite as proper as one might think. It both delighted and concerned him. For the first time, he wondered if there was a man in her life.
The conversation flowed to other things, and finally, with their meal done and the horses rested, they found themselves arranged in his carriage once again.
This time, silence reigned, and as the miles passed, Lady Sarah’s chin began to nod, and Rosalyn pulled a book from a satchel and began to flip through
the pages.
Ethan lounged back in his seat, and eyed Rosalyn from under hooded eyes as he waited for Lady Sarah to fall asleep. Finally, she did, and he cleared his throat.
Rosalyn glanced up.
Perfect. He seized the opening. “I’ve visited your aunt quite often of late but find it odd we haven’t met before. Have you just come to London?” He knew it wasn’t true. At each and every visit, Lady Sarah had bemoaned the fact he’d just missed her.
“No, my lord. I’ve been in London for several seasons.”
Several…and not yet wed…was she engaged? “Indeed, then it is simply a case of misfortune.”
“Oh? Are you sorely lacking in the discussion of women’s literature?” Rosalyn teased with a lifted brow.
Arousal struck square in the loins. It was a verbal gauntlet if he’d ever heard one, and a not so innocent remark from a woman who clearly knew where his interests lay. He quit dancing around the issue and drove straight to the point. “Several seasons? Then who is the lucky man?”
Rosalyn tensed and seemed to bristle. “Must all women be wed in two seasons, my lord?”
Her response wasn’t the definitive answer he wanted. He had to know what he might be up against. “Surely, there are a regiment of men pounding at your door?” he pushed.
This time, the bristling was obvious. His prodding was definitely unwelcome. Still, she replied, “I have firmly embarked upon the path to spinsterhood, my lord. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
He’d insulted her, but had his answer—one that pleased him mightily. She glared at him from across the coach, even lovelier with fire in her eyes. “Forgive me.” He smiled his most charming smile, then decided it was time for the truth. “It is not often I meet a woman of your beauty and even rarer to find her unwed.”
Her lashes fluttered, but she still appeared ruffled. “It matters little. I’m not in the business of securing a husband, my lord.”
She returned to her book.
He smiled, settled back in his seat, and wondered what man had scarred her so. Most likely a rake. The man had been a fool to let her go, no doubt after tasting her charms. He’d wager his matching grays she wasn’t a virgin. Not with the looks she’d been sending him. Somehow, she knew about men, that much was clear. The thought teased his interest. Perhaps, she wouldn’t mind a little fondling…
