Or perhaps it was his first kiss! The young lady seemed to be the one making all the important moves!
Felix was still watching the two kiss when he heard the unmistakable voice of Lady Pettigrew calling for someone named Jane. The chit he watched suddenly stepped away from the banker. Smiling, she thanked him, curtsied, and hurried off.
It was when she turned to go that Felix realized she was Lady Jane Browning, youngest niece of Lady Pettigrew. He also realized that Andrew Burroughs bore a remarkable resemblance to another young man in attendance that night. Why, he looked just like the Earl of Bellingham!
Well, I’ll be damned, Felix thought as he wondered what might happen next. Lady Jane made some comment about coming out for air before she and her aunt disappeared into the ballroom. Felix wondered if Lady Pettigrew even noticed how bee-stung her niece’s lips had to have looked just then.
He was still deep in thought over Lady Jane’s enthusiastic behavior when he realized the young man was straightening his coat. Felix watched as the banker strode from his hiding place and made his way back to the ballroom, acting as if nothing had happened.
The earl allowed a grin and decided he would keep his eyes on the banker—and the Earl of Bellingham—for the rest of the ball.
The night was still young.
Who knew if the young man had plans for any other young ladies in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens?
Chapter 10
A Banker Begins a New Life
’Tis the season for elicit affaires in the ton. Who will be visiting whose bedchambers this spring? To find out, be sure to subscribe or pick up your own copy every Thursday! ~ An advertisement in the April 16, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 7, 1818, very early in the morning
As Andrew Burroughs made his way from his uncle’s mansion to Threadneedle Street, he couldn’t help but replay the events of the night before in his mind’s eye.
What a brilliant way to end a day! Although he had barely slept, his entire body seemed to thrum with excitement, a renewed vigor making his blood course through his veins as his horse negotiated the cobblestone streets along the way.
After all these years, she still feels affection for me, he thought with a grin he could barely contain. With any luck, they could be married before the end of the Season. Be on their wedding trip shortly thereafter. And he could be back at the bank when the rest of the aristocracy returned to London for the fall sessions of Parliament.
He thought of where he had found Jane that morning. With her head resting in the small of his shoulder, her entire body pressed against the side of his. One of her legs lay draped over one of his, the top of her thigh providing a perfect resting place for his manhood. Within seconds, the damned thing had sprung up as if it knew a better resting place was positioned only inches away.
Well, it did, and yet it was Jane who made the next move, lifting herself first on one elbow and then moving that luscious leg over both of his so that she straddled him. The next move had been his—or rather his manhood’s, since he wasn’t conscious of just how he was suddenly inside her. Warm and wet and so tight he’d had to think of King and country for a moment to keep from allowing his release, Andrew had held onto her hips and enjoyed the rather slow and provocative moves Jane made as she rode him to completion.
He hadn’t expected the demure widow to do such a thing, especially in the gray light of early morning. Especially given her queries voiced in the middle of the night. Queries that had him feeling a bit relieved if also a bit nervous. Her late husband had obviously not been a frequent visitor to her bed, nor had he expected her to practice anything out of the usual with respect to sexual congress.
Andrew hadn’t expected anything from his late wife, either. He had never proposed they do anything out of the ordinary, not that he knew much given his limited experience. Bess had never offered or requested something different. But then, he hadn’t married her for the same reasons he wanted to marry Jane. The few times he had been welcomed into Bess’ bed had been for simple acts of intercourse. Marital duty. His attempts to pleasure Bess had been met with polite declinations, and so he had simply ceased to try.
His decision to seduce Jane—he hated thinking of it in those terms, but no other word would suffice in explaining just what he had done—had come from a need for expediency and out of selfishness.
He wanted Jane. Had always wanted her. And given her year of mourning ended the day of the Weatherstone ball, he had the perfect venue in which to reintroduce himself.
As for how he had gone about it, even he was a bit shocked at himself. A rake, he was not, but now he wondered what Jane would think of him as this day went on.
He rather hoped she wouldn’t think too much.
Should she come to believe he had done wrong, she might never agree to see him again. He couldn’t abide life without her, though. He knew that now. Last night had confirmed what he suspected. He had loved Jane Vandermeer in the past, and he still loved her now.
Perhaps she would wonder what he thought of her, though, given what she had done whilst sitting atop him. Her moves had been tentative at first. Curious. Cautious. But once she gave into his hold on her, accepted his touch and his help in learning what to do, she took over and rode him to completion.
Perhaps she had surprised herself, for her cry of his name had filled the bedchamber as her torso had lifted from his, her neck arching back and her chin thrusting up at the same time her body seemed to quake atop him. Then she had tumbled down onto the front of his body, quickly covering herself with the little bit of a quilt still left on the bed. She burrowed her face into the space next to his ribs as if to hide.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he had said while trying to fight the bubble of a chuckle that threatened to spoil the moment.
What else could he say?
She was the most welcome sight he had beheld at that time of the morning in probably his entire life.
Her first response was unintelligible, the words muffled and her lips tickling his ribs until he could reposition an arm and pull her back atop him. “I didn’t quite catch that, my lady.”
A lock of hair covered part of her face but still allowed one eye and most of her bee-stung lips to show. “You must think me the most wanton woman …”
“And if I did?” he whispered, his grin widening. “Would you find me despicable?” He felt her relax as she allowed a sigh.
“Of course not.”
“Good. Because I rather adore you as a wanton.” At her sudden gasp of shock and widened eyes, he added, “It’s our secret, for I shall tell no one of your delectable body, or of how beautiful you are when you’re making love, or how delightful it is to kiss you.”
Jane swallowed before moving one hand to push away the hair in front of her face. Her lips sought his, the hand moving from her hair to cup the side of his face as she did so. “What happens now?” she whispered, her eyes wide.
Her query had been made with a hint of terror, as if she were truly frightened. It was at that moment that Andrew realized three things about Jane Vandermeer Fitzpatrick.
Before today, she had probably never awakened to find a man in her bed. If he’d had any concerns about her having become a Merry Widow since Stoneleigh’s death, he needn’t have worried.
She had probably never been pleasured by the earl. Although he didn’t have a great deal of experience himself—his father had died before Andrew’s sixteenth birthday, the occasion upon which his older brothers had been treated to entire nights in the company of a courtesan—he had been married for nearly ten years before Bess’ untimely death. And there were books on the topic of sexual congress in the duke’s library, each one having paid a visit to his bedchamber for late nights spent studying.
And finally, before this morning, Jane had never before initiated any kind of intimacy. The fact that she did so apparently had her feeling a bit embarrassed, perhaps even a bit surprised at her actions.
Andrew
kissed her then, a slow, sweet kiss he intended to bestow on her every morning for the rest of their lives. “I regret that I must take my leave of you for now. I have meetings at the bank this morning, and I have a dinner party with one of my cousins in Chiswick this evening. I’ll be spending the night at the old family house.” His face screwed up as if he wasn’t exactly looking forward to staying at a Georgian estate that had paid witness to at least five generations of Merriweathers and Grandbys and, for a few years since 1804, a family of Burroughs. Or perhaps at Woodscastle, if Gregory Grandby or the Wellinghams offer hospitality. “But I shall return on the morrow. May I pay a call on you in the afternoon? Take you for a ride in the park, perhaps?”
Although his initial words obviously caused disappointment—Jane apparently would have preferred to stay in bed the entire day, and truth be told, he would as well—she brightened at the suggestion of riding in the park. “Sounds lovely,” she murmured.
Kissing her once more, Andrew pulled away and sighed. “I know one shouldn’t have regrets, but I really wish I had pressed my case with your father all those years ago,” he whispered as he removed himself from the bed. “Or just taken you to Gretna Green.”
He could feel her eyes on him as he gathered his clothes, as she watched him dress. He supposed he should wonder at her curiosity—she was a widow, after all, and had probably seen her husband naked …
He blinked, realizing one more thing about Jane Vandermeer Fitzpatrick. She had probably never seen a naked man in the light of day before this morning.
Lord Stoneleigh had spent more time with his mistress in Milton in Kent rather than with Jane in London. He probably bed his wife while wearing a nightshirt that reached his knees.
“Should I be concerned by your perusal of me in my current state of undress?” he asked with an arched brow, his voice giving away his teasing manner.
Jane shook her head. “No,” she managed to get out, although her voice sounded a bit strangled, as if she were embarrassed at being caught staring.
Andrew had to suppress a chuckle “I don’t suppose your butler is still abed?” he half-asked as he tucked in his shirt and buttoned his breeches.
Her eyes widening at the realization that the servants would know—probably already knew—what she had been doing for the entire night, Jane swallowed and glanced toward the mantle clock. “Simonton is probably still at Norwick House with his wife,” she replied hopefully. “But there is a set of stairs to the left that leads down to the back door and to the gardens behind the house.”
Andrew grinned as he buttoned his waistcoat. “Despite what you may be imagining, I have never been in this situation before,” he claimed with an arched brow. “Having to sneak off in the morning fog from a dalliance with a beautiful woman.”
Jane colored up at the comment. “If it’s any consolation, neither have I.”
Bending over the bed, Andrew kissed her once more. Twice more. When he finally pulled away, he allowed a sigh of disappointment. “I’ll come for you at four o’clock tomorrow. We still have much to discuss,” he murmured as he straightened the bedclothes and covered her with the bed linens and quilt.
After that, he had taken his leave of her bedchamber, made his way to the back of the house and crept down the back stairs. He might have made it out of the house without being seen except for the scullery maid who nearly collided with him at the back door.
“Pardon me, my lady,” he said as he tipped his hat and traded places with her in the small entry. “I’ve just now realized I’ve got the wrong house!”
The maid’s round eyes seemed to go from fright to delight at his words, but she didn’t have a chance to respond as he hurried out the door. Giving a quick glance around the gardens, he followed the flagstone path to the gate and the alley beyond it. How fortuitous, he thought as he realized the alley connected with the one behind his uncle’s house four blocks away.
He was home by seven o’ clock in the morning, shaved and changed by eight, and on a horse to Threadneedle Street by half-past, his only thoughts of Jane Vandermeer Fitzpatrick.
Chapter 11
Tattling to The Tattler
Clandestine meetings are so much more enjoyable when the parties involved are warm and dry and comfortable. Should you ever plan one, do not follow our lead and meet in the park at eight o’ clock in the morning. ~ Part of the editor’s last article in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 7 1818, Hyde Park
Emelia Comber, the only daughter of the Earl of Aimsley, approached the bench in Hyde Park with more than a bit of trepidation. Backed by a hedgerow and fairly well hidden from all but the crushed granite path that passed in front of it, the bench was positioned among several tall bushes and a few trees that seemed to have been planted with the deliberate intention of affording the spot a fair bit of privacy. Anyone could happen upon her whilst she sat waiting for Mr. Pepperidge, though. Anyone could pass by whilst she sat with Mr. Pepperidge.
Heaven forbid.
Given the early morning hour, though, and the low fog blanketing this part of the park, she hoped no one else would even be in the park, let alone in this part of the park.
She could only hope.
After all, she had visited this same bench six times before over the course of the last six weeks. How long could her luck hold out?
Gingerly, she took a seat at one end of the bench and inhaled a steadying breath, remembering just then to lower the veil on her hat so the top half of her face would be obscured from anyone who might give her a second glance. Without a maid or a chaperone, she was a sitting duck for any unscrupulous member of the opposite sex who might happenstance upon her.
Such as Mr. Pepperidge.
Well, he hadn’t made any advances towards her in their prior meetings, so she rather doubted he would do so today. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. The way the man gazed at her had her thinking he was undressing her with his eyes. Contemplating a stolen kiss, perhaps. Assessing her with the intention of … something.
She shivered, and not just from the early morning cold.
He couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. He knew quite enough—he knew she had been a tomboy in her younger days! He knew she had kissed Lord Fennington in the Weatherstone gardens!—and he certainly didn’t need more damning information to put into his damnable publication.
Damn him, anyway.
Thank the gods her mother had been providing news she could pass along, almost as if she knew Emelia needed fodder for her meetings on Thursday mornings. The comments she made about others in the ton tended to be about people Emelia had never heard of, but then she had only been back in London for a couple of months. Mr. Pepperidge seemed to write down everything she told him as if her words were gold.
Emelia took a steadying breath, realizing she would require a vinaigrette should she continue her line of thinking. She was on the verge of fainting due to hyperventilation!
And I never faint!
Her gloved hands held in her lap, Emelia did her best to keep them still. Despite having spent time in the company of Mr. Pepperidge—six times, so far—she was always nervous with him. Nervous because he knew far too much about her. Nervous because he could use what he knew to ruin her standing in polite society. Nervous because if she should be seen in his company, word would get around that she was providing him with gossip.
Over the short amount of time Emelia had been back in London, she had learned that, as the publisher of The Tattler, the most popular gossip rag in all of London, Mr. Pepperidge was the bane of the ton. And apparently a star in the publishing world and to anyone who bought copies of his weekly news sheet.
Damn them, too, Emelia thought with a sigh, her breathing once again too fast.
The damning thought of Mr. Pepperidge seemed to conjure him into being, for the tall man with a funny bump of a belly, clothing better suited to a clerk than a supposedly rich publisher, and a rather tall beaver, appeared from the oth
er side of the nearest bush and afforded her a deep bow.
Had he been hiding back there? Or had he followed a different path to get to the bench?
Emelia gave him a nod but did not stand up, nor did she offer her hand. “Good morning, Mr. Pepperidge,” she said in a quiet voice.
“It will be, I promise,” the publisher stated as he took a seat at the other end of the bench. A grin graced his face, making him appear genuinely happy.
Turning to stare at him, Emelia’s eyes widened. Could it be he was planning to end their weekly liaisons? Could it be he felt he had extracted enough information from her that he would allow her to return to her somewhat staid and boring life as a daughter of the ton? “Does that mean I will have fulfilled my obligation to you after this meeting?” she asked with a bit too much enthusiasm.
Why, oh why, had she allowed the Earl of Fennington to kiss her? She had only agreed to a walk in the gardens with the man—in broad daylight, no less—during an afternoon soirée at Lord Weatherstone’s gardens last March because, well, she was attracted to the man. But back then, she had thought his invitation was offered because her mother had suggested it. Emelia had accepted thinking the man’s intentions were honorable.
Since then, the earl hadn’t dared to steal a kiss whilst they were in one another’s company. They had certainly been in one another’s company, though. Besides his insistence on driving her in the park once a week for the past six weeks, Lord Fennington seemed to make an appearance at every garden party, every soirée, every ball, the theatre, musicales …
It was almost as if the man were stalking her. And yet, he hadn’t made mention of the word ‘marriage’ nor asked her if she was considering matrimony.
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 8
