The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1)

by Linda Rae Sande

  The Gossip Goddess.

  The countess had never thought to run a gossip rag. At least, not before her daughter had married the editor. The terms of the marriage between Lady Emelia and the Earl of Fennington required that Felix Turnbridge, AKA Mr. Frederick Pepperidge, divest himself of the newspaper. Who better to buy it then one of the women who had been supplying him with false gossip for nearly two months?

  Oh, she wouldn’t be doing this venture by herself, of course. Before she worked out the terms of the deal with her husband’s help, she had assurances from several other ladies of the ton that she would have help in the endeavor. Help with news worthy to print. Real news of the ton.

  No fake aristocrats. No false or made up reports.

  She also made it clear there was to be no malice in what was printed. No deliberate attempts to make certain someone was blackballed at White’s or given the cut direct unless they earned it of their own volition.

  “Are you moved in?”

  Patience turned to find her husband surveying her new domain. “There was nothing to move in,” she replied as she approached him. She placed a kiss on his cheek as he took her hand in his, intending to lift it to his lips. “It’s all here,” she added with a wave of her free hand.

  Mark Comber gave a nod of appreciation. “Christ, that desk is as large as mine,” he murmured. “Are you sure we can’t get you something a bit more … petite?”

  His countess aimed an elegantly arched eyebrow in his direction. “I rather like this desk, and all the other furnishings, truth be told. I think I’ll be keeping everything just the way it is.”

  The earl nodded. “I spoke with your pressman. He’s amenable to continue to work here. I may have offered him a bit more blunt to see to it he does. No use having a newspaper if you don’t have someone to print the damn thing,” he commented.

  “Can I afford to give him a raise?” Patience asked in alarm.

  Suppressing the urge to laugh at her, Aimsley angled his head to one side. “My darling, your charities are going to find their coffers quite full in a matter of months,” he replied. “I have to give Fenn a good deal of credit for coming up with a way to pay off his father’s debts so expediently. Turns out our daughter didn’t marry a pauper after all, and as long as Fenn doesn’t gamble away her dowry, they should be set for life.”

  Patience gave her husband another peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  The earl’s brows ascended. “For what?”

  “For knowing better than the rest of us.” At Aimsley’s continued look of confusion, she added, “You gave him the benefit of the doubt. You knew Fenn loved our daughter …”

  “Because he told me he did,” he replied. “Well, I don’t think he used the word love exactly, but a man knows when another is smitten. He was smitten.”

  Patience kissed him again, this time on the lips.

  “What was that for?” he asked in a whisper.

  “For agreeing to buy this business so that our daughter could marry him.”

  He nodded and glanced back at the desk, it’s smooth surface completely free of the stacks of letters that had arrived in the past couple of weeks. Patience had placed them in organized piles on the credenza behind the desk in an effort to provide some order to the chaos she had inherited upon the purchase of The Tattler.

  “What is it?” Patience wondered as she followed his gaze to the desk.

  Aimsley cocked a mischievous eyebrow and kicked the office door shut. “I think it’s time we create some gossip of our own,” he remarked, moving Patience until the back of her thighs were up against the edge of the desk. She gave a yelp as he lifted her bottom onto the desktop and then fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches.

  Her eyes wide, Patience had to place her hands behind her and straighten her arms to keep from falling backwards. “You mean, something like, The Gossip Goddess tumbled on her own desktop by a rogue. See page 6?”

  “Rogue?” Aimsley repeated. He paused to give that some consideration and then quickly reached down to pull up her skirts and petticoats. “I was thinking something like, ‘highwayman’ or ‘Rake of London’.”

  Never having seen her husband lower his breeches in broad daylight, Patience had to suppress a cry of surprise at seeing his tumescence emerge fully erect.

  “What about ‘Earl of Erection’?” she offered, one eyebrow arching up to waggle a bit. Faith! He was certainly ready for a tumble!

  “Oh, that’s good,” he replied as he stepped forward and impaled her in one thrust, his hands bunching her skirts against her belly. His face ended up pressed between her breasts, his breaths shallow as her legs wrapped around his back. Still supported on her arms, Patience allowed her head to fall back as her husband had his way with her, one of his thumbs working its magic against her ripening womanhood as his thrusts deepened and quickened in rhythm. The thought of a particular broadsword came to mind somewhere in the middle of a thrust, and Patience inhaled sharply.

  Perhaps because of her sudden intake of breath, the earl growled. That sound and how his body suddenly stiffened in anticipation had Patience wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She held on as the welcome waves of pleasure coursed through her body. “Aimsley,” she managed to whisper before she felt his body spasm and the wash of warmth fill her lower body.

  The earl inhaled sharply and held on for a minute more before wrapping his arms around her waist. “I haven’t done anything this scandalous since I tumbled you in Lord Weatherstone’s library,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Patience couldn’t help but giggle. “That was ages ago,” she replied, her breaths still short.

  “The night Emelia was conceived,” he murmured before taking a deep breath.

  But Patience gasped at the comment. “You think so?”

  Her husband nodded. “I do. Which is why I thought it rather fitting she ended up being ruined on the same property. She’s in good company.”

  Patience kissed him on the cheek. “I hardly think being kissed in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens counts as ruination, especially when no one actually saw them,” she countered. “But it is fitting.” She sighed.

  Aimsley took another deep breath. “Well, now that we’ve indoctrinated your desk, I suppose I should let you get to it,” he said, refastening his breeches.

  His wife allowed a sigh of disappointment. “We could indoctrinate the carpet. I had it cleaned only yesterday,” she countered.

  Mark Comber stared at his countess for several seconds, a shocked look on his face. “Oh, my. If we’re not careful you’re going to cause as much gossip as you see fit to print!”

  Patience allowed a teasing grin. “Well, I am The Gossip Goddess,” she replied happily. “And you are the Earl of …”

  Aimsley placed a finger over her lips. “Will be. Later,” he whispered, not about to let her put voice to his new moniker. Replacing his finger with his lips, he kissed her as he put her skirts and petticoats to rights.

  “I had better get an exclusive,” she whispered when he finally ended the kiss and pulled away.

  “You always do, my goddess. You always do.”

  Chapter 38

  A Wedding Night with a Wanton Wife

  Three months later

  “May we do that again?” Emelia whispered once she was aware Felix no longer breathed so deeply. He had her held against his body so she was nearly atop him, her head resting on his chest.

  She hardly knew the whereabouts of the rest of her body. The man had seen to it nearly every inch of her was either kissed, or licked, or touched, or rubbed, or suckled until she could hardly breathe. Every part of her seemed to tingle, or vibrate, or hum, or buzz.

  Her mother had warned her it might be so. She had also cautioned that it might not be so pleasurable, which had her wondering if her father still did this with her mother.

  She quickly shook the thought from her mind, concentrating instead on the burble of laughter that she felt beneath her ear. Lifting h
er head, she found Felix regarding her with a huge grin. His heavy-lidded eyes betrayed the short nap he had taken following their earlier lovemaking.

  “Do you mean right now or … in general?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Emelia smoothed a hand over his bare chest, the pads of her fingers barely touching his skin. “Both?” she ventured, gasping when she felt his manhood suddenly harden against her belly.

  Well, she supposed she had her answer.

  Felix’s arms tightened around her waist, one thumb moving to caress the side of her bare breast. He grinned again when she reacted, her soft inhalation of breath a sign she wasn’t numb from his earlier ministrations. “You’re not too sore?” he murmured as his hand slid down to her hip. He reveled in how her skin reacted, how it heated at his touch, at how it shivered beneath his fingertips. He cupped the globe of her bottom, smoothing his palm over the soft flesh and then reaching out with a finger to stroke the damp space between the tops of her thighs. At her sudden jerk and yelp of surprise, he tightened his hold on her waist. “Are you sure?”

  Emelia nodded against his chest, and then let out another cry of surprise when she was suddenly on her back and he seemed to hover over the top of her. His lips captured hers in a teasing kiss, one where his lips were barely there and then they were off exploring her jaw, her earlobe, the side of her neck and then back to her lips.

  Her hands smoothed down the sides of his body, her fingers on an expedition to discover the places that had him gasping, had his body shivering or shaking. She was aware of how the tip of his manhood sought her most private place, the velvety rod hard as it slid along her honeyed folds. She had a mind to reach down and help it to its destination, her core throbbing in anticipation.

  “Patience,” he murmured between kisses. “I have a couple of nipples yet to kiss,” he whispered as he held one breast in his palm. “You have such a delectable body, it will take some time to …”

  “Hurry,” Emelia whispered, her questing hand reaching down to discover the balls pressed against her quim. A finger circled the taut flesh, causing Felix to jerk in reflex.

  How did she know to do that? he wondered. When she did it again, this time continuing despite his body’s reaction, he growled. He was about to admonish her when he realized just how ripe and ready her body was for his manhood. Giving her nipple a quick suckle that had her chest rising from the bed, Felix lifted himself over her. “Wrap your legs around my hips,” he whispered as he guided one of her thighs with his hand while he held himself up on the other elbow.

  “Hurry!” she whispered again once her other leg was around his thigh.

  “At your service, my lady,” he managed before he entered her, aware of how her ankles had interlocked each other behind the small of his back.

  The thought of those shapely ankles had his breaths coming faster. He had caught sight of one of them as he had lifted her onto his phaeton, although at the time, it had been covered in a silk stocking. Now both were bare, as was the rest of her body.

  Her nightrail had long ago been stripped from her, his hands smoothing it up and over her body as his lips kissed her from her ankles to her neck. Once it was over her head, he had continued his kisses and strokes and all manner of pleasuring her. Meanwhile, her arms were trapped above her head, encased in the fine lawn sleeves, making it impossible for her hands to deter him from his mission.

  At least, for a few minutes.

  Once his tongue had dipped between her thighs to find her womanhood and stroke it two or three times, she had finished pulling the nightrail from her arms and used her fingernails to stroke his scalp. The memory of it had his entire body shivering in response.

  Now he wondered how he would hold on, how he would delay his ecstasy given her behavior. Her anxious demand had him almost too excited. He would have pushed into her more slowly in deference to her first night as his wife, but her hands had taken hold of his buttocks and pulled him into her—hard. Her wet haven, as tight as it had been the first time he had taken her earlier that night, seemed to undulate around his cock. He groaned in response as she gasped his name.

  Gently! he forced himself to think, although nothing about what she was doing would suggest a gently bred young lady.

  He kissed her then, his lips sliding over hers in a series of short, sweet kisses. “Demure, you are not, my sweeting,” he murmured, pulling himself out of her a bit.

  She shook her head. “Should I be? Now, I mean? Because I thought …”

  He kissed her again, swallowing her words. When he pulled away, he pushed into her again. “No, not in our marriage bed,” he managed to get out before he readied himself for another thrust. “You can be as undemure as you like.”

  When she pushed against him as hard as he pushed into her, Felix nearly let out a curse. “Am I doing this right?” she whispered.

  Leaning down to kiss her one last time, he murmured, “Oh, yes.” Another thrust, and then another and stars appeared before his eyes. Emelia, her head thrown back into the pillow so her neck was completely exposed, cried out his name as her hands gripped the sides of his body. When he was completely spent, the spasms of pleasure having subsided to occasional tickles and twitches, Felix slowly lowered himself until his head settled onto the pillow next to hers.

  He was barely aware of her hands moving to his hips, of her lips leaving a kiss on his shoulder, of her contented sigh as she allowed sleep to take her. But he heard her murmured, “I love you,” before he, too, drifted off to sleep.

  Epilogue

  A Family Affair

  Dear Readers, it seems it’s past time we introduce ourselves as the new editor of The Tattler. The former editor, Mr. Pepperidge, has taken a wife and finds he wishes to spend more time at home than in the office. Fear not, however, for our services were secured for your gossip enjoyment long ago, and we have simply picked up where he left off. In the meantime, he promised you a story about a certain widow and widower who, after marriages to others, rekindled their romance from nearly twenty years ago. We’re sorry to report we still haven’t been able to secure an exclusive for you, but we can report a certain dowager countess is about to give birth to her first baby. Mr. A. Burroughs is said to be ‘over the moon’. We have to wonder just how many of those rooms at Merriweather Manor are set aside for his future brood. ~ The new editor’s article in the February 18, 1819 issue of The Tattler.

  February 20, 1819, Merriweather Manor

  “I swear, I was never this nervous when Bess was giving birth,” Andrew claimed as he paced in front of the desk in the study in Merriweather Manor. He sobered suddenly. “God rest her soul.”

  Older cousins Milton and Gregory Grandby exchanged knowing glances. “If it’s any consolation, I’m always nervous when Christina is in labor. Ten times, so far,” Gregory replied, hoping his words might help his younger cousin. “Although to be fair, it was really only nine times since there was a set of twins in there somewhere.”

  “So far?” the Earl of Torrington repeated, refilling his glass of port. “Do you expect you’ll be having more?”

  Gregory shook his head. “Not really, but French letters aren’t exactly easy to come by these days,” he replied in a hoarse whisper. He held out his own empty glass and the earl saw to filling it.

  “When will we know?” The new patriarch of Merriweather Manor stopped in his tracks and stared at his older cousins. “Will someone come down? Or do I …?”

  Grandby had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud at Andrew. “My countess will let us know. Or Mrs. Grandby will come down,” he added, motioning toward Gregory to indicate his wife, Christina, was with Jane, too. “You really need to relax a bit, Max, or you’re going to hyperventilate and faint.”

  “My money is on him fainting,” Gregory said with a grin.

  “And who is the midwife? She looked rather familiar. Tell me, how can that be?” Andrew pressed, ignoring Gregory’s comment.

  Gregory sighed. “She’s fam
iliar because you met her when you came for dinner at Woodscastle last May. Mrs. Wellingham. She delivered all of my children …”

  Andrew whirled around and stared at his cousin. “Mrs. Wellingham? As in … Emma Fitzsimmons?” He blinked. And blinked again. “The accomptant?”

  The woman who inspired me to work in trade is delivering my baby?

  He shook his head several times. “An accomptant is delivering my baby?”

  This last was asked in a voice so filled with disbelief, the other two men in the study were forced to lean backwards in their chairs before they exchanged quick glances. “Aye,” they both answered in unison.

  “Where is the midwife?”

  Gregory found he had to raise a hand to his mouth in order to hide his sudden humor. Am I this bad when Christina is about to give birth? he wondered. He glanced over at his older cousin, whose own twins were now nearly eighteen months old. How had the earl behaved when he discovered his wife was about to give birth?

  The tip-tap of slippers on the marble in the great hall outside the door brought all three men to their feet. Adele Grandby poked her head around the edge of the half-opened door before she stepped in completely. “You all look as if you’re about to have coronaries,” she accused with a grin as she brought a blanket-wrapped bundle to Andrew. “Max, meet your new son,” she announced as she placed the babe into his arms.

  Andrew’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of the wrinkled, red face that poked out from inside the blanket. A shock of dark hair, still wet from its rinse in warm water, was apparent. “How is she? How’s Jane?”

  Angling her head to one side, Adele sighed. “She’s fine. Tired, of course. Sleeping for now.”

  “Can I see her?” he asked as his cousins were suddenly on either side of him, staring down at the bundle he held.

  “He’s as ugly as George was,” Grandby remarked, immediately regretting the comment when Adele gave him a quelling glance and a hushed, “Milton!”