“Fustian,” she said, rolling her teary eyes at his declaration, though her whole being flushed with warmth at his words. “Such a romantic,” she murmured, managing a bit of her usual exasperation.
“I am half French, my dear,” he replied with a wry smile. “And I don’t give one single damn about this Joseph Ketterer fellow, other than whether or not he’s man enough to face me in a dawn appointment.”
“Johann Klemmer,” she corrected. “And there shall be no more dawn appointments.”
“We shall see about that. I am rather old hat at them, and for once I have something worth fighting for. For I shall fight for you ’til the bitter end, Katie. You shall have to press gang me to the Colonies to be rid of me.”
“You are ridiculous,” she declared, though the fight had gone out of her. She didn’t know why she was fighting in the first place. It had to be her lingering disbelief over her good fortune. It was, after all, quite difficult to wrap her head around the fact that Sebastian was real, let alone hers. It was just too good to be true.
She ran her shaking fingers through his curls, smiling tentatively up at him. He intercepted the hand and kissed the back of it, then turned it over, palm up, a bit of her narrow wrist exposed. He took his tongue and traced it over the valley of her palm, up the swell of flesh that connected her thumb to her wrist, and then halted on the delicate skin covering her pulse. She moaned at the sensation.
When he was done, he raised his head and searched out her eyes. He frowned at whatever he saw there and leaned in close, licking the tears away until they stopped completely.
Before she could draw another shuddering breath, he moved even nearer to her, until she could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint scent of vanilla cake and the bergamot that seemed permanently ingrained in his skin, along with the musky-sweet scent of their earlier exertions. Her breath quickened as his hands gently grazed her cheeks, then slid down her throat and over the curve of her shoulders, knocking the gown to the floor once more. She stepped out of it and into his arms completely, still reeling with happiness.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck. She could feel his grin against her skin.
“So you liked my tulips and the book of duets, did you?” he teased.
She was a bit disoriented from all of the wooing, but she managed to nod.
“I knew it,” he murmured, hugging her even closer.
“Do you know what I liked even better?” she asked a few moments later, her head tucked against his shoulder, her whole body blushing at her boldness.
“What?”
She palmed the front of his breeches, and he gasped in shocked pleasure. “Take me back to bed and I shall show you.”
AN HOUR LATER, Sebastian leaned back exhaustedly against the Broadwood’s keyboard and cradled Katherine as close as he could, given the narrow confines of the piano stool, his shoulder blades digging into the black keys. They had not made it back to the bedroom after all. He grinned and placed a warm, wet kiss against her panting lips. Victory had never tasted—or felt—sweeter.
And there was no doubt that there had been a victory here tonight. However, the question of who had conquered whom was one that Sebastian suspected would never be properly answered.
Chapter Seventeen
In Which Our Rude Mechanicals Plot Against the Quality
NESTLED BEHIND THE White House, the home to Soho Square’s finest barques of frailty, and just in front of a declining French Protestant mission, was a ramshackle boarding house that would have given even Sebastian Sherbrook at his most insolvent some pause before inhabiting. However, for Pete Soames’s cousin Jem—a barker for the brothel, who rented out the top floor with his missus, also a former employee of the White House—it was a fine piece of real estate indeed.
Soames also found it a useful place to house the spoils of their after-hours activities, given his wife’s last ultimatum when she’d come across said spoils in her own home. In this case, however, it had been a bitch, quite literally, to haul their captive, lately of Bruton Street, up five flights of stairs in the middle of the night. They both bore the teeth and claw marks to prove it.
Poor Jem’s personal affairs had suffered even worse in the few short hours of Belle du Jour’s tenure in Soho. Though Jem’s wife was usually quite agreeable about such matters, since her former career had lowered her expectations when it came to men (much to Jem’s advantage), even the promise of future wealth was not enough to tempt her to stay another hour under the same roof as the dog. She had decamped to the White House to stay with her sister. Jem hadn’t the energy to protest her departure after a night battling what he was truly convinced was a two-stone, monkey-faced, carnivorous demon sent from hell.
And the unreasonable amount of shedding was just not on. Dog hair gave him a rheumy nose—another reason his wife had decided to holiday elsewhere—and Belle du Jour produced it in alarming abundance. Jem was beginning to wonder why anyone would pay money for the little monster, much less a fortune. He was of a mind to pay someone else all he had in the world to get rid of it.
Soames held firm on his promises to Jem, however, though he’d been conveniently absent during most of the miserable night. But, upon his return in the late hours of the morning, Belle du Jour certainly hadn’t discriminated in her favors, much to Jem’s secret delight. She’d latched straight onto Soames and had not let go. He’d thought it only fair that his cousin enjoy the same agonies of the flesh that he had over the course of the evening.
After Her Majesty had taken a good chunk out of his favorite red waistcoat, Soames had been tempted to kick the bloody cur into the wall, as he hadn’t the gentle disposition of his cousin. Only the clink of golden guineas in his head had restrained him. He’d never see his money if the bitch was roughed up, which was a shame, since he really wanted to do some roughing up. The waistcoat was custom.
He settled on cursing loudly and nudging the creature back with his boot. She growled at the offending object and began to gnaw on the leather sole. He was afraid to pull his foot away for fear of retaliation, so he stood balanced on one leg while Belle du Jour had her wicked way.
“If ye weren’t worth a fortune, Yer Majesty,” he said sweetly, “I’d turn ye into a new pair of boots.”
The pug snarled at him, jumped up, and bit his thigh. Damned if the monster didn’t understand the King’s English.
He shrieked and backed away while she regrouped, taking cover behind a chair with Jem. His cousin was nursing his own wounds and eyeing the animal warily.
He didn’t remember Her Majesty being so bloody temperamental at their first brief meeting outside the duc’s residence. Then again, he didn’t recall the beastie having such long hair or such a prodigious belly either.
“Ye sure that’s a dog, Petey?” Jem asked querulously.
Soames had his private doubts, but he kept them to himself. There was no need to alarm Jem, who was already whingeing enough about the job as it was. The man had no stomach for Soames’s more adventuresome carryings on, though he liked the blunt they provided well enough.
“She’ll calm down soon enough,” he said, trying to sound convincing.
“It’s been bleedin’ ’alf a day!”
“Exactly.”
Jem glared at his cousin, then took cover behind him as the beastie advanced upon them once more with a snarl. He scrabbled for the kitchen and threw a cut of lamb scrag at the creature’s head. It yelped in surprise, sniffed the meat, then proceeded to devour it, appeased for the moment.
But not for long, as they’d learned the hard way. The little demon could eat. Fast.
“When’s the demmed Frog comin’ to sort it out, Petey?” Jem whined during the reprieve. “I can’t take much more of this. I already owe the butcher a bloody song. She’ll eat me to the poorhouse if I doan get my cut soon.”
“The Frog ain’t comin’ an
ytime soon,” Soames muttered.
“Wot! Why the bloody buggering ’ell not?”
“Because I ’aven’t tole ’im I got ’Er Majesty yet,” Soames retorted, as if he were talking to an imbecile.
“Are you dicked in the nob? I truly fink she’s possessed by the devil hisself, an’ I’m this close to callin’ in the Frenchie reverend wot lives out back for an extortion, I swear I am!”
“It’s an exoneration yer finkin’ of, Jem,” Soames said with all the assurance of the ignorant. “Not a bloody extortion. That sounds like somethin’ yer wife an’ ’er sister gets up to next door.”
Jem’s complexion got a bit red at the mention of his freshly estranged wife and her former profession, so Soames thought it best to move the conversation along before Jem’s pliant disposition was tested too far. “Just a day more, I swear,” Soames said soothingly. “I ’ave a new plan what’s gonna make us twice as much blunt.”
“Wot!” Jem exclaimed, unappeased. “No new plan! I like the old plan. The old plan was fine. Return the bloody pug, collect the bloody reward.”
“That was afore ’Er Majesty ended up at the Marchioness of Mandarin’s. It’s called hoggin’ our bets, Jem.”
Jem didn’t think it was.
“Now we got two rich coves what’s gonna pay a mint to ’ave their precious little tart back,” Soames continued with satisfaction.
“There ain’t nuffin’ precious about that demon spawn,” Jem muttered as he watched the smelly little beastie deposit its latest gift in one of his wife’s best Sunday shoes. “An’ I didn’t sign up to bloody blackmail some rich toffs. It’s a bit too rich for my blood.”
“Mate, we do this, we’ll be one of them rich toffs,” Soames declared, rocking back on his heels. “Trust me.”
Jem hadn’t heard that before from his cousin. But he’d held out this long, he supposed he could hold out for a bit more. Besides, the pug had nearly destroyed everything within her reach already. It wasn’t as if she could do much more damage. Unless she got hold of his ankles again.
He sighed. He’d make another trip to the butcher’s and go along with Soames’s plans. For now. He’d reserve his final judgment on the matter until dawn, then decide whether to abandon his cousin to his fate.
Meanwhile, in the Slightly Less Dodgy Part of Soho . . .
SEBASTIAN SIGHED BLISSFULLY as buckets and buckets of glorious morning light poured through the bedroom window straight into his eyeballs. Crick had just taken it upon himself to shift the curtains back to let him enjoy the morning glow, the angel. He rolled over onto his stomach and stretched languorously, reveling in the warm sun and listening to the sound of Crick whistling as he polished Sebastian’s new tasseled boots.
Sebastian threw a pillow at Crick’s knotty head out of habit when he’d basked long enough.
“Awake, are we, milord?” Crick said rather knowingly, effortlessly placing a mysteriously materialized breakfast tray down on the table next to Sebastian’s head.
Sebastian shifted himself into an upright position and moved the tray to his lap with alacrity. He was starving. The cake, though plentiful, had not been a very filling dinner. He tucked in to the perfectly poached eggs and rashers of bacon, then moved on to smearing orange marmalade over crisp slices of toast.
“Crick, you are a culinary genius,” he declared, and Crick smiled brightly.
When Crick smiled brightly, he resembled a banged-up bulldog. Or a pug. It was rather charming. No wonder he’d managed to snare a fine girl like Polly. He supposed Crick’s familiarity with the language of flowers hadn’t hurt his courtship of the maid either.
“Crick, I feel like a new man,” he said.
“I bet you do,” Crick murmured, only barely restraining his smirk. Crick knew precisely how much of a new man his lordship was, since he had been the one to discreetly escort the marchioness back to her house just before dawn, but Sebastian decided to ignore this and all future ribbing from his manservant. He was in too good a mood to let anything dampen it.
“What time is it?”
“It’s eight, milord.”
“Eight already?” he cried, throwing his half-eaten toast aside and swigging down his tea as fast as he could. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
Crick rolled his eyes. “Her ladyship does not expect you ’til noon. She tole me to tell you that you needed yer beauty sleep.”
“Did she?” He was not going to even bother to figure out if Crick was winding him up or not. Beauty sleep indeed. As if he needed that. “Nevertheless, I need to visit Bond Street before I go to Katie’s, Crick. She said she liked the tulips after all, though I had to drag it out of her tooth and nail. Intractable woman. I need more flowers to sweeten her up, Crick.”
“You ain’t sweetened ’er up enough last night, milord?” Crick asked, sounding completely serious.
“I am not taking any chances, now that I’ve hooked her,” he said with a grin, only half serious. He’d done some thorough wooing the night before and had very few qualms left about the state of Katherine’s heart. “But first, I need a bath and a shave.”
Crick gestured behind him, where the copper tub was already set up, steaming with hot water.
“Good man,” Sebastian said, throwing off his sheet and striding over to the tub in his altogether while Crick politely averted his eyes. “You are a gem, Crick. I’m glad I didn’t sack you.”
“Not this week, at least,” Crick retorted.
Sebastian sank his long, aching limbs into the steaming water with a contented sigh, reliving every moment of the previous night in his head . . . or as much of it as he could without embarrassing himself in front of his manservant.
“Tell me more about this language of flowers, Crick.”
“I fought you said it were bloody useless nonsense, milord,” Crick deadpanned as he scrubbed his master’s back.
“Perhaps I was a bit hasty,” Sebastian conceded.
Crick grinned at the back of Sebastian’s head and decided to go easy on him. It was not every day one’s master had his wick dipped for the first time, after all. “Then I suggest you go with camellias, milord.”
BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK, Sebastian was stepping out of the florist’s armed with a big bouquet of red and white camellias and an even bigger grin, and by half eleven, he was at the marchioness’s doorstep, lifting the door knocker and studying his gleaming tasseled Hessian boots while he waited for Bentley. It seemed the icing had had a surprisingly salubrious effect on the sheen of the leather. They’d never looked better. He’d have to get Crick to charm the recipe off of Montford’s French chef. For the boots . . . and perhaps for an encore performance of last night.
He cleared his throat and tried to temper his lascivious grin before he scared someone with it.
He was soon greeted at the door by Bentley and Mongrel, who nipped at his breeches for his attention. He held the bouquet away from her greedy mouth and patted her head until she was satisfied, then followed her wagging stub of a tail toward the drawing room, ignoring Bentley’s ridiculous request for his calling card. As if he hadn’t spent a good part of the month living there.
The minute he spied Katherine, clinging to Seamus and near to tears inside the drawing room, however, he knew something was dreadfully wrong. His stomach fell to the floor as an awful sense of déjà vu descended. If this went anything like his last visit to Bruton Street, he was going to go throw himself into the Serpentine and put everyone out of their misery.
He turned to Bentley and scowled, but the man gave him only the vaguest of shrugs by way of an apology. He’d never understood why butlers had to be so bloody impassive. It wouldn’t have killed the man to give him a little forewarning about what he was walking into instead of pestering him for a card.
Butlers. As unfathomable a species as women, it seemed.
After last night, he rather dou
bted Katherine had changed her mind about him, but something was wrong enough to make her cry, and that was unacceptable. They’d had enough tears for a lifetime, and he’d not have her shedding any more if he had anything to say about it.
He didn’t even bother trying to give Katherine the camellias this time, for she didn’t even seem to notice him, much less the flowers. He handed them off to Bentley to tend to and girded his loins, determined to slay whatever new dragon had reduced her to this wretched state.
The moment Bentley left the room, Katherine flung herself into his arms, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “Oh, Sebastian!” she cried. “They’ve taken Penny!”
He had expected a bit more reticence, even after what they had shared last night. Though he wondered why he tried to predict anything when it came to her anymore. For someone so naturally cautious, she seemed to find herself in one preposterous predicament after another. Or maybe it was just her proximity to him that had introduced such chaos into her life, since his life had been preposterous for years.
Whatever the case, he squeezed her close, because he could, and enjoyed the warm, soft feel of her skin and the fresh, clean scent of her hair.
“What is it, darling?” he murmured, inwardly thrilling over using the endearment. “Who’s taken her?”
“Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be dithering here, would I?” she asked with a little of her usual bite, pulling away from him. He liked the bite. He didn’t necessarily like the pulling-away-from-him part, however.
“Someone burgled the house last night and took Penny,” she continued.
Just as he’d thought. Preposterous.
“Just Penny?” he asked, a bit incredulous. “Are you sure she didn’t get locked in the back garden, or escape into the street?”
She pulled away for good at that and eyed him as if he were being ridiculous. He suppressed his grin. How he loved it when her dander was up! “Escape? Penny hardly moves from her divan, much less contemplates escape. And she is not in the back garden. I’ve looked.”
Virtuous Scoundrel (The Regency Romp Trilogy Book 2) Page 22
