Never Lie to a Lady

by Liz Carlyle

  “Yes, gardy-loo!” shouted Gibbons, with a waggle of his fingers. “Have a lovely day!”

  Nash withdrew from the window. “You needn’t take your snit out on innocent passersby,” he said. “If you must ruin someone’s wardrobe, let it be the usual one—mine.”

  Gibbons threw his arms over his chest. “Oh, this is all about your scorched cravat, isn’t it?” he said. “Well, you can thank Mr. Vernon for that one! It was he who overheated the irons, then set them on the worktable, innocent as a little lamb!”

  “Vernon has the evening off, too,” Nash reminded him. “And he’s damned grateful for it.” He had returned to the pier glass to stare at the lapels of his frock coat. “What do you think? Ought I have chosen the bottle green?”

  “It depends,” said Gibbons, “on whether or not she’ll be sober enough to notice what color you are wearing.”

  Nash drew away from the mirror, and this time his glower made Gibbons blanch. “She is not that sort of woman,” he said coldly.

  The valet clasped his hands together. “Oh, I knew it,” he said. “I just knew it! You have planned some sort of tryst!”

  “Of course I have,” Nash snapped. “Why else would I suffer the inconvenience of waiting on myself?”

  Gibbons’s elation faded to curiosity. “Have you got rid of the Henrietta Street house?”

  “No.” Nash felt a faint heat rise to his face. “She is not that sort of woman, either.”

  Gibbons’s expression faltered. “Dear God!” he said. “Oh, heavens!”

  “What now?”

  “Monsieur René will not approve.”

  “I had not planned to ask his permission,” said Nash, turning his head to brush his knuckles assessingly over his fresh shave.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Gibbons. “He does not approve of females.”

  “He’s the bloody chef,” said Nash. “What business is it of his?”

  “He will give you the sack,” warned Gibbons.

  “I am the employer,” Nash reminded him. “I do the sacking. And remind me again, Gibbons—why is it I don’t sack you?”

  “Because your last three valets quit,” he answered. “You are difficult to work for. You have moods, sir. And you keep odd hours. You come home with your person and your clothes in a shambles. And you definitely don’t do the sacking where René is concerned.”

  “He won’t know a thing about this, Gibbons, unless you open your big mouth.”

  The valet laughed. “Oh, sir, you are deluding yourself if you think it will stop at this.”

  Nash looked at him incredulously. “If what will stop at what?”

  “A female in the house.” Gibbons was holding a finger in the air now. “Once you’ve let that sort in, my lord, they never go out again. Not really.”

  “What sort?” he demanded. “I told you, she is extremely respectable.”

  “And that, sir, is the very trouble,” said Gibbons. “You are having a tryst with a respectable lady. Next you know, you’ll be caught in the parson’s mousetrap—and perfectly pleased about it, I daresay. But René shan’t be pleased. He’ll be on the first mail packet out of Dover.”

  Nash grunted. “René shall have nothing to worry about,” he replied, returning to his mirror. “There will be no mousetrap—of anyone’s making.”

  Gibbons drew in his breath sharply. “My lord! I am shocked. Simply shocked.”

  “You’ve never been shocked a day in your life,” muttered Nash, wondering if perhaps breeches and boots would look more—well, more dashing than ordinary trousers. “What the devil are you squawking about, anyway?”

  “I am shocked that you would invite a lady into your home with dishonorable intentions.”

  “You know nothing of my intentions, Gibbons,” he snapped. “We’ll be playing piquet for all you know.”

  “Now, that I truly doubt,” said the valet. “Has she a husband?”

  “Well…no,” he admitted. “Those are the sort I do take to Henrietta Street.”

  “Then this is an outrage!” said the valet. “Sir, I must insist you make an honest woman of this well-bred young lady.”

  “You do not know if she is young or well-bred or has two heads, Gibbons, so mind your own business.”

  But his valet was making Nash dashed uneasy. Was this not the very argument he’d already had with himself a dozen times over the last week? And neither side had won. Instead, he had let Miss Neville sink her claws back into his hide—his weak-willed, quixotic hide—whilst he surrendered to desire.

  Well, weak-willed he might be, but this argument was over. He went to the chair by the dressing room door, and picked up Gibbons’s portmanteau. Just then, Vernon, the footman, entered. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but there’s a van round back.”

  “A van?”

  “Yes, my lord. He said he came round to the front as he was told, but someone threw cold coffee on his head.”

  Nash scowled at Gibbons.

  “In any case, he’s round back now, unloading boxes,” said Vernon. “He says they are for you.”

  “Boxes?” said Gibbons as the footman vanished. “What sort of boxes?”

  “Bloody greenhouses!” said Nash under his breath.

  Gibbons looked at him incredulously. “I beg your pardon? Did you say greenhouses?”

  Nash turned to look at him. “I might have done,” he said. “What of it?”

  “A greenhouse with boxes?”

  Nash shrugged sheepishly. “I got rather carried away,” he answered. “And the fellow’s turned up an hour early.”

  “I think,” said Gibbons, “that you have lost your mind.”

  Nash was afraid to answer that. He rather thought perhaps he had lost his mind. Nowadays, his every deed—and his every thought—seemed most out of character. This entire plan reeked of scandal and danger—not to mention absurdity. And now the flowers were starting to arrive. What in God’s name had possessed him to order them? Perhaps Gibbons was right. Perhaps he was simply poking one toe over a dangerous, slippery slope.

  Ah, well! Too late to worry about it now.

  “Here,” he said, thrusting the portmanteau at Gibbons. “Give my regards to your sister.”

  Xanthia arrived home that evening and went straight upstairs to her bedchamber. “Tell my brother that I have a headache and shan’t be dining with him tonight,” she instructed the housemaid who answered her bell. “And be so good as to send up hot water for my bath—lots of it, please.”

  The maid nodded sympathetically. “A hot bath’ll do you good, miss, to be sure.”

  Once the old brass slipper-tub was pulled from the dressing room and filled, Xanthia dismissed the servants, saying she was going straight to bed and did not wish to be disturbed again. Then she slipped into the deep, hot water and tried to steady her nerves—or perhaps her anticipation was a better word.

  Tonight she would make love with Nash. Not some impulsive, illicit act performed in haste and desperation, but a slow and deliberate savoring of one another. And Nash was a man well worth savoring. With a deep exhalation, Xanthia let her head fall back against the high rim, and slid deeper into the bath.

  Perhaps she should have been more apprehensive. Nash was a connoisseur of female flesh. He had doubtless made love to many women; women skilled in the arts of arousal and satisfaction. Xanthia, by contrast, knew little about either. But strangely, she felt she knew Nash. He was intrigued with her, of that Xanthia had little doubt. Whether or not simple intrigue would become anything more remained to be seen. Xanthia accepted that life was fraught with uncertainties, and she had learned to take her pleasure—and her comfort—where and when she could. She would take all that Lord Nash could offer her, and be glad of it. She would not look beyond tonight.

  So resolved, Xanthia took up the soap and her brush, and scrubbed herself head to toe, all the while thinking of Nash. In the warm, sudsy water, she lifted her breasts in her hands. She was no beauty, it was true, but she was made gen
erously enough, she thought. She had the sort of trim, vigorous body which some men appreciated—Nash apparently amongst them. Last night, despite his obvious anger and frustration, the simmering heat in his gaze had been unmistakable.

  And tonight…would he look at her again in just that way? Would his black eyes melt with ardor as he stripped the clothes from her body? At the mere thought, something in Xanthia’s stomach seemed to twist; it was a sweet, yearning sensation which melted through her body, leaving her longing for something ill defined. But Nash would know just what she needed. Xanthia understood that instinctively. She touched herself there—where his mouth had been but a few days past—and shivered with anticipation.

  Good Lord, it was time to get dressed.

  She dried, and drew on one of her few extravagances—hideously expensive silk undergarments. Soon, a dozen dresses had been drawn from her wardrobe, and rejected again. Xanthia, who scarce gave a thought to her wardrobe, was suddenly beset by doubt. She held up two gowns, studying each in the mirror. What did the well-dressed woman wear to an assignation? Red? She wrinkled her nose and tossed it aside. Deep blue silk? Xanthia lifted it higher and remembered Mr. Kemble’s advice. That shade of blue did indeed do wonders for her eyes.

  When she was dressed in her dark cloak and veil, Xanthia slipped down the back stairs and out the rear door. She made her way through Mayfair, once again shrouded in fog, but not quite the all-enveloping pea soup of the previous evening. She wondered vaguely if Mr. Kemble was following her. Someone likely was—and for all his protestations, she rather doubted Kemble had entrusted the job to another.

  But she would not think of that, nor of what de Vendenheim had asked of her. The intrigues of men no longer interested Xanthia; she wished only to prove Nash’s innocence and move on with her life. The identity of de Vendenheim’s mysterious villain was best left to the devices of those more clever—and more concerned—than she.

  It was an easy enough task to go through the mews and identify Nash’s house. His was the only door lit. She made her way through the gloom, and went up the three steps to the stoop. But when she lifted her hand to knock, the door opened. Nash stood on the threshold, his wide, solid shoulders blocking the dimly lit passageway beyond.

  “You came,” he said.

  “Yes.” She stepped inside and lifted off the veiled hat, cutting a sidelong glance at him. Tonight he was dressed for the comfort of his own home, wearing no coat, but only a waistcoat of muted black brocade. His shirtsleeves billowed faintly around his arms, and he wore his hair caught back in a black silk cord, a look which was unfashionable yet, on him, quite striking.

  He lifted her cloak from her shoulders. For an instant, they stood there awkwardly. Then Xanthia cupped his face in her hands and rose onto her tiptoes to set her cheek to his. “I came.”

  A hard, strong arm banded about her waist, whilst his opposite hand settled almost comfortingly between her shoulder blades. He buried his face in her loosely arranged hair. “Is it wrong of me to wish to see you so desperately?” he whispered.

  Xanthia laughed a little nervously. “What choice did you have?” she answered. “I have thrust myself upon you.”

  Nash heard the edge in Xanthia’s voice. He set her away and slid his wide, warm palms around her face. “You mustn’t think that,” he whispered, his eyes roaming over her face. “I want you madly, Zee.” Nonetheless, at that moment, Nash was questioning his own sanity and wondering if there was any way he could summon the fortitude to kiss her quickly then send her back out the door.

  No. He knew it the instant he felt her lush breasts against his chest. Their lips had not met, and yet the hot rush of desire already pooled heavily in his loins. She must have sensed it, for she lifted her chin, and parted her lips enticingly. Her rich blue eyes were soft and welcoming in the dim light of the corridor. He took her lips in a kiss which became endless in its sweetness. Over and over Nash kissed her, slanting his mouth over hers in caresses which left them both weak-kneed and a little shaken.

  “Zee, come upstairs.” He whispered the words against her lips. “I should be patient, love, but it is beyond me.”

  Xanthia’s dark lashes lowered, feathering across her ivory cheeks. “I wish you to make love to me, Nash,” she rasped. “Slowly—as if we had all the time in the world. Not just a few stolen moments. Not just this one night.”

  This one night. Was that all she meant it to be?

  It would be wise of her, but Nash could not bear to think of it. And although it was a romantic, almost silly gesture, he swept her off her feet and into his arms. She pressed her cheek against the softness of his coat, and, suddenly, it did not feel silly at all. She said nothing as he carried her up the two flights of steps to his suite.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he murmured.

  He laid her down in the middle of his bed and set his knee to the mattress. Half of her long, heavy hair had already slipped from its loose arrangement, and was cascading across the brocade of his coverlet like a waterfall of dark silk. Her hands lay to either side of her head, her fingers gently curled to her palms, in an almost submissive gesture, and Nash was struck with the almost primitive urge to take her—to take her fiercely, to bind her to him then and there, without another word.

  But it was then that she noticed the flowers. She sat up a little and looked about in obvious amazement. “Good heavens!” she murmured. “Hibiscus blossoms? Nash, what on earth?”

  He braced one hand on the headboard, leaned over her. “I thought they might remind you of home.”

  Vases of tropical hibiscus blossoms were everywhere— pink, peach, and even crimson—and the bed on which she lay had been scattered with petals. Nash plucked a pink one from a vase by the bed—a huge, double-blossomed beauty, and passed it to her.

  Xanthia held it to her nose to inhale the familiar scent. “Oh, they do, remind me of home,” she murmured. “Do you know, we had an entire hedge of these round our house. Goodness, Nash, where did you find so many?”

  “I robbed every hothouse in the south of England,” he confessed.

  Her eyes widened farther still, and she laughed. “You didn’t?”

  “Well, my messengers probably harangued them until they likely wished I had.” He took her empty hand in his. “But you struck me as the sort of woman who ought to be made love to on a bed of flower petals—and what better than these?”

  She drew the blossom down the turn of his jaw. “Ah, it seems I have you in my power,” she said. “You must want desperately to please me.”

  Nash gave a sharp laugh. “My dear, I think I should hate you to know just how desperate.”

  Xanthia stroked the flower beneath his chin. “Then undress for me,” she whispered. “I wish to see something beautiful.”

  “That’s what the hibiscus blossoms were for,” he teased. “Have my poor florists suffered for naught?”

  “Oh, Nash, you wretch!” She choked out the word on a sound which was half a laugh, but perhaps half a sob, too. “Damn you for being such a—a romantic! They are beautiful—too beautiful. What kind of libertine are you, sprinkling hibiscus petals over your bed?”

  He carried her knuckles to his lips. “I am wooing you, you practical-minded shrew,” he said, kissing the back of her hand. “Be still, and let me properly seduce you.”

  “Properly seduce was not the phrase I had in mind,” she assured him, sitting up amidst the flower petals, and kicking off her slippers. “Undress for me, Nash. Please. I want to feast my eyes on something that is both beautiful and wicked.”

  Nash felt suddenly taken aback. Oh, he had undressed for women a thousand times—but what she asked for—it was somehow more than he had given before. But her hands were already at his cravat, and in seconds, she was unfurling it from his neck like an expert.

  He looked down at her, and lifted one eyebrow.

  “Two brothers,” she answered dryly. “Brothers who often came home cup-shot, only to promptly pass out. Valets were in short
supply—but I am, if I do say so myself, not a bad one.”

  Her clever fingers were already slipping free the buttons of his waistcoat. She pushed it from his shoulders, taking his braces with it. Nash drew his shirt hems from his trousers and dragged it off over his head. He was gratified by a sharp inhalation of breath—the unmistakable sound of feminine appreciation.

  Xanthia leaned into him, lifting her mouth to his. As their already-swollen lips met, she began to deftly unfasten his trousers. But Nash kissed her lingeringly, refusing to be hurried despite the increasingly urgent sound of her breathing.

  By God, the woman was not going to rush him into scratching an itch that could not wait. It very well would wait—and by the time he had done with her, Nash vowed, she’d be on her knees and shedding the tears of a grateful woman. He pushed her back down into the softness of the bed, braced his hands beside her shoulders, and told her so, in no uncertain words.

  Xanthia’s eyes widened, and her chest rose with a deep, anticipatory breath. Nash got up, ruthlessly toed off his slippers, then shucked off trousers, stockings, and drawers in one practiced move.

  On the bed, Xanthia swallowed. Hard. “Oh, my!” she whispered, her eyes trailing lower. And lower. “You really are…quite magnificent.”

  Nash was no longer sure that was so—he had long ago ceased to be a beautiful boy, but was instead a man—in his prime, yes, but with all the attendant battle scars. He accepted her compliment, however, and drew her up from the bed.

  “Now, wench, it is your turn,” he answered. Quickly, he unbuttoned her gown down the back. It sagged open to reveal an elegant chemise of fine white silk and a pair of slender shoulder blades that made his mouth go strangely dry.

  They were just shoulder blades. Good God. He drew the pins from her hair, then sat down and pulled her a little roughly between his thighs. Xanthia watched almost passively as he divested her of most of her garments, until at last he was rolling her stockings down her legs. But when she was then left in nothing but her drawers, she crossed her arms a little shyly over her bare breasts, and looked away.