“Sing ‘A, B, C’ for Papa,” Claire said.
“A, B, C lellem nenopee,” warbled the child.
“That was outstanding,” Flavian assured her. “Someday you’ll sing as beautifully as—” Claire caught his eye as a slice of pain darted through his heart. He grieved for Arabella, and still prayed . . . prayed that she’d found peace, as he had found happiness.
“I ate a carrot today, Papa,” said Sarah, interrupting his thoughts.
“What an amazing child. You shall find wonderful things under the Christmas tree tomorrow morning, I just know it.”
“A doll?”
“Perhaps a doll.”
“A sweet?”
“Maybe a sweet.”
“What else?”
“Certainly a carrot.”
Sarah burst into giggles.
The governess leaned over Claire’s shoulder, “A slate to teach you how to write those ABCs. It’s time we left your parents to get ready for the Christmas ball.”
The little girl wrapped her arms about her mother’s neck. “Mama, you look like a cake,” she whispered not too quietly.
Claire laughed. “I shall take that as the highest compliment.” She kissed Sarah’s rosy cheek and handed her to the governess, who carried her to Flavian for a goodnight peck. “Sleep sound, turtledove.” He patted the little girl’s chubby knee, exposed under the bunched fabric of her nightgown. “The magic doesn’t happen unless you’re fast asleep.”
“I’ll be like this,” Sarah said, closing her eyes tight and dropping her head on the governess’s shoulder.
Flavian smiled. “Good girl.”
When the governess had gone, Simmons held a hand mirror for Flavian to inspect the cravat. “Nicely done.”
Claire swung her feet onto a footstool. The skirt of her gown flipped up, exposing a trim ankle and the lacy edge of her petticoat. Flavian’s blood quickened. Oh, to be that petticoat sliding against those alabaster legs. The valet crossed in front of him, blocking his view; deliberately, Flavian was sure. He battled a desire to hoist Simmons up and drop him outside the door so that he could be alone with his wife. The valet persisted in his work, however, despite Flavian’s impatient exhalation. With a few quick whisks of a brush to the epaulets of the Royal Navy dress jacket, the valet stood back and examined his work.
“How do I look?” Flavian asked, stepping around the man.
“Ready for duty,” said Claire, with a sly smile.
“My lord, we need to buckle your sword.” Simmons ceremoniously presented the weapon.
“Ah yes, heaven forbid I should be seen in public without that unnecessary, uncomfortable piece of metal banging my leg.”
Claire smiled. “But it’s ever so dashing.” She bit her lower lip, and reached for a cordial perched on a table by her wing chair. Ever so subtly, she opened her thighs beneath the rich green silk of her evening gown.
Flavian raised a brow, and she raised one back. Simmons fiddled with the clasp to the sword belt. “Raise your hand please, my lord.” Flavian obliged.
His wife’s bare arm, luminous in the candlelight, brought the cordial to her lips. One tiny pearl of liquid remained, reflecting like a droplet of rain at the centre of a rose. An ache surged through his body. “And now, Simmons, you will have to excuse us.”
A knowing smile tweaked the corners of Claire’s mouth. Wickedly, and clearly without a thought to the hard work of his valet, the vixen moved her elevated foot in a lazy circle.
“But my lord,” Simmons said, sounding slightly panicked, “you’ll be late for the ball.”
Leaning over her, Flavian breathed in the sweet perfume of his wife’s hair then ran his hands down her naked arms. Claire rose into his embrace, her body heating beneath his touch.
Simmons, tisking like a disappointed school marm, headed for the door.
“We’ll be down . . . in due time,” Flavian murmured. And when the latch clicked, he whispered in her ear, “Let’s unwrap a present.”
—The End—
About the Author
Elf Ahearn
Elf Ahearn - Elf Ahearn, yes, that is her real name, lives in New York with her wonderful husband and a pesky (yet irresistible) cat. Before becoming a novelist, she spent 20 years in Manhattan working as an actress in nearly 100 productions (yet rarely being paid for any of them). From that lucrative career, she jumped to journalism, and then to corporate communications where she garnered multiple awards for a newsletter she wrote and edited. Her novel, A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing hit #1 in its genre on Amazon this September, and bless its heart, has been consistently selling for over a year.
Website: www.elfahearn.com
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TEMPTED BY A ROGUE
Lauren Smith
Tempted by a Rogue: Chapter One
Midhurst, West Sussex 1817
White and pink roses formed spots of striking color against the dense green hedges as Gemma Haverford walked through the gardens of her home. She let her fingertips touch the petals of the roses as she headed toward the center of the garden. Twilight was her favorite time of day. Birds began to quiet their singing, the sunlight softened, giving everything a soft glow. Gemma took a seat on a cool marble bench at the center of the maze of hedges and rosebushes. Her hands trembled as she smoothed out her skirts. She was anxious enough that her knees knocked together too, but she couldn’t banish her nerves.
It wasn’t every day that she wore her best gown, an almost sheer sky blue silk, for a secret garden rendezvous. Everything needed to be perfect. She’d gone to great effort to have her lady’s maid tame the wild waves of her hair and help to slightly dampen her gown to cling better to her form, which bore only the veiled protection of a single filmy shift.
She had to look her best tonight. At twenty-five she was past the age where most women found it easy to marry. One of her distant cousins had callously remarked earlier that year that she was so far back on the shelf that she was collecting dust. Gemma, feeling a little too irritated at the remark, and having one too many cups of arrack punch, had sneezed at him as though he was the one covered in dust. Not her finest moment, she had nearly dissolved in a fit of unladylike giggles at his horrified expression when he’d struggled to find the handkerchief in his waistcoat to wipe his face.
There was a very good reason she hadn’t married, but she couldn’t tell anyone, not even her parents why she’d turned down more than one suitor over the years. For eleven years she had kept herself out of the hunt for husbands, believing, knowing that she would marry one man, James Randolph, her childhood sweetheart.
He and his best friend, Jasper Holland, had enlisted in His Majesty’s Navy as young midshipman. James had been fourteen and Jasper, half a year older, had been fifteen. For eleven long years the two men had been gone, making their fortunes on the high seas, but now they set to return home, to marry and settle down. She’d not seen them in all that time, but she knew in her heart of hearts, that James was coming for her. His letters to her had been steady and filled with reassurances of his affection and his intent to marry her as soon as he came home. And now it was time.
What would he be like after so many years? Had he changed like she had? Grown taller, more muscular, more handsome than the wild young man who’d dashed off to sea? Would he be stern as a husband after commanding men and war ships? Or would he be gentle with her after so many hard years at sea, and want nothing more than a quiet country life full of friends and family within an easy walk of one’s home? It was what she’d always wanted. She’d never cared for London and the fast pace of the city. She adored the country, the birds, the green lands, the sheep, even the garden parties that her neighbors threw often were an amusement she enjoyed. Would James want the same thing?
Gemma nibbled her bottom lip, glancing about the gardens. Wisteria hung over trellises to the entrance of this particular part of the garden, the
thick blooms almost like wildflowers strung on green vines over the white painted wood. How lovely it was here tonight. How perfect too. She couldn’t resist smiling.
Just that morning she had received James’s latest letter, telling her he would seek her out in the gardens tonight, for a private audience, away from the eyes of parents and chaperones.
Tonight. The one word held such promise. Enclosed in James’s letter was a soft strip of black gauzy cloth embroidered with silver stars. The letter instructed her to wait until twilight, and then blindfold herself for his arrival because he wished to surprise her.
A wave of heat flooded her cheeks at the thought of being so vulnerable and alone with him in such a manner, but another part of her heated in strange, unfamiliar places. She knew meeting him here like this wasn’t proper and if anyone found out, she’d be compromised. But this was James, her James. The man she trusted more than anyone else in the world, except for her father. The temptation to meet him here, even in secret, was irresistible.
What would he do when he came upon her? Remove the blindfold? He might touch her face, her hair, her neck…Gemma trailed her own fingertips over her neck, wondering how different it would feel to have a man’s hands there, ones worn with callouses from years of working the ropes while tacking the sails of a great ship.
A shiver rippled through her and she hastily dropped her hands back to her lap, feeling a little foolish. It was so easy to get carried away when thinking of James. When she first read the portion of the letter that told her to meet him like this, being compromised was her first fear, but James was a good and noble man. He was not the sort to ruin a lady, especially not when he intended to marry in good standing.
Even though she had not seen him since he set off eleven years ago, she had faith that he would not damage her virtue with this garden rendezvous. He would be a gentleman, wouldn’t he? Gemma was all too aware that she knew little of the hearts of men, or how deeply they could fall prey to their desires.
Perhaps I ought to go back inside and wait for him to call upon me tomorrow morning? That would be the proper thing, after all.
Proper yes, but she wanted to see James alone and didn’t want to wait another moment, even one night. If she were to be caught in a position that sorely injured her reputation, well, her father would demand a marriage immediately, James would comply, and all would be well.
Yes, all would be well enough. We need to be married, and mayhap it matters little how the deed comes about?
Perhaps that was what James intended, a certainty of compromising her so he could ensure they would be married. It was indeed a little unorthodox, but that might be his intent. To conquer her like he’d conquered his enemies upon the seas, swiftly and surely. If that were the case, then he was certainly a rogue. Another little smile twisted her lips.
Am I to marry a rogue? Wouldn’t that be… She giggled unable to stop herself from thinking of how wonderfully wicked that would be. It would be scandalous, but if it was James, he would be her rogue.
So with that reassuring thought, she pulled the blindfold out, carefully put it over her eyes, and tied it into a small bow at the back of her head. She fiddled with her hair, tugging the loose untamable ringlets a little so they coiled down against her neck. Mary, her maid had done her best to fix it, but they both knew it would always look a bit wild. James would have to forgive her for appearing a little unruly. At least her gown had turned out well.
With the blindfold secure, she found she could see the vague outline of shapes through the thin gauzy cloth but her eyes were, for the most part, shielded from any clearer perceptions. Gemma smoothed her gown again, shifting restlessly as her stomach flipped over and over inside her. What if James had met with some delay, for he was not officially due to arrive in Midhurst until tomorrow where he and Jasper would be toasted and celebrated at Lady Edith Greenley’s country estate garden party.
Gravel suddenly crunched close by as someone trod along the garden path leading straight toward her. She held her breath, sitting very still. It had to be James. Her heart fluttered so wildly that her ribs hurt from the hammering beat.
* * *
Jasper Holland cursed for the thousand time as he fumbled his way through the maze of the Haverford Gardens. It was a bloody mess, this whole situation. It was James who should be here, not him, yet he was the one who was trapped in the situation of compromising a thoroughly decent young lady because his best friend was acting like a cur. Straightening his blue naval coat around his waist, he took another right turn, facing a dead end.
“Who designed this damnable thing? I’ll likely lose my way and be eaten by a Minotaur,” he muttered, stumbled back and took a left down another path. Someone should have drawn him a map to this—
He heard a feminine giggle some distance away and halted. The sound was light, a little husky, and it had the strangest effect on him just then. He could almost picture a woman beneath him in bed, just as he was about to enter her and ride her to their mutual pleasure making that sound. It was the best sort of sound in the world and one he hadn’t heard in a long time. On the sea, there were often chances to visit the docks when in port, and pay for a night at a brothel. James had done that often enough, but Jasper never liked it.
There was something sad about the painted faces and the quiet resigned looks of the prostitutes that betrayed the way they felt about the manner in which they earned their living. More than once Jasper would pay to simply talk to them and then leave for the night, unsatisfied. After that, he’d taken to staying on the ship, leaving James to cavort on his own.
It still amazed him that after all these years he and James were friends. Many men were separated at sea and went years without seeing anyone. Losing touch often resulted in friendships waning. However, that hadn’t happened with him and James. They’d been assigned to the same frigate, the HMS Neptune as midshipmen after attending a naval college. They’d both been promoted to first lieutenants and by the time they were ready to leave service, they were both still on the same ship.
Due to the influx of men joining the service, the waiting list to be promoted to captain was extensive and neither he nor James had enough peerage connections to curry favor for a quicker rise in officer status. Ergo they’d both agreed the time was good enough to leave service and return home. James had always been a bit of a rakehell, even as a young man before they’d left for the sea, but time had hardened both him and Jasper in different ways. He’d been more hesitant than Jasper to return to Midhurst and even the day before was talking about moving to London once he’d selected a pretty wife, one he could easily tire of and take mistresses later if he so chose. London was much better for mistresses than a little town like Midhurst.
“Love is for fools. Lust is what keeps a man going.”
It was something James always said, something he’d taken to believing after so many years at sea. The women in ports had turned James into a jaded man and he’d abandoned dreams of marrying Gemma Haverford, the sweet little country gentleman’s daughter he’d left behind.
“Jas, do a man a favor, write Gemma and break it off,” he sneered under his breath in imitation of James’s plea all those years ago.
It had started out so simple. A favor for a friend.
“And I’m the fool who took over writing those bloody love letters,” Jasper growled in self-directed frustration.
He’d written one letter to Gemma, doing his best to imitate James’s poor handwriting, but the words to end things…well they just hadn’t come out on the page. Instead he found himself sharing details of his day, thoughts and impressions he had of the islands they’d visited, the strange lands and natives they’d encountered, the battles they’d faced. His fears, his hopes, his own dreams. And he’d signed that first letter with a single letter J. Not as James, but Jasper, the man he was. He hadn’t wanted to deceive her any more than he had to. Her response to his first letter had been almost immediate. A letter back to him found him so quickly th
rough the post that he had to assume she’d written it the second she’d received his letter.
The Gemma he’d met through her letters had fascinated him, amused him, and changed the way he thought of Midhurst. The little girl with ginger hair had changed so much. She’d become a woman worth knowing. Her stories and descriptions of the town, the village, the countryside, everything that was so easy to forget at sea, had kept him grounded and reminded him of home. It was no longer a place he’d escaped from to live a life of adventure, but become a wonderful place of refuge for him, a sanctuary to someday return to when his service was over.
But the game was now at an end.
James had found out on their last week aboard ship that Jasper hadn’t broken off the secret engagement and that he’d continued to write to Gemma for the last ten years. James had been furious to learn that Gemma was now fully under the impression James was going to propose to her and that she’d saved herself for him and him alone. Jasper had read every letter where she’d detailed the passing London Seasons and how she’d felt a little pressured to marry, but had insisted she loved him and would wait. For James. Not him. The thought summoned a black cloud over Jasper’s thoughts, but it wasn’t going to change what he had to do tonight. He had to end it with Gemma while pretending to be James. Compromise her so that tomorrow morning when she met with James, he could discover she’d kissed another man and break it off with her forever.
Yes, it would ruin her, but Jasper had every intent of making things right, of marrying her himself. He would just have to convince her of that once the dust settled from James crying off. Jasper could wait, would wait for as long as he had to for Gemma to be his wife, his lover, his world. His only fear was that she would despise him for his deception all these years, but it was a risk he would have to take. He’d led her to believe he would marry her in his letters and he’d meant every word. If only he hadn’t hidden behind the facade of being James.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 94
