“Good, or you shall regret it. Now scram.”
The boy complied with suitable haste as Aldershot descended from his chaise and snapped his fingers imperiously at the innkeeper’s wife.
“My good woman, I wish to speak immediately with the lady within. There has been a carriage accident and her sisters, sad to say, lie in dire need of succor.”
“Laws a mercy, and she just arrived and travel weary and all. My lord has just asked for the sheets to be aired and the beds turned down.”
“I’ll wager he has,” thought the man grimly. He said nothing, however, but the woman hesitated with a slight query upon her face. Taking stock of her type in an instant, Sir Rory drew her close and muttered something confidentially in her ear. Her face changed to outraged fury.
“Well, fancy that! And this an honest hestablishment! I would never have said it from the look of ’is face.”
“Ah, mistress, handsome is as handsome does and there are many a rogue blessed with a lying countenance.” Sir Rory Aldershot did not tell her that he was one of them. Rather, he contrived to look sad and admonishing at one and the same time.
The innkeeper’s wife wiped her hands on her apron and shook her head. “Ah, that be true, that be true. And the lady’s sisters, me lord?”
“Overturned the carriage in their haste to stop these clandestine meetings. They shall all be ruined if the story were to come out.”
“Mercy me! I shall get the lady right away and save her from her own folly. Mayhap she will bless me in time to come.”
“Mayhap she will.” Sir Rory nodded benignly and hid the smirk that threatened to show itself. Good! If the wench seemed reluctant, the innkeeper’s wife would not be suspicious. Rather, she would be more zealous in saving Miss Chartley’s virtue and delivering her into the waiting arms of Sir Rory Aldershot, Esquire. He grinned and fleetingly wondered whether the wares were as worth sampling as they seemed.
Soon enough he’d know. Soon enough. There would be no escaping him a second time.
“You may leave us now, Stanwick.”
“Very good, me lord. And may I wish you and the missus a plentiful life blessed with little wee lordlings and . . .”
“Yes . . . yes.” Lord Barrymore’s eyes never left her ladyship’s face, but at this passing remark the gleam intensified in the deep, intoxicating sky blue.
“Lordlings? Well, well, there might be something in that, Stanmore. Close the door, will you, and take yourself off to the kitchens. Belike there will be a tankard of ale and a hot stew awaiting you for this day’s work.”
Standish bowed, murmured a confused thanks, and shut the door. It would be right pleasant, he thought, to share a crust with the first postilion.
Her ladyship endeavored to ignore the intoxicating gaze which held her in its thrall. Instead, she took up cudgels with her lord, for if she did not, she would most like disgrace herself by swooning from the alarming desire that was captivating her senses.
“You are a wretch! You know perfectly well his name is Standish!”
“Is it?” Barrymore’s lips quirked.
“Yes, as you well know, though you have called him a dozen other names this morning! It is not fair to tease your underlings so!”
“But he is such good game, my love. I could swear I saw his lips twitch when I called him Stanmore, a few moments ago.”
“Indeed they did! They twitched to correct you, my lord . . .”
“Denver.”
“Denver ...” Lily blushed, especially as Lord Barrymore kissed her fingers at her demure acquiescence. She pulled them away quickly.
“You are not listening!”
“Oh, but I am! You were saying that Stanfop’s lips twitched to correct me, but I must remind you, my little one, that they did no such thing.” He returned her fingers firmly to their place in his warm hands. Then he was monstrous enough to occupy himself with removing her gloves, an act that made Lily curiously weak and quite unable to resist, despite a sudden desire to cross words with him. He kissed each ungloved finger gently, though his tongue lingered sufficiently upon each to leave his lady wife tingling in burning anticipation of more of the same. My lord, seeing her reaction, laughed a little and dropped her hands. My lord was pleased to tease and Lily scowled, for she was unused to the mysterious warmth that was creeping over her person and causing her limbs to quiver like one of Mrs. Bartlett’s jellies.
When Barrymore was so unfeeling as to laugh, she drew her skirts about her, determined at once not to be swayed from her path. To no avail! Barrymore saw the opportunity, whilst her hands were busy with the hems, to sweep her up in his arms and plant a kiss upon her creamy neck. Lily wriggled a little, and managed a faint retort, but it was silenced by that wondrous mouth again. This time, soft as a butterfly upon her rosy lips.
“Oh!” He smiled at her response and set her down again, the better to work at the high lacing about her bodice. Lily thought it was time to argue, once again, for if she did not, she would be most shamefully lost to all the proprieties.
“He did not correct you, my lord . . . Denver . . . because. . .” She blushed rosily and removed his hands from her lacing, for in truth, they were engaged in the most excruciatingly sweet activities and she could not be expected to think—let alone argue under such circumstances—“ Stanfop ... Standish! ... is so well trained! It would not be fitting for him to correct you and thus he does not. Shame on you to take advantage of him so!”
Barrymore raised his brows and released her, though his body was a full inch closer than it strictly ought to have been. He inclined his head solemnly, though the twinkle lurking in those hypnotic eyes remained.
“And thus I am admonished, fair shrew. Standish he shall be hereafter. You see, I am already under your foot.”
“You are not under my foot!”
“No? Then perhaps we shall repair upstairs swiftly to rectify the matter. There is much I yearn to show you, lady wife.”
Lily felt a flush of color steal over her. Barrymore was looking at her so intently, with such a delectably wicked smile playing about the corners of his mouth, that her courage, for an instant, failed her. Now he had drawn closer so that the curve of his thigh was just brushing her gown and she was forced to tilt her head to save herself, pressing her lips into an abdomen that was hard and covered only by a lawn shirt that seemed indecent in its fit.
My lord groaned, a little, a sound that surprised her and caused her mouth to part in query. She was lost, then, of course, for Denver Barrymore was far from saintly and it was too much to expect forbearance from a rake.
His lips were touchingly sweet, yet when she yielded to them wonderingly, she was not deceived by their seeming softness. Beneath the gentleness lay a strength she was willing to explore, though she feared a little as well. Despite her sauciness, she was yet an innocent and matters of the flesh like these, though tempting and heavenly, were still unknown and daring and wickedly forbidden. This, despite the vows she had only recently exchanged. Barrymore stopped for an instant, and pulled his thigh back from her gown, so that she felt she would faint from the loss of it. Instinctively, she reached out and pulled it back, a state of affairs that caused Barrymore to curse the tardiness of the maid, who was still preparing their chamber upstairs. When he obliged by not only returning his thigh to her, but also by cupping his hands about her loosened bodice, she gasped a little, then chuckled throatily, her eyes still wide—heavenly wide and green glittering as emeralds in the sunlight.
“So this is what all the fuss is about. I have always wondered.”
Barrymore’s eyes gleamed. It was not so hard to be an adventurer after all, though in truth the Raven’s Ransom was not now the thought uppermost in his mind.
“Have you, naughty puss? And what exactly have you wondered?”
Lily, who found she quite liked her new position, encased in my lord’s arms and having the tips of her delicate pink breasts rubbed in the most shockingly lascivious manner, pushed herself
a little closer, causing my lord to forget his question entirely and forget, too, their lowly surrounds in the innkeeper’s private parlor. Lily, pleased to be bold, matched kiss for kiss with an eagerness that was gratifying to the viscount, who found that his bride was just as beautiful as he had conceived on the instant he’d first caught sight of her. She was just giving herself up to his sweet caresses, melting passionately into his excellent frame, when the innkeeper’s wife appeared.
“Well!”
Barrymore ignored her, but Lily remembered herself enough to lift her head guiltily and push back her bodice, which had loosened itself outrageously in this exchange. Though she wore demure pastel colors, with her dark hair flowing and her cheeks flushed a rosy red, she looked positively wanton. The innkeeper’s wife eyed her full, well-kissed lips in disdain.
Then an image came to her mind of her husband the innkeeper, and she had it in her to feel a sudden, mortifying pang of envy. For Lord Barrymore, wicked rake that he was, was the type of man a woman took note of. From the muscular calves, hardly hidden in those insufferable buckskins, to the crest of his golden head, he was the type one lusted after in dreams and never thought to see in the flesh. But there he was, godlike, mocking, and not altogether decent, for his neckerchief was loose and his tight breeches were swollen in parts a maiden had no business to notice. But the innkeeper’s wife noticed, and the sight added to her virtuous fury.
“Well, I say!” Hands pressed to hips, she looked so outraged that Barrymore was inclined to laugh, rather than order her out imperiously, as he might otherwise have done. Lily, younger, and conscious of a multitude of sinful thoughts, looked more abashed. The woman seized her opportunity and pointed a finger in her direction.
“Come with me, missy, I must ’ave words with yer!”
Barrymore restrained Lily’s step. His expression hardened. “The viscountess is going nowhere. If you have something to say, say it now and then begone.”
The woman stopped midsentence. Viscountess? Laws a mercy, were they married, then? Then she looked at Lily’s flushed cheeks and knew that it was more likely she was flinging herself into clandestine company with a rake. Her resolve hardened.
“Bein’ it be private business about Missy’s sisters . . .” She stressed the word “missy” defiantly above Lily’s head. Barrymore was about to protest, but Lily had darted to the woman without warning.
“My sisters?”
“Aye, they be hurt, miss, and no thanks to ye! Thinkin’ you bein’ ravished an all, they gave chase and ’ave now come to a sad and ’orrible end.”
The innkeeper meant in a ditch, but Lily went as white as a sheet, hearing her last words and putting the worst possible construction on them.
“Oh! Take me at once!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, little featherhead!”
Lily’s eyes flashed dangerously, but her immaculate bridegroom failed to notice. In truth, he was about to tell her about the note he had left Lord Raven. This was designed to set the aging earl’s mind at rest entirely regarding Miss Chartley’s wedded state—for which Barrymore already very properly had tacit permission. Sad to say, though, it was penned a might saucily, for Barrymore took pleasure in being one step ahead of the earl. He had no fancy to be Raven’s puppet and the note, a declaration of tacit war, was designed to declare it. His eyes creased a little as he remembered the wording. Raven’s notorious feathers would be ruffled, no doubt about it. But as to sending Daisy and Primrose scampering over the countryside after him? Not likely.
He wondered how to explain this to Lily, but he was too late. In a heedless dash, she had followed the innkeeper’s wife to the kitchens, and was gone. Shrugging, Lord Barrymore snatched up his beaver and was about to follow, when he was waylaid by a little urchin carrying the best bottle of burgundy he had laid eyes on since the war.
“Pleasin’ your honor, the innkeeper sent this up wiv his best compliments, me lord.”
“Did he, by God? Then he knows that I am not a lascivious rake, but a beleaguered bridegroom instead!”
The boy did not understand a word of the well-modulated tones, but bethought him of his penny and bobbed an “Aye.”
“Then he has told his lady wife the same?”
Again, the bob.
Lord Barrymore laughed. “And was there a carriage accident, little varmint, or was that all my lady’s fancy?”
Now this the boy understood. Not the bit about lady’s fancies, but the plain English part about carriage accidents.
“Pleasin’ yer honor, there be no carriage accident from ’ere to Fairfields.”
“No? And how can you be so certain, little sprig?”
“A cause of what if there was, I would be sent scampering to the smith and the wheelwright and old Dr. Farley wot is a dab hand with the leeches and all.”
“Mmm ... and has none of these pleasant tasks been assigned to you?” My lord’s eyes crinkled with sudden amusement.
“No, pleasin’ yer ’onor. I ’ave only to scrub the basement floors and melt the candle wax back into tapers.” The boy sounded gloomy at the prospect.
“How dull!” Lord Barrymore stretched his hand out for the burgundy. Lily, no doubt, would be back in a few moments. Her sisters were safe. The innkeeper’s wife had merely been overzealous in her efforts to save the inn from disreputable goings-on. He hoped the innkeeper would give her a regular scold for her sanctimonious interference. She ought to be whipped for interrupting such a promising interlude. Still, it was afternoon yet. There was time enough later for a multitude of disreputable goings-on.
Lord Barrymore smiled as he dismissed the boy with a penny. The child gasped, for he could not believe his good luck. Then, thrusting it into his grubby pocket, he ran, before the fine gentleman could think better of his charity.
Sixteen
“You!” Lily looked at Sir Rory Aldershot with undisguised loathing. She was not permitted to say more, for Sir Rory pulled her into the chaise and sprung the horses without so much as a backward glance. Lily screamed, but the pounding of the hooves muffled her voice and the pace they set was such a spanking rate that there was no chance of anyone within hearing her. A cloud of dust was behind them, so there was no looking back. Sir Rory did not seemed perturbed by the volume of her yells, but rather settled back into the hard seats with a satisfied smile.
“So! I have plucked myself a bloom. And which one are you? Rose, Hawthorne, Daffodil? No, too exotic a countenance, I fear. Perhaps I shall call you Passion. There is a flower in the east that bears that name. You suit it well, little Passion. And you may stop pummeling me. It shall not do you the smallest token of good and may yet anger me. That, I fear, shall bode no good for you.”
There was sudden menace in the voice of the slim, nondescript man beside her. He was wearing cream breeches and a tan jacket that, though modish, was slightly too large for his frame. His cravat was tied à la mathematique, but somehow it lacked the elan with which Barrymore carried the selfsame style. Perhaps because the shade was buttercup yellow and rather unflattering to the pale features.
Blue eyes protruded not unpleasantly from a lean, masculine face, but Lily noticed that they slanted slyly and she shivered. She would have held him for no account but for the fact that his wrists were sinewy and held hers in an unpleasant vice. She noticed, too, the flash of steel as they were jolted in their seats. He carried a weapon, then.
He noticed the direction of her glance and released his grip on her hands.
“Yes, it would be foolish to flee. Sit down, rather, and see if we can finish this.”
Lily gasped at his implication, for his intent was unmistakable.
“You cur!”
“Yes, I have been called that by some.” The man’s tone was complacent rather than annoyed.
“I shall be missed.”
“Shall you? Then they shall call Barrymore out, I fear. It is he, after all, who abducted you first. In the full sight of witnesses. I might add there were several. I was bu
t one.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Ah, I see. Your tastes run to that type, do they? Your blood runs hot for him, does it? Well, it can be so with me. Indeed, you may count yourself fortunate. And do not glare at me so. If you behave, I shall wed you. Let me not repeat myself too often. It is no small thing being the wife of Sir Rory Aldershot. I have estates in Quimby. You shall reign there supreme, my little passion flower.”
Raven Place was in an uproar. My lord had received a note from Lord Barrymore, and it had left him with a spasm such that Richmond could do nothing for him and was forced to hold up his hands in righteous despair. The earl seemed to veer from outrage—wherein could be heard a series of very lusty oaths—and amusement, for he would bang the counterpane with his fist and chortle intermittently. By and large, his valet was satisfied that no lasting harm would come to him, for his demeanor, though volatile, seemed generally in keeping with a good humor, though only those who knew him well would guess it.
“The rascal!” he would say, crushing the heavy brocade within his fingers. Then he would take out his spectacles and read the missive again, such that Richmond was tempted to prise it from his hands and read it himself, so great was his curiosity. Still, despite his desire to account for the earl’s latest start, he remembered his station and resisted the temptation. The note lay crumpled beside the earl’s bed, ready to be reread in a sudden fit of anger and amusement yet again.
“Impudent dog!” my lord chortled yet again then frowned when he saw the long-suffering Richmond hovering nearby.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Fetch me a glass of my best porter. And the French stuff, mind. I don’t doubt that there will be excise men after my head for it, but there is nothing better, you know, than the smuggled ware, and it will be the best today, Richmond, or I will have your explanation!”
Richmond toyed with the idea of mentioning that the doctor had not prescribed so heady a draft then thought better of it. The earl was glaring at him sternly, though an odd twinkle of pleasure lurked behind his bushy, gray brows.
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