by Jo Beverley
A warm fire and a good book seemed exceedingly dull.
“If you do court Lady Oxbury,” David said, “that would help my cause. You can distract the dragon while I make off with the princess.”
“Lady Oxbury is not a dragon, and your cause will only be helped by Standen suffering a complete change of sentiment—an event even the most hardened gamester would not wager on.”
Alex wanted to court Kate, but how could he do so in front of the ton? All the old gossiping harpies would resurrect the scandals. Zounds, that would be dreadful. No, any pursuit must be conducted in private, away from prying eyes.
What could be more private than Kate’s bedchamber?
Kate was expecting him. She was an experienced woman…
“Alex, are you attending to me at all?”
But she was not a light skirt. He should marry her before he took her to bed. Still, she had invited him. It would be exceedingly rude not to appear…
“Alex!”
“What?” Alex stopped. David was standing on the walk about ten yards behind him. “What are you doing back there?”
David grinned. “Wondering how long it would take you to notice you were alone. You must be immersed in some very…deep thoughts.” His annoying nephew waggled his eyebrows.
Alex shrugged and resumed walking. David did not.
“What the—” Alex turned again. “Shall I leave you standing there like a lamppost? Come on.”
“Alex, look around.”
“Why?” Alex looked right and left. He saw a typical London street. “What am I supposed to see?”
“That we’re home. This is Dawson House.”
“Oh.” So perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. He watched David take out his key and unlock the door.
He should follow him into the house, but he couldn’t persuade his feet to move. The last thing he wanted to do was go inside—or at least inside David’s house. He needed to clear his head, get rid of some of this energy coursing through his veins.
“I think I’ll walk for a while. Don’t wait up.”
David gave him a long look; then shrugged and shut the door behind him.
Alex hesitated. He could still change his mind. He could—he should—be sensible. Responsible. He should go up to his room and climb into bed. Alone.
But he wanted to misbehave—thoroughly and utterly misbehave. Proper Alex Wilton wanted to act like a rogue, a rake, a scoundrel.
Well, hardly. But at his ripe old age, he could—he would—break, or at least bend, a few rules for once.
He started walking again, this time toward Oxbury House.
Chapter 6
It didn’t matter that she’d forgotten to unlock the servants’ entrance—Alex wouldn’t come. He would never do anything so shocking, certainly not once he’d had the opportunity to consider the matter.
Kate pushed her hair back out of her face as Marie left to empty the basin. Grace had collapsed against her pillows. “Feeling better?”
“A little.” Grace closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid tonight was a complete disaster.”
“Oh, I don’t believe any great harm was done. Lord Dawson kept you from bringing attention to yourself, though it might have been more to the point if he’d kept you from drinking so much champagne.”
Grace covered her face. “How can something that tastes so good make me feel so horrible?”
Kate laughed. “I don’t know, but if it’s any consolation, you’re not the first person to run afoul of the drink. The bubbles are very seductive.”
Grace sighed. “They are, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” Kate relaxed a bit. Grace’s color was much improved. A cup of Marie’s peppermint tea and Grace should feel, if not right as rain, at least well on the mend.
Kate looked around the room. But perhaps they wouldn’t have that tea here. The heavy mahogany furniture and the blood-red curtains were depressing.
This was the master bedchamber. The footmen had taken her things to the adjoining bedroom, even though she was no longer mistress, so she’d had them put Grace’s bags in here. With just the two of them in residence, it was silly to stand on ceremony.
This room would suit the new Lord Oxbury—the Weasel—perfectly. He was depressing, too—and any manner of other unpleasant things. She had hated asking him for the key to Oxbury House, and she could tell he’d hated giving it to her. She was convinced he’d only done so in the hope some desperate man would offer for her, freeing him from any further obligation to her.
Yes, this dark room would be perfect for the Weasel, but had it suited her Oxbury? He must have stayed here whenever he’d come up to take his seat in the House of Lords. She didn’t know for certain—she’d never accompanied him. She’d always felt she had to stay in the country to see that everything ran smoothly in his absence.
Silly. Critten, the estate manager, was quite competent.
The truth was she’d never wanted to come to Town, and Oxbury had never insisted. Perhaps he knew what she just now suspected—that she’d been afraid she might encounter Alex. How would she have reacted?
Perhaps it was best she’d never know.
“Let’s go to my room, Grace—that is, if you feel up to it?”
“Yes. I feel better since I…” Grace gestured toward where the basin had been. “You know.” She stood, bracing herself on the bedpost. “I’d like to get out of my dress and stays first.”
“Of course, I—what is that din?”
Grace laughed. “It must be Hermes. He’s the only dog in the house, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but I was hoping he was asleep.”
Marie came in, carrying a pot of tea, a small black and white dog at her heels. “Shh, ye wild doggie. Do nae carry on so. Yer mistress is home now. She did nae desert ye.”
“Hermes, you idiot, behave.”
Hermes glanced at Kate and gave her a short bark of welcome before turning his attention back to Marie.
“If you can manage it, Marie, will you put the tray in my room?”
“Of course, my lady, as long as this imp of Satan does nae trip me.”
Hermes was on his hind legs now, prancing around Marie’s skirts, his feathery tail waving as he hopped, his ears flying.
“Yes, and very entertaining ye are, sir. Now move aside, do, so I can get through this door.”
Hermes barked and obliged, but still followed Marie closely.
Kate laughed. “You don’t happen to have a piece of cheese in your apron pocket, do you, Marie?”
Hermes had been her close companion for the last three years—his presence had helped immeasurably after Oxbury died—but he did have a sad tendency to ignore her when he thought someone might offer him food, unless that someone was the Weasel, of course. He was an excellent judge of character—he knew not to trust the new Lord Oxbury. Any food the Weasel offered was more than likely poisoned.
Marie grinned. “Happen I might. The poor wee doggie has been so sad with ye gone all evening, I thought he needed a treat.”
“Ha! You know he is an accomplished actor, Marie,” Kate said. “His skills rival those of Mr. Kean.”
“But look at that face.” Marie put the tea tray down, and they all turned to look at Hermes.
Hermes barked and lifted his lips in what appeared to be a smile. Then he tilted his head to one side and waved his front paws in the air.
“Oh, give him the cheese, Marie,” Kate said, laughing again and sitting down.
“Here then, sir.” Marie tossed the treat toward Hermes who snatched it out of the air and swallowed it in two bites. He dropped back to all fours, trotted over to Kate, and lay down by her skirts.
“You know Marie doesn’t have any more cheese, don’t you, you little beggar?” Kate said, scratching Hermes’s ears. The dog merely yawned and put his head down on his paws.
“It’s clear what the path is to his heart,” Grace said, smiling.
“Aye, and it
’s the same path to many a man’s heart, my lady. Keep them fed”—Marie winked—“all their appetites, and they’re content. Now let me help ye into yer night things, and then ye can have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit or two. It’ll settle yer stomach.”
Kate poured the tea while Grace went back to her room to change. She inhaled the fragrant steam. The peppermint was soothing. She felt some of the tension leave her neck and shoulders. As soon as Marie was finished with Grace, she’d have her loosen her blasted stays and help her into her nightdress. Then she could finally relax.
Unless Alex came.
A hot flush swept up her chest to her neck and on to her cheeks. She should never have asked him—what had possessed her? He’d been so shocked at her brazenness.
He’d said he would come, but surely he’d changed his mind. Alex had never been one to flout conventions. If he had, perhaps they would have run for Gretna and she would have been married to him all these years instead of to Oxbury. Perhaps they would have had children—
No, they would not have had children.
The thought still sent a sharp pain lancing through her heart.
She was forty years old now, so, of course, she should not be thinking of children. But when she’d been young…when she was first married…
Each month she had hoped, and each month her hope had leaked from her in red despair. By the end of her second year of marriage, she had finally accepted she was barren.
Oxbury, bless him, had accustomed himself to the truth long before she had. He’d never held it against her, though it had meant his title and all his entailed property would pass to the Weasel—the short, fat, greasy, annoying cousin who’d visited twice a year, always looking first at her stomach when he arrived and smiling when he saw it was still as flat as on her wedding day.
She took a large mouthful of tea, but it was too hot to swallow. She spat it back out and put the cup carefully down on the table.
It was a good thing now that she was barren. If she…if Alex ever…well, there’d be no awkward consequences if Alex…if any man…ever visited her bed.
But Alex wouldn’t come. The risk of scandal was just too great. If he wanted bed sport, he could easily pick from any of the countless young and beautiful London courtesans.
And if he did come, he’d find the servants’ door locked. He’d leave and never seek her out again. Which would be a good thing. Very good. Excellent. She exhaled a long, shuddery breath.
She could relax now. She would relax. She’d get these blasted stays off and she’d put on her oldest, her most threadbare, most comfortable night clothes.
Marie and Grace came back into the room. “Shall I help ye now, too, my lady?” Marie asked.
“Please.” She could hardly wait to be comfortable at last.
This was wrong. He should turn around, go back to Dawson House, go up to his room, have a glass of brandy, and read…something.
He’d just finished Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. He didn’t feel like starting a new book.
So he was going to screw Kate because he had nothing good to read?
No. He kicked a stone and sent it clattering across the pavement. He was not going to…do that to Kate. The word—the thought—was obscene. He was going to…going to…
He didn’t know what he was going to do. He would wait until he arrived at Oxbury House to decide. And he was going to Oxbury House. He couldn’t help himself. He needed to see Kate. God, he’d spent so many years dreaming of her, wanting her, missing her…How could he not go to her now?
He crossed the street. It was early for London—the roads were relatively quiet in this part of town. Most of the ton were still out at their chosen entertainments—balls, routs, the theater.
It wasn’t far to Oxbury House—only a few blocks. It had been farther to Blantrope House. That was where he’d gone the morning after Alvord’s ball twenty-three years ago. Lady Blantrope had been acting as Kate’s chaperone since Standen’s wife was increasing, and Standen had been visiting.
Damn, every detail of that morning was burned into his memory. Thoughts of it bubbled up at odd times—in the middle of the night or the midst of a dinner party—to haunt him. He cringed every time some recollection of it surfaced. He cringed now.
He’d wanted to look precise to a pin, so he’d spent an inordinate amount of time dressing. Sleeping a few hours would have been a good idea, too, but he’d been too nervous to lie still. He’d waited until nine o’clock—an obscenely early hour—and then he’d gone.
It had still been too late. Standen had packed Kate off to the country at first light. Not that it mattered. She was already engaged to Oxbury.
Damn, damn, damn. He kicked another stone, sent it ricocheting off someone’s front steps. His meeting with Standen had been the most embarrassing, demeaning interview of his life.
When he’d grasped the knocker on Blantrope House’s front door, he’d been thinking about Luke and Lady Harriet and the disaster at Gretna Green. He’d worried Standen might still harbor a grudge—and he’d been right, of course. But he hadn’t realized Kate had not been honest with him—that she’d been as good as wed when she’d gone with him into the garden.
Why hadn’t she told him about Oxbury? More, why had she let him kiss her? Her lack of candor had hurt as much as—or more than—Standen’s scathing dismissal.
Alex stopped in front of Oxbury House. He stared at its orderly façade, but in his mind he saw a different building.
The Blantrope butler had left him to cool his heels in a small, dismal antechamber. He could still see the room’s hideous red-patterned wallpaper and the disgruntled-looking china cat on the mantel. After waiting almost an hour, he’d been seriously considering flinging the bloody feline into the fireplace.
Or hurling the porcelain beast at Standen’s head.
“What are you doing here?” Standen had said when he’d finally stepped into the room. He’d sounded as if he were addressing a cockroach. Still, this was Kate’s brother, her guardian. Alex couldn’t say exactly what he wanted to to the horse’s arse.
“Lord Standen, I came about your sis—”
“My sister has returned to the country.”
“I see.” Standen’s tone had not been at all encouraging, but Alex had been young and stupid. “I came to ask for her hand—”
“Her hand has been given to the Earl of Oxbury. They will wed in a matter of weeks.”
“Ah.” Alex had felt as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. “But—”
Standen cut him off. “You will have no more to do with her. Do I make myself clear?”
Could the bloody bastard be any clearer? “Yes, but—”
“Good.” Standen’s lip curled; his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. “I’d drag my sister naked down St. James’s Street before I’d see her married to you.”
Damn it all to hell. He’d left, not really believing Standen. He’d entertained all manner of crazy thoughts on the way home—and then he’d seen the announcement in the Post.
He’d been numb at first; once he’d been able to feel again, he’d been overwhelmed by an almost physical pain, as if he’d had an arm or a leg cut off. And in the back of his mind was always the nagging question—if he’d been more decisive, if he’d pressed Kate that night in Alvord’s garden to fly with him to Gretna, would she have given up Oxbury and gone?
The man had been thirty years her senior—but he’d also been an earl.
He blew out a long breath. So he was in London again, and outside Oxbury House. Kate was inside waiting for him.
Perhaps tonight he would finally find some peace. That was why he was going to visit Kate. To finish what had not been finished before. To see if he could finally heal this damn wound.
He slipped around the side of the house to the servants’ entrance, grabbed the door handle, turned it—
It didn’t move.
He frowned and tried again. The knob didn’t budge. He took off his
gloves and put both hands to the task. Nothing.
The bloody door was locked.
David stretched his long legs toward the fire and wiggled his stocking-clad toes. Mmm. The heat felt good. He took a sip of brandy and savored the liquid’s slow slide over his tongue and down his throat. That heat felt good, too. And the heat that would feel the best…
He rested his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and finally let his mind go where it wanted. Like a hunting dog slipped from its leash, it flew straight to its quarry.
Lady Grace Belmont.
She was perfect. He would never have guessed he was enamored of red hair—he’d always thought he preferred his women blonde. But he’d never seen hair like Grace’s. It wasn’t red; it was copper and gold, fire and light. He wanted to bury his fingers in it, let it slide like silk over his palms. Over his chest. Over…
He slid lower in his chair, spreading his legs wide so an important part of him could swell with admiration. That part was generating a bit too much heat—his breeches were in danger of spontaneously combusting.
If only Lady Grace Belmont were here.
If Grace were here…He took another sip of brandy, rolling it on his tongue. If Lady Grace were here…
What would he do if Grace were in this room right now?
What wouldn’t he do?
He’d start with her hairpins. Yes. Slowly, one by one, he’d pull each pin out, watching Grace’s glorious hair slowly tumble down over her shoulders. Copper over cream—beautiful. Then he’d comb his fingers through it, bury his face in it, inhale its sweet, clean scent. He’d lift a silky handful off her neck, brushing it back so he could kiss the sensitive spot by her ear.
And then? Then he’d explore her face. He’d kiss her jaw, her cheekbones, her eyelids; he’d brush over her lips—he’d not want to get waylaid there so soon—and move down kiss by nip by lick to the pulse at the base of her throat and to her shoulder…and then he would loosen her gown.
