Beastly Lords Collection Books 1 - 3: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “I, for one, am thrilled with the meal,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He took another sip of wine. “I am grateful to your cook for those are the most words you’ve said to me at one time.”

  Ada rolled her eyes. She wished she’d maintained her aloof manner.

  “Will you fire her?” he asked.

  The notion hadn’t occurred to her. Ada wouldn’t be able to give Mary good references, and without them, how would she find another job?

  “Absolutely not,” she declared.

  “Then how will you manage? More importantly, how will I be able to accept your next invitation? I could eat first, I suppose, and then come to dinner.”

  Again, he smiled.

  She sighed. “Mary will improve.”

  “Are there many more courses?” He looked nervous.

  “No. Only dessert.”

  “Thank the good Lord.” Then he drained his glass. “By the way, the wine is delightful.”

  She agreed. They’d had two different types, one with the shrimp and soup and another with the mutton. In each case, the wine was the only thing truly palatable.

  The maid entered with dessert.

  “What are we having, Lucy?”

  The girl looked at it and frowned. “Cook said it was raspberry tart, madam. With fresh cream.”

  She put a plate before each of them, blackish and still smoking, with very thin cream that had run off onto the sides.

  “To tell you the truth, madam,” Lucy added, “I’m not at all sure what it is.” With a clucking sound, she left.

  Then Ada did something she thought she would never in her life do. She laughed with Lord Vile. She laughed so hard tears came to her eyes as she stared at the mess in front of her.

  He slapped the table with mirth. “I’m not eating it, Mrs. St. Ange. I tell you. Not out of politeness. Who knows how I would feel in the morning?”

  She couldn’t speak as she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, shaking her head.

  Finally, she said, “You don’t have to. You’ve been more than polite during this fiasco of a meal. I don’t know what I’ll do about her.”

  He stood and walked around to pull out her chair. When she rose, he took her hand and tucked it under her arm.

  “Shall we go back to the drawing room and have a drink?”

  Then what? she wondered. Yet, she had to be pleasant.

  “I have only port. No brandy.”

  He grinned. “I shall suffer through it.”

  She let him pour them both a drink from the sideboard. Then they sat opposite each other, her on the sofa, him in a winged chair, and silence descended like thunderclouds. She thought of what Elizabeth said about discussing merely the weather and what they would eat.

  What did she want to talk with him about?

  If she were truly interested in him, she would ask about his family, and she supposed she would tell him of hers. They could discuss investing and how the London Stock Exchange came to exist due to a renegade group of traders who either left the Royal Exchange or, more excitedly, were expelled for being rowdy, only to begin trading in the coffee houses of London. They could, if she weren’t trying to ruin him financially.

  “What do you read?” she asked finally.

  He looked surprised. “Read?”

  “Yes, you know, like a book.”

  “Yes, I know what one reads. Frankly, I read the newspapers more than anything else, but I confess to enjoying occasional serial fiction. Why, one can hardly open a magazine without seeing an installment by Mr. Dickens.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  Alder jumped up from his seat and came around to sit beside her, leaning across her startled body to place his glass on the small octagonal table beside her.

  “Now don’t start that ‘indeed’ing me again. I thought we were beyond that.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you like to read?”

  She stared at him. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes, definitely,” he insisted.

  Ada spent a lot of time reading not only the Economist and the London Stock Exchange reports but also philosophers, particularly those who discussed economics. She’d read voraciously during her confinement before Harry was born, and she’d read to stave off loneliness afterward, when she refused to see anyone except Maggie and barely left her parents’ home in Surrey. It had become such a habit, she read every day. Luckily, it was a luxury she could afford and, therefore, had built up her own library. However, she didn’t want to take him into her library. It was too personal.

  Thinking to what she’d read recently, she confessed, “I like John Stuart Mill and Karl Marx.” As soon as she’d said those names, Ada knew she should toss in something more frivolous and ladylike. “As well as Jane Austen.” Though she couldn’t think of a single title of that esteemed lady writer.

  Alder’s eyebrows rose. “They are vastly different texts. I can understand your reading Austen, but I honestly have never met a woman who has read Mill or Marx.”

  She thought about it. “Except for myself, neither have I.”

  “I must confess I haven’t read any of the three,” he said, then shrugged.

  As he leaned forward, she gasped softly. He was going to kiss her, and she knew she had to let him if she were to win his affections.

  Closing her eyes, she prepared herself.

  Nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, he had his drink in hand and was looking at her smugly.

  The rat! He knew what she’d thought and had let her sit there like a ninny. If he hadn’t intended to humiliate her, he would have kissed her. He ought to have.

  No! That made no sense. How could kissing her be the correct thing to do?

  Confused by her own addlepated thoughts, Ada picked up her own drink and sipped, while Lord Vile finished his in two more swallows. Then he rose to pour another one. He held the decanter up in question, but she shook her head.

  Was this enough time spent being alluring? Could she end the evening now?

  When he sat again, he looked at her profile.

  “Why aren’t you a romantic, Mrs. St. Ange?”

  “I have never experienced romance,” she said, then wished she could call back her words. It was the tongue-loosening port after all the wine.

  He cocked his head. “Did your husband not woo you properly?”

  “I don’t wish to speak of him,” she said stiffly.

  “Fair enough. Let’s speak of you. May I call you by your given name?”

  “No,” she said quickly.

  “You may call me Michael.”

  “I don’t wish to.”

  He sighed. “Why did you leave the country for Town? Were you lonely?”

  Was she?

  “I suppose I was.”

  “So, you came to Town to find a new husband?” he asked.

  Her laugh sounded like a scornful bark to her ears. “No.”

  “A paramour, then?”

  “No!” She had to get him off this hounding. “I have friends here.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “No,” she muttered. Drat! She could not mention Maggie, who, after her flight from London, was the only friend Ada had kept. Bringing up Jenny’s sister would be a disaster.

  “I’m certain you and I move in different circles.” She had to deter him. “Does it seem strange for you to be sitting here in my drawing room of an evening when you could be two doors down?”

  “We’ve discussed this before, I believe.”

  She shrugged.

  “I would have eaten better along there,” he pointed out, finishing off his second glass of port. “And by now, we would most assuredly not be discussing books and friends.”

  Ada’s cheeks burned.

  “In fact, I would like to demonstrate what I would rather be doing with you than with any other woman.”

  With that, he leaned toward her a
nd kissed her. She hadn’t even time to close her eyes!

  *

  Michael breathed in her scent as he did whenever he kissed a woman, even though he knew she wouldn’t smell like his oft-recalled golden goddess. It didn’t matter. He very much liked Mrs. St. Ange’s fragrance, the popular neroli scent, he thought. In fact, it was starting to be as dear to him as the lost lady from the garden.

  Her soft lips beckoned him each time he was with her, and he exalted in claiming them again, as much as he wished to claim the rest of her.

  Did she want him to stake claim to her?

  From her behavior and her words, he couldn’t tell. However, when her mouth moved against his and her lips opened for his tongue, he felt certain they were moving toward an affair.

  Just like his previous one with Elizabeth. Or the one before that with Lilith. The one before that, unfortunately, her name he’d already forgotten.

  Even as he explored her mouth and as his hands began to roam, stroking her bare upper arms and then sliding down to rest upon her slender waist, he argued with himself.

  An affair with Ada Kathryn St. Ange would not be like the others. He didn’t want it to be. With most of his paramours, the relationship never went beyond the confines of the lady’s residence. Though he had escorted Elizabeth to events for which a doting male was necessary, those occasions were not initiated by him. He always knew he was providing a service and playing a part.

  With Mrs. St. Ange, he truly wished to view the Crystal Palace’s exhibition in her company and hear her thoughts on the wonders inside. He imagined seeing an opera with her or something by Dickens at one of the newer playhouses in the West End. He could even imagine going farther afield and taking the waters at Bath or seeing the lochs of Scotland together. With Harry, too, he supposed.

  If only she didn’t seem to spend so much time disliking him. At least, it seemed she did. On the other hand, she continued to accept his invitations and had invited him here to dine. What’s more, she let him take liberties, at least with her mouth. She was a puzzlement.

  Feeling her hands at the back of his neck, her cool fingers reaching into his hair, he shuddered and hot desire shot straight to his loins.

  How many more times could he kiss her like this and not begin to undress her?

  How likely was it she would let him make love to her when she wouldn’t even let him use her given name?

  Maybe he’d been too tentative in his attentions toward her. Perhaps it was time to push his case, pursue her more firmly, and see if she wanted more.

  To that end, he moved his hand from her waist to the underswell of her right breast, cupping it. Despite the layers of fabric, he could feel her heart beating like a war drum. He also felt her freeze like a Michelangelo statue.

  Should he continue his ministrations?

  When she didn’t protest, he brushed his thumb across her nipple, which was easy to feel through the satin of her gown. He could imagine it pebbling under his touch, and he ardently longed to set his lips to the ripe berry.

  Breaking their kiss, he nibbled along her chin and down her neck, which she arched, apparently transported by his touch.

  Still, she didn’t protest. A glance showed her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted, and he knew if his hand ever made it up under her skirts, she’d be damp for him. For his own part, his shaft was pressing painfully against the fall of his trousers.

  He slipped his fingers into the neckline of her gown and tried to edge the fabric down so he could place his lips upon her creamy bosom.

  Perhaps it was his clumsy attempts to get to her breasts which brought her from her passionate haze, but suddenly, she was struggling against him, trying to sit up with his weight upon her.

  The very same hands that had been holding him close were now pressed against his chest and pushing him away.

  “Let me up,” she demanded.

  Chapter Ten

  Ada couldn’t believe she’d given in to the sensual delights of Alder’s mouth and his hands. She’d planned to let him kiss her, precisely as he had before. Yet, in a heartbeat, when his tongue had slid into her mouth, she’d gone from being in control to closing her eyes and losing herself to the sensual experience.

  Now, with her breasts tingling, still able to feel the path his mouth had taken down her bare neck to her décolletage, and with a distinct dampness between her legs, she was mortified.

  This was Lord Vile! Who knew whether in the morning he would remember with whom he’d been the night before? After all, he’d had two glasses of port after an equal amount of wine. As for herself, she was feeling a little tipsy.

  She pushed on his chest, and he moved back quickly.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice thickened.

  “No,” she said. Had he really asked her that as if he gave a damn?

  Ada wanted to tell him to go to the devil. Instead, she breathed deeply, arched an eyebrow, and addressed him.

  “I’m not prepared to go any further.”

  That was the truth, so help her.

  He nodded. “That’s fine. I meant no disrespect.”

  She stared at him. Truly! “That seems hard to believe.”

  He looked surprised. “Why? Because I am expressing how much I admire you and would like to know you better.”

  “By tugging at my garments?”

  He had the gall to smile. The rogue! “Yes, of course. Because I would like to know every part of you better. I am trying to be precisely clear. After all, you are not attached to anyone, nor am I. I imagine you must be lonely at times, having known the companionship of a husband. Surely, you are too young to give up pleasures of the flesh?”

  “I…” She didn’t know what to say. He was obviously far more worldly than she was. He was used to the likes of Lady Pepperton and lived in a world where men and women enjoyed each other without attachment.

  In all likelihood, she would fail to work her way into his stone heart before he demanded something she would never give him.

  “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  His expression clouded over. “I am sorry if I’ve offended you. Frankly, you are a puzzle to me.”

  She wanted to remain a puzzle, too. Maybe she should let Brunnel exact her revenge on Vile’s financial holdings and forego the hope of seeing his heart crushed as hers had been.

  He stood. “I had no way of knowing you didn’t want, as you say, to ‘go any further.’ That’s no matter. I confess, however, if we meet indoors, alone, I shall want to test your resolve.”

  He crossed his arms and tapped his chin with one hand. “I’ve the perfect answer. Let’s go out next time. I’ll get tickets to a play.”

  Her head was spinning. She’d expected him to storm from her home when she said she wouldn’t let him take any more liberties. Instead, he wanted to see her again, this time out in public.

  Spending time together doing ordinary things would certainly demonstrate whether he was capable of forming an attachment of the heart. Though, if she acquiesced too easily, how would he long for her?

  “I will accompany you to a play, but not this week. Not next week either.”

  “Why?” he asked, looking perplexed.

  Why? Was he allowed to ask her why?

  “You’re being impertinent,” she told him, raising her chin.

  “I’m not. Why can’t you see me this week or next? Do you have another suitor?”

  He said it as a jest, which annoyed her.

  She remained silent, thinking quick and deceitful thoughts. Why hadn’t she thought of this herself? The surest way to gain his devoted interest was to make him jealous. Even her pause was affecting him, for his easy smile died on his face.

  “Well, do you?”

  “I refuse to discuss such matters,” she said at last. Neither confirming nor denying seemed the best course of action.

  “I see. And if I choose to woo another lady, that is fine as long as we do not discuss it.”

  Drat! It
wouldn’t do for him to fall for anyone else.

  “Absolutely not.” She stood and faced him in the center of the room.

  He sighed. “You are puzzling me again.”

  “I am not a puzzle. If you are incapable of self-restraint, if you need to have another paramour immediately, then I suggest you do not contact me again.”

  He stared into her eyes, until, finally, unable to bear his scrutiny, she looked away first.

  “Very well,” he said. “It has been a stimulating evening.”

  Was he leaving for good?

  “I look forward to our next one,” he added.

  She nodded in agreement, inside feeling a wave of relief her plan wasn’t ruined, and walked to the drawing room door. She sensed he wished to kiss her again and was fully prepared to endure it.

  Instead, he took her hand and bestowed a gentle kiss upon her knuckles, and then, before releasing her, he turned her hand over, and brushed his lips upon the inside of her wrist.

  She gasped as a sensation of desire shot straight to her womanly core. Indeed!

  *

  At a private table at White’s, Michael listened to Brunnel explain how much the stock had increased in value and how much he’d made. From guano!

  Without hesitation, he went along with the man’s suggestion of being part of a sugar trading group. Why not? Who didn’t love a spoonful in their tea or coffee or a delicious sweet treat anytime? Apparently, all his fellow Brits were enjoying it by the sackful.

  Brunnel accepted both a glass of brandy and Michael’s signature, and then went on his way. Efficient and capable. The absolute opposite of Mrs. St. Ange’s cook.

  Each time he ate, Michael recalled the meal of four nights’ earlier, and he was determined to do something about it. Not only for Mrs. St. Ange’s sake but for his own, too. He intended to dine with her again as he worked his way from the ground floor to the upper chambers. Eating her cook’s fare would do more to spur on indigestion than ardor.

  Mrs. St. Ange would not accept another cook. She’d made it clear she had no intention of firing the incompetent woman in the kitchen. There was only one answer, short of murdering the cook whilst she shopped for perfectly good food to ruin. He would send his own wonderful cook knocking on the backdoor with an offer of assistance. Maybe Mrs. St. Ange didn’t need to know.