by Emily Royal
Ravenwell…
Jeanette’s encounter with Ravenwell that previous afternoon had unsettled her, bringing forth unfamiliar sensations not unlike the uncomfortable heat of the summer or the tightening of her corset when her maid laced it up under Mama’s instructions to reduce the appearance of curves.
And now Mama’s ambition had been heightened. She had battered Jeanette with questions and demands. In Mama’s eyes, the heir to a dukedom was a better prospect for a baronet’s daughter than a mere viscount.
The sneers among the men and women of society told Jeanette such a marriage would never take place. She was too far beneath the suitors Mama aspired to. But if Jeanette were to avoid being paraded in front of every bachelor Mama deemed eligible, she must take action. Simply talking to Mama was not enough. Mama merely redoubled her efforts each time Jeanette voiced her protests. Deeds were needed where words had failed.
And now Mama had set her eyes on Ravenwell, a man so far above Jeanette in station that despite the brief flicker of understanding which had occurred between them in the rose garden, he’d deem her unworthy of even becoming his mistress, let alone his wife, or any of the men of his acquaintance.
His mistress…
Her stomach flipped at the notion of intimacy with such a man. During the night, she had been plagued by dreams of him—brilliant blue eyes watching her while her body yielded to his hands. She had reached for the rose during the night, her fingers caressing the stem where he’d held it. How could the briefest of touches have elicited such sensations in her?
Footsteps approached from the hallway, and the footmen’s bodies shifted almost imperceptibly, their backs straightening in unison.
Damn—another early riser. Now she would have to engage in facile talk about the weather or the number of birds the gentlemen expected to kill when the season started. With luck, she’d be able to finish her breakfast and excuse herself without seeming impolite before too many guests joined her.
“Good morning, Miss Claybone.”
She looked up to see Lord Ravenwell standing in the doorway, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
*
Henry sat opposite Miss Claybone and placed a full plate in front of him. Her demeanor changed from that of a woman eating her breakfast with gusto to a hunted animal, her body stiffening in discomfort or even fear. She placed her fork down and reached for her teacup.
“Are you enjoying your eggs, Miss Claybone?”
“Aside from being a little overcooked?”
“Overcooked?”
“Yes,” she said. “Lord Holmestead’s funds clearly don’t permit his steward to employ a French chef. Last night’s cut of meat was in need of a little less salt and substantially fewer minutes in the roasting pan.”
“Do you think commerce a suitable topic of conversation for the dining room?”
“Ah,” she said, sipping her tea. “I forget, I’m in the presence of an individual who lacks a basic understanding of numeracy. Would the excellence of one’s meal be a more appropriate topic?”
“You’ll find better quality partners willing to engage in an exchange of words with you, certainly.”
“Our understanding of quality differs, Lord Ravenwell.”
“Perhaps when it comes to society,” he said, “but I’ll wager our opinions on the quality of a cut of beef, for example, are more aligned than you think.”
“Don’t you mean venison? Or have you not woken up sufficiently to notice Miss De Witt is not in the room?”
A ripple of mirth bubbled in his chest, threatening to shatter his composure. He lifted his teacup to hide the smile on his lips. A wave of need threaded through him, tempered by discomfort.
How long had it been since he’d laughed? Not the polite titter issued to satisfy the vanities of ladies in the drawing room, but a genuine expression arising from the joy of an exchange of words with a creature in possession of wit and an unfettered love of life?
Before he could respond, their hostess appeared. After engaging in the exchange of bland pleasantries, she sat at the end of the table, her gaze darting between him and Miss Claybone.
“Henry, darling, I see you’re indulging yourself early.”
Miss Claybone stiffened at Louisa’s familiar address.
“Of course, Lady Holmestead,” he said. “I have to admit, your chef possesses an unmatched skill when it comes to cooking eggs.”
He ignored the coughing opposite him and focused his attention on his breakfast.
Louisa leaned forward. “Miss Claybone, are you well?”
“Yes, thank you.” Miss Claybone cleared her throat and glanced up.
“Perhaps you might indulge in another portion, Henry,” Louisa continued. “You’ve always been in possession of a healthy appetite.”
“Maybe later.”
“Very well,” Louisa said, “but I would counsel you to satisfy your hunger.” She lowered her voice to the familiar purr of seduction. “After all, you’ll need your strength for this afternoon’s—exertions.”
He looked up at a clatter of porcelain opposite. With a scrape of wood, Miss Claybone rose from her seat.
“Please, excuse me.”
“Is the breakfast not to your satisfaction?” Louisa asked.
“I’m merely finding it somewhat of a challenge.” Miss Claybone replied. “But it’s nothing a dose of fresh air and good company cannot cure.”
A challenge, indeed…
But rather than follow the quarry capable of testing the strength of his resolve and his sanity, Henry resumed eating and turned his attention to the easy prey sitting at the head of the table. A promise was a promise, and he would meet Louisa in secret before dinner, as usual. But as he watched the enthusiasm glittering in Louisa’s eyes, he found himself, for the first time, unable to share it.
*
Creeping along a corridor to join Louisa, Henry stopped at the sound of piano music. It could only be Miss Claybone.
During the day, her ill temper had returned and she’d spent the afternoon in Rupert’s company, casting acidic glances Henry’s way. What was Rupert saying to her?
After dodging Miss De Witt’s attentions, he’d stumbled upon Miss Claybone in the woods. It had begun to rain. The ladies had run inside shrieking for their maids while the gentlemen grumbled about the lack of sport, the weather having driven the birds undercover. Henry had sought solitude in the woods surrounding the park.
It had seemed as if all creatures, save the ducks in the lake, were terrified of a little water.
Except one. At first, he’d thought his mind was playing tricks; musical laughter accompanied the patter of rain. Through the trees, a white figure danced in slow circles, and Henry had moved closer to get a better view.
She’d flung her arms out and tipped her head up. Her hair clung to her face, water dripping from the ends. But she’d seemed not to care, twirling round, moving faster and faster until Henry’s vision blurred. It was a wonder she hadn’t lost her balance.
“Wheeeee!”
She’d stopped moving, bosom heaving with exertion, cheeks aglow with the exercise, her gown soaked. Henry had caught his breath at the vision before him, the outline of her breasts, larger than convention might dictate but all the more tempting for it; soft, luscious flesh, made to fill his hands.
A familiar warmth had ignited in his loins, his manhood hardening with hunger.
What an extraordinary, wild woman she was. What would it be like to tame her?
Where had that notion come from? Shaking his head, he’d taken a step back. A twig had snapped underfoot, and she’d stopped moving.
“Who’s there!”
He’d inched further back, concealed by the trees.
“Come out, you coward. Show yourself!”
Coward he was, to be caught peeking at a desirable woman like a teenager not yet awakened to the pleasures of the flesh. Shame burning his cheeks, he’d taken off at a sprint.
His valet, the epitome of di
scretion, had said nothing. He’d merely dressed Henry, promising to return his clothes cleaned and dried.
Jeanette had been less fortunate. At luncheon, she had sat beside her mother, weathering admonishments with a subdued expression on her face while she’d picked at her food and shivered throughout the meal.
The music increased to a crescendo, returning Henry to the present, then stopped with a cacophony of notes.
“Damn these arpeggios!”
Henry had heard the piece before. A Beethoven Sonata, renowned for the first movement, but she was playing the third movement. Few people of his acquaintance would entertain learning such a complex piece.
The music came from a room halfway along the corridor. Henry drew close and pushed the door ajar. Back facing him, body hunched over the keyboard, her fingers flew across the keys. With a flourish, she repeated the final passage, throwing herself forward at the final chord, and shouted for joy.
Instinctively, he drew his hands together in applause. She slammed the lid down and whirled round.
“Who’s there?”
He darted away, resolving to steer clear of her. Miss Claybone was a dangerous woman who made him act contrary to his nature.
Better to spend his time bestowing scraps of attention on his admirers than pay heed to a commoner who despised him.
He climbed a flight of stairs to the floor above where the servants slept. He was unlikely to be disturbed there. The guests kept the household occupied with their needs and whims.
“Henry!”
At the end of the corridor, Lady Holmestead’s lithe form emerged from the shadows. The thrill of getting caught accelerated and intensified Louisa’s pleasure. In five minutes, she’d be purring with satisfaction under the administrations of his expert fingers.
“Louisa, darling.” He pulled her to him and crushed her mouth against his own. He’d taught her well, for she knew how to pleasure him. But this meeting would be all about her. Occasionally a gentleman should see to his lady’s pleasure first.
His manhood diminished, no longer eager to enjoy the attentions of such easy prey. What was wrong with him?
As if in answer, his mind conjured soft music, the Scarlatti sonata she had played at the Darlington ball.
Louisa broke the kiss. “There she goes again. Why can’t Miss Claybone spend her time with the other ladies?”
“She needn’t trouble us, darling.” Silencing her with his lips, he slipped his hand underneath her petticoats, smiling in triumph as a mew of pleasure erupted from her throat.
“Greedy girl.”
Footsteps approached, and her body stiffened with fear.
“Henry…”
“Hush!” He pushed her back into the shadows and spun her around so that she, at least, might not be identified by the passer-by.
“Stay still,” he whispered. “With luck, they won’t see us.”
The footsteps slowed and a figure came into view. The sunlight from a nearby window illuminated a face. Dark green eyes widened for an instant before they blinked. The figure took a step back, then turned around and disappeared, footsteps fading into the distance.
He released Louisa from his grip. With the practiced art of a wayward wife, she smoothed her hair and adjusted her skirts. Within moments, apart from the bright expression in her eyes, she looked every part the virtuous hostess.
“That was close. Do you suppose he saw us?”
Henry adjusted his cravat. “Of course not.”
Blowing him a kiss, Louisa skipped away, her enthusiasm for life revitalized. Henry waited the usual two minutes before following at a more measured pace.
With luck, Louisa would not discover his deception. She had definitely seen them.
*
The dinner concluded, and Jeanette followed the ladies into the drawing room to take tea while the gentlemen retired to their brandy.
A hand grasped her arm, and she looked up into the dark eyes of Lord Ravenwell.
“Unhand me, sir.”
“Not until I have satisfaction.”
“You’ll never have satisfaction from any encounter with me.”
His nostrils flared. “What were you doing in the servants’ quarters?”
“Practicing,” she said, “whereas you, I believe, were performing.”
His lips parted, the only sign of his composure slipping. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Perhaps Lady Holmestead could clarify for me.”
“I cannot imagine what tales you seek to spin…”
“You must think me a simpleton!” she hissed. “But don’t worry. I’ll say nothing of your sordid little encounter.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You can’t. But as you keep reminding me, I lack the qualities of a lady, a thirst for gossip being one of them.” She broke off as a sneeze caught her.
“You should see an apothecary. You don’t want to catch a chill.”
“A waste of money,” she replied. “We farm folk are made of sturdy stock.”
He lifted his hand to her chin and tipped it up until his lips almost touched hers. His eyes darkened, a spark of desire glittering in their blue depths. The delicate air of spices lingering on his coat deepened into a musky, woody aroma, the scent of raw male power.
“Are we not the same?” he asked.
She snatched her arm from his grip.
“We are not, and never will be, the same.”
Before he could reply, she slipped into the drawing room where he couldn’t bully her.
Lady Holmestead advanced on her, brandishing a teacup. Her gown was a deep vibrant red, trimmed with jet beads in an intricate pattern; she looked every part the lady of the estate, her tall, slender frame dwarfing Jeanette’s unwieldy form. No wonder men such as Lord Ravenwell were attracted to her. The perfect society beauty.
As Jeanette sipped her tea, a housemaid approached her, holding out a piece of paper.
“Begging your pardon, miss, the gentleman bade me give you this.”
Jeanette took the note and opened it. The hand was Oakville’s.
Dearest Miss Claybone,
Meet me in the rose garden as soon as you read this. I shall be waiting.
Yours devotedly,
R.
What could he want? Though it defied convention and risked scandal, it would keep her safe from being accosted by Ravenwell when the gentlemen joined the ladies. If Ravenwell disapproved of her acquaintance with Oakville, so much the better. And perhaps a scandal was exactly what she needed to put a stop to Mama’s scheming. At all costs, she must be spared the lifeless existence of a society wife.
*
Though night had fallen, the air was still warm from the heat of the day. Jeanette’s footsteps echoed as she crossed the terrace and slipped through the archway leading to the rose garden.
“Miss Claybone.” He stepped into the moonlight.
“Viscount Oakville!”
He placed a finger on his lips. “Hush, my darling.”
His body cast a shadow which moved toward her. For a moment, he seemed to grow in size, eyes and teeth glittering with a predatory air before he held out his hand.
“Let us take a moonlit walk.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want to do anything improper.”
“But I’ve been looking forward to this for so long. And I have another poem for you.” He pulled her close and lowered his voice. “My darling.” He brushed his lips against her skin. “Let us walk for a while.”
He led her deeper into the garden. Squeezing her hand, he caressed her wrist with his thumb, slow, gentle movements, a tender gesture so unlike the baser actions she’d expected of a rake. On reaching the perimeter wall, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. He pushed her back against the wall.
“Miss Claybone—Jeanette—you’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted to hold you.”
“Lord Oakville…”
“Call me Rupert. Let us dispense with formalities.”
“Rupert… I don’t think we should…”
He silenced her with his lips. She tried to push him away, but he moved his mouth against hers, and his hot, wet tongue pushed insistently against her lips.
He broke the kiss and took her face in his hands, caressing her cheeks with his thumb. Lust darkened his eyes until they were almost black.
“Oh, Jeanette, you want me, too, don’t you?”
He kissed her again, and a deep groan reverberated in his chest, the sound of a male overtaken by the need for a female.
Yet, she felt nothing, no rumble of need shook her. Was there something wrong with her? Or did she have to respond in order to find pleasure?
Tentatively, she touched his tongue with hers.
“That’s it, my darling,” he said. “Let me give you pleasure. Tonight, you’ll be mine.”
What was she doing?
She broke free from the kiss and pushed against him. “I’m sorry, I cannot do this. It’s wrong.”
“Would you deny a husband?”
“Rupert…”
“What if we were to marry?” He brought his lips close, his hot breath caressing her skin. “I merely wish to sample the goods first. Wouldn’t your father inspect livestock before agreeing to a purchase?”
“Marry? I–I don’t know.”
“But I do. Trust me, this is what courting couples do. We share pleasures. It’s how we get to know one another more—intimately. You wouldn’t deny me another kiss, would you, darling?”
“One more.”
“You’re an angel!” He fisted a hand in her hair and pulled her head back to expose her throat.
His breath tickled against her neck. “Such beautiful skin.” Wet, open-mouthed kisses traced a line down her throat. Soft fingers fumbled at the lace of her gown. He tugged at the material, and a surge of cold air rushed across her breasts.
“Oh, Jeanette…”
“Rupert, we cannot!”
“Yes, we can, my love. Let your pleasure be my gift.”
His fingers reached their destination.
“Good grief, you’re as dry as a Muscadet down there!”
“What do you mean?”
