by Laura Parker
Undiscouraged, she slid one leg over the other before allowing her knees to part her gown and expose two deliciously plump thighs gartered in garlands of pink roses and trailing pastel ribbons.
The display recalled to Randolph’s mind the first time Lotte had allowed him to undress her, a thing she had been quite averse to in the beginning, though they had been wed a week. She had informed him that her mother warned her against such practices, even between husband and wife, because it encouraged the formation of lascivious appetites.
Thank providence she had been right, Randolph mused with a rueful smile.
Encouraged by that smile, Gwendolyn toyed with the ends of her golden hair that hung in ringlets down her bosom to her waist.
Ran, who had chosen Gwen precisely because her hair was not that unusual, suddenly pictured brilliant red curls framing a face at once pretty but also clever. He could recall in vivid detail the feel of their springy silkiness when spread across the pillows or entangled about him in the delirious moment of climax.
The lustful look that came into his eyes emboldened Gwendolyn’s hopes. She reached up and ran a forefinger down the cleft between her breasts.
“I am desolate to think you should not be paid in a timely fashion for your luck this night.”
Her finger drew little circles on her skin and then plunged beneath the only ribbon of her bodice left tied. “Are you quite certain there is nothing I might offer in recompense?”
The smile she bestowed upon him might have given life to a man of four score years. It certainly stirred Randolph’s already burgeoning organ, which thoughts of Lotte had begun. He watched in growing interest the play of her fingers on her skin as she offered him a demonstration of the kinds of things in which he might himself indulge. Yet his reflections remained steadfastly upon the libidinous games he had taught his own wife.
During those first weeks of wedded rapture he had learned that Lotte was all that was natural, uninhibited, uncalculated, and free from artifice. Not long after persuading her to allow him to act as her maid on those occasions best suited to the desire, he had entreated her to pose for him. Though she had been easily dissuaded from her notions of modesty in the matter of her husband’s enjoyment of her body, she maintained that such naked games be done at night and by the light of a single taper. She did it, giggling and reluctant as first and then with more spirit and coquettish joy.
She would strike a posture with her petticoats lifted above her knees, or in her corset with the strings of her chemise loosened by his hands and for his benefit. When she had grown more courageous, she would stand before him in just her chemise that she shimmied down from her shoulders to her bosom and then to her fingertips before she stepped out of it.
What delight to find her inventive, as when one night she had gone up ahead of him and she surprised him by being at her bath when he came in. The naughty suggestion that he join her, all her own, had changed forever his perception of the uses of their tub.
Her fundamental aptitude for pleasure had never been equaled, certainly not surpassed in his experience. She was all he wanted, or ever … would … want.
And that was the trouble!
Lord, but he missed Lotte!
Ran stood up. He would go and bring her back!
“What are you doing?” Gwendolyn cried out in exasperation.
“I’m leaving.” Distracted by his thoughts of the details of his departure, he did not even stop to kiss her before he reached for his coat. “Another evening, Gwen. I promise you may recoup your losses.”
She quickly sat up, not bothering to pull her wrapper closed. “Is there something I’ve done that displeases you?” She looked hurt, her lower lip protruding seductively. “I would do anything.” She lifted eyes swimming in tears. “Anything at all to please you, my lord.”
Ran stared at her sybaritic nakedness and wondered if politics and loneliness had addled his brain. Why should he not indulge himself with his mistress? It was the thing. Every gentleman who could afford it, and many more who could not, kept a woman on the side. Mistresses were de rigeur, nay, expected of a man of his station and wealth and looks. She was young, lovely, deliciously naked, and eager to please.
It did not work. No amount of rational, reasonable thought could stir his lust to the level required to entertain the provocatively revealed creature before him. He wanted Lotte and no other.
“Do forgive me, Gwen. I shall find a method to make it up to you.” He turned and was through her bedroom door before a hastily thrown slipper struck it with a force that made him wince.
An hour later, Ran sat with his bumper of port in the darkness of his library. He had not bothered to stir the fire to life when he returned home. The cool darkness suited his mood and helped to cool his libido which had shown remarkably poor timing by belatedly asserting itself once he had left Gwen to her own devises.
He was going to Bath tomorrow. His personal servant had been set the task of readying him for first dawn. The only question that he could not yet answer was how he should treat Lotte once he found her.
He had known her whereabouts from the very beginning. Only his quixotic Lotte would have announced to his butler, the most loyal member of his staff, that she was running away and that he was on no account to tell his lordship.
Randolph’s lips twitched as she recalled his butler’s exact recitation of the encounter. “Her ladyship’s express wishes were that you not be apprised of her forthwith departure from this residence nor that you should learn that her trunks are to be sent to the Bath. Therefore, I beg you lordship, question me no further on the subject.”
So Lotte had run away. Well, he might have expected it. He had spoken very harshly to her that night. Once past his husbandry fury over her daring, he had thought perhaps it would do them both good to have a separation. Once alone in a town where she knew no one and forced by her own self-imposed exile to remain in hiding lest a sighting of her be reported to him, he believed she would soon see reason and return. Certainly he was not about to hie off after her like a lovesick calf. He had his reputation to think of, and his position as head of his household. If he could not manage a wife, how would he ever retain the respect of his servants or gain that of his children?
Ran smiled as he took a satisfying sip of his port. He wanted children, as many as Lotte could successfully manage to produce. He had hoped they would be parents by now. It had grieved him greatly when she had miscarried their first. Yet he had been so certain she would be breeding again by now.
The sound of the bell by the front door rang hollowly through the still house. Ran did not bestir himself. If it were Gwen come to scold him, he would simply refuse to see her. He was not by nature a rude or callous person but he did not like scenes. If only Lotte were as sweet as she had been in the beginning they might not now both be miserable and alone.
He had finished his port when a light knock sounded at his door. “Enter.”
His butler appeared in stocking cap and nightshirt. “Beg pardon, my lord, there’s a person below who insists that you will want to see him, no matter the hour.”
Ran sat forward abruptly. “Willows!”
“Aye, my lord, that’s the name he gave.”
“Show him up at once.”
Two minutes later Mr. Willows appeared in the wake of Ran’s butler. A short man of compact body, he wore a neat but inexpensive wig that capped a face with a ruddy complexion, bulbous nose, and small pinched mouth. At first glance he might have been mistaken for a tradesman, tailor, haberdasher, or any of a hundred other burgers of the merchant class. But the telling sign was in his eyes, which were dark, bright, and constantly moving. Mr. Willows’ job was to observe, to watch and notice, to ferret out and search for things and people. In short, he was a detection man. In theory Ran detested spies, but he was also a realist and knew they had their uses.
Ran did not move from his chair. “I presume by the hour of your call you have imp
ortant news, Willows.”
“Good evenin’, yer lordship.” Willows spoke with the easy informality of one long accustomed to dealing with the private and often sordid lives of the aristocracy, his exclusive clientele. He pressed his tricorner to his chest as he executed a bow. “I do indeed have news. It came by messenger within this very hour.”
Ran steepled his fingers before him as his elbows rested on the armrests of his chair. Now that he was determined to go and retrieve Lotte himself, he felt a little ashamed of hiring men to trail her. Though, at the time, he had told himself it was for her protection rather than to keep tabs on her actions. A lady traveling along would be easy prey for all manner of villains.
“Tell me.”
Willows nodded. “I knew you’d be the sort to have his news fresh. Willows, I says—”
“Yes, yes.” Impatience flicked through Ran’s voice. “Get to the point, man.”
“The very thing, your lordship.” Willows began to dig around in his waistcoat pocket, producing from it a pair of spectacles and then a missive. As he unfolded the paper he said, “Your lady wife remains in Bath, my lord.”
“Just so. You must do better if you expect my thanks.”
Willows glanced at the earl over the rims of his spectacles. “Indeed, my lord. Not to worry. There’s far better fare, if you take my meaning. My man Foibles is a fellow as can be counted upon to be as discreet as he is thorough.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve details of the countess’s recent activities. Willows’ gaze slipped sideways away from the earl’s. “This last week there’s been a change in the countess’s situation. She weren’t, after a fashion, alone.”
Ran sat forward, his steeple exploded by an impatient gesture. “What, exactly, do you mean?”
Willows adjusted his glasses. “Here it is in Foible’s report.”
“Report?” The idea of a document containing a list of his wife’s movements disturbed Ran. “You’ve written it down?”
“Not to worry, my lord.” Willow’s small mouth pursed. “Writin’s safer than you might think in my occupation. Ain’t many fellows as can read and write. Foibles knows his letters and figures. Can on occasion pass for minor quality, a useful talent for a man in our line of work. Ah, here it is.”
He cleared his throat and began to read. “The countess had taken into her home a young woman of mysterious origin, who is frequently seen in accompaniment with the countess.”
“My wife going abroad? Where to?”
Willows made a small shrug with his shoulders. “The usual, my lord. The Pump Room, public breakfasts, the occasional service at the Abbey.”
Ran relaxed. “It that all?”
“There has been a recent change.” Willows seemed to need to consult his paper a second time. “On the evening of Thursday the twenty-seventh day of October in the year of our Lord—”
“Get on with it!”
“O’ course, my lord. The countess, hm, ah … yes, here it be. “The countess was seen to gamble in the home of Sir Avery. At the hour of midnight she was accompanied home in the person of a gentleman of Quality who bore the countess from her carriage to her door in his arms.’ ”
Ran shot up from his chair in spite of himself. “He what?”
Willows tapped the paper with his finger. “It says right here he bore—”
“Give that to me!” Ran snatched the parchment from the man’s grasp and stared at the scratch marks. “A gentleman of Quality by his bearing and in spite of the lack of a wig upon his flaxen— Flaxen.” Ran squashed the paper between his fists. “Darlington!”
“Didn’t get his name, my lord, but Foibles will remain on the job until he ferrets it out.”
“That won’t be necessary. You are dismissed!”
“But, my lord, there’s services as a man like meself—”
The terrible expression on the earl’s face squelched his final remarks. He hastily stepped back and removed his spectacles to his pocket, which seemed at the moment a safer place than his face.
“Takes some that way,” Willows would later remark to his wife. “The younger gentlemen never quite believe it’s possible that their wives might forsake them for another though they feel free to roger anything in petticoats. Makes a man wonder, don’t it?”
Randolph followed Willows to his door and when he was through it shut the door in the man’s face.
“Darlington!” he whispered darkly as he stared grimly off into the distance. He should have known!
Darlington had disappeared from London the same night as Lotte, yet the connection had never been made in his mind. After all, he was responsible for the challenge that he thought had sent Laughton into hiding. That the coward might have taken his wife with him had never crossed his mind!
Ran let out a primitive groan that bared his teeth.
It was the one thing he had not, would never have, considered possible. Lotte had run away with another man? No, not another man—Darlington!
Had they planned it? Had the idea of an elopement been in the works even before their row of a few weeks’ earlier? Had they been lovers plotting their escape while he was cooling his heels in the hopes that she would get over her infatuation with the West Indian?
Every conjecture cut into his soul like the lash of a saber. Blood began to flow and his heart to beat so heavily that a faint red veil seemed to lower before his unseeing gaze. How could she? With Darlington, that elegant, debauched butcher! He could kill them, kill them both!
Chapter Fourteen
Bath, November 5, 1740
The private salon was awash in the myriad colors of gowns and formal coats, of laces and jewels, elaborately coiffed male wigs and tiny ruffled feminine caps on close-stacked feminine curls. Rouged cheeks and scarlet lips complimented rice-powdered countenances. Artfully cut patches of black velvet or silk lay provocatively near an attractive eye or lip, or poised upon the summit of a darlingly revealed bosom; all accoutrements meant to distract and entice and lure the opposite sex.
There was much laughter and gaiety. The room resounded with raised voices. The occasional thrilled cry of a winner or groans of disappointment were underscored by the exertions of a small chamber orchestra set in a galley above. Yet, for all its beauty and glitter and semblance of culture and refinement, this was a gaming hell.
The faces of the room’s occupants were hard with concentration, their smiles oiled by guile, their eyes glittering with covetousness. One and all, they radiated the fever of self-interest. But it was not the preening heat of sexual awareness. Of genuine interest only to both men and women was the dice or cards spread upon the green-baize card tables, which were scattered through the opulent room like small verdant oases amidst a sea of Beau Monde regalia.
“So, what say you, my lady?”
Sabrina glanced up into the cynically amused expression of Lord Darlington, her escort, and wondered again at her temerity. It was one thing to gamble among Lady Charlotte’s friends. It was another to enter a gaming salon from Which society would bar her if it knew she was neither a mistress nor wed. Not that she would give Darlington the satisfaction of knowing her agitation. She turned coolly away from him. “I say, my lord, that we should find ourselves a seat and begin the evening’s enterprise.”
“So anxious, my pet? I’d have thought you would wish to observe the play before you entered it.”
His hand on her elbow tightened just a fraction. “There are no innocents in this room. The boundaries of class are abandoned at the door. The squire’s wife, the earl’s married daughter, and the duke’s mistress are equals within these walls. A love of gambling is their creed and their common bond. Do not be mistaken. The most virtuous countenance among them hides the heart of a predator who is a better competitor and more skilled at dissembling than you.”
She glanced sideways. “If you hope to frighten me away, you will be disappointed.”
“Good.” The wol
fish gleam in his eye reminded her that for him this was nothing but a game, a distraction he could tire of at any moment. Whether he won or lost, he gambled only for gold. She had a brother’s life to stake—and, if she won, her virtue as a debt to be collected by the man by her side.
She felt his hand at the middle of her back impelling her forward. “You have only to choose your part this night and we may begin.”
She again glanced his way. “What do you mean?”
“Egalitarianism among the classes requires the safeguard of illusion. Many here have adopted a sobriquet for the night.”
“What is yours?”
He gazed down at her, a cool assessing expression on his face. “I do not bother. My reputation speaks for itself. You, however, may wish to distance yourself from it.”
“Why should I want to do that?”
He looked at her like a puppy that had learned a new trick. “I was hoping that would be your reply. So then, we shall allow people to draw their own conclusions.”
Something in his tone made her ask, “What will that be?”
She decided that she preferred disdain to the unholy smile he now bestowed upon her. “Why, that you are my current mistress.”
Sabrina tossed her head and looked away, feeling the unaccustomed weight of her own long dark tresses freed to cascade over her shoulders and down her back. Though she was not the only female present wearing her natural hair, it was the addition of rice powder to her cheeks and rouge to her lips that made her feel conspicuous.
That feeling was encouraged by the many frank stares in equal numbers of envy and lust that were following her progress with Lord Darlington into the room. Her gown of midnight blue was cinched in the waist tighter than usual, the lowered neckline a scandal that she would not have dared in London. The heavy collar of pearls about her neck did not so much fill in the expanse of her bosom as attract the eye to it. Certainly they must think her Darlington’s mistress. She alone knew that she intended to deprive him of that prize.
If only he had offered her some assurance of her beauty, she might have felt more certain of herself among this glittering crowd. To her consternation, his only comment upon viewing her when he came to pick her up had been a brief widening of his eyes followed by the careless comment, “You will distract the easily smitten.”
