Kitabı oku: «Regency Scoundrels And Scandals», sayfa 22
‘Lady Belinda.’ He paused to choose his words with care. ‘I should point out that however innocent a late-night drink between two friends might be, it would not be seen in that light by a third party. It would be regarded in the worst possible light. It simply is not done.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Bel regarded him in dismay. ‘I am making such a mull of this. You see, I am not in the habit…that is to say, I am not used to inviting gentlemen to…Oh, dear. I should have asked Ther—I mean, a friend—how it is done.’
‘How what is done?’ Ashe asked bluntly, wondering if there was something wrong with the champagne. He was not accustomed to feeling this light-headed. Not after a mere three glasses of good wine.
‘How one asks a man if he will become your lover.’
‘Ah.’ Ashe took a deep, steadying breath. It occurred to him, distractingly, that the last time he had found it necessary to do so he had been standing up to his ankles in mud, a sword clenched in his fist while the French cavalry had been advancing towards him at a gallop. He was not certain that this was not more terrifying. ‘I was not sure that was what you meant.’
‘That I was asking if you would be my lover?’ She repeated the noun as though trying to become used to it. ‘Of course, if you do not want to…please, do say so.’ It sounded as though she was offering him a plate of macaroons. ‘I mean, I would feel awful if you felt you had to say yes, just to be polite.’
‘Polite? No, politeness is not a consideration, I assure you. Nor, believe me, is desire, or lack of it. I find you highly desirable.’ Ashe strained his ears for the sound of footsteps behind them. He had moved into this position for discretion; now they were discussing matters so sensitive they should be at the bottom of the garden, not in the middle of a popular promenade.
‘Thank you.’ She looked up at him from under her lashes, suddenly shy again.
He found his lips curving into a smile. Belinda was so deliciously serious as she accepted as a compliment what he had intended as a simple statement of fact. She should not have needed telling; he was still chastising himself for his loss of control back there on the dance floor. But the rhythms of the music, the sway of her body in his arms, her trusting surrender to his lead just made him want to sweep her away into a bedchamber and continue to explore those rhythms, that yielding, until they reached the ultimate conclusion.
If only he did not keep getting memory flashes of her lying on that damned bearskin rug, her hair tousled, her feet bare beneath a fluttering silken hem, he would find it easier to control himself. But it seemed he did not need to. It seemed, improbably, that the well-behaved widow of the most boring and conventional man in society wanted to take him to her bed.
‘Ashe?’ She was biting the fullness of her under lip; the idea of his own teeth just there made his loins throb. ‘You are frowning. I should not have asked, should I? I expect men always prefer to do the asking. Only, I did not think that you ever would and I have no idea how to flirt so that you would understand it would be all right.’
He wanted to touch her, lift his hand and touch the smooth curve of her cheek, run the pad of his thumb over the line of the enticing red swell of her mouth, but there were people all around them and preserving her reputation had to be paramount.
Ashe did not answer the anxious questions at once. ‘Let us walk. I do not want to attract attention.’ He turned, offering her his arm again; after a moment’s hesitation she took it. He had thought her almost unnaturally composed, now he could feel the tremor running through her, transmitting itself through silk and broadcloth into him. She was as scared of herself, of what she had just done, as she was of him.
‘It is not a question of preference, of the man wanting to ask,’ he tried to explain, returning to her anxious question. ‘Only, with you, it would never occur to me that the question would meet with anything but a stinging box to my ears. My mild attempts at flirtation so far have not been wildly successful.’
Belinda gave a little gurgle of amusement, but her voice retained its anxiety as she probed. ‘So, before, you thought me too respectable for such things, and now you think me—what? All the words are so horrible. The reality of doing this is not at all the fantasy I had of it.’
‘I think that you owe no one an explanation of your behaviour other than yourself,’ Ashe said, meaning it, trying not to speculate about her fantasies. ‘You are not contemplating betraying your marriage vows, you have no children to shelter, no great public position to protect. You are discreet, you have honoured me with your trust—and believe me, I will not betray it. I have no attachments or commitments that I would be breaking. That makes you a private woman with private needs who is able to satisfy them. Nothing more.’
He would never have dreamed he would be having such a measured, serious, discussion with a would-be lover, but it seemed Belinda needed that reasoning. She was not doing it lightly, this was no whim. It made him reassess his opinion of the late Lord Felsham. Had the man been such a superlative lover that his wife was pining for a man in her bed? And yet, if he had not known better, he would have thought her a virgin, her responses were so innocent. The effect of knowing one man only, he supposed.
‘Then you will?’ she asked, looking up suddenly. ‘Be my lover?’ The intensity in her eyes, even in the shadow of the loggia, shook him. No, she was no natural lightskirt like her frivolous friends, who were separated from their sisters in the muslin company only by wealth and breeding, not by temperament.
‘I would be honoured,’ Ashe said, meaning it. That Layne fellow was strolling towards them, a very young blonde chattering animatedly at his side. Time to draw this to a conclusion before anyone commented on how long they had spent together. ‘Lady Belinda, may I call tomorrow?’ He dropped his voice to a murmur as the other couple came up to them. ‘Soon after one.’
Not tonight, then. The strength of her disappointment shook Bel. She was shocked at herself. What had she wanted? That Ashe sweep her up in his arms and take her to bed immediately? Find a bedchamber here and lock the door? Yes, of course that is what I want!
‘Certainly.’ Bel produced her best social smile. ‘And that time tomorrow would be most convenient. Thank you, my lord.’ With a nod to Patrick Layne and his partner, Ashe was gone, cutting easily through the congestion at the entrance to the loggia.
‘Lady Felsham, may I introduce Miss Steppingley?’ She dragged her attention back and smiled at the blonde girl. She was very young, very pretty, wide-eyed with shy excitement.
Bel shook hands and listened with half an ear to Miss Steppingley’s effusions about how thrilling it was that Mama had held this dance party and was letting her and her cousins attend, even though they were not out until the new Season. She caught Mr Layne’s eye and he grinned at her over Miss Steppingley’s head, obviously amused by the naïve chatter.
‘Shall we go back? I am not sure your mama would wish you to be promenading with a gentleman unchaperoned.’ Bel began to stroll towards the ballroom. If Lady Steppingley knew what her guest had just done, she would be far more shocked by her daughter talking to Bel than she would by her walking alone for a little while with the respectable Mr Layne. I am a scarlet woman, Bel thought. Almost. She shot Mr Layne a look that she hoped indicated that she was not suggesting he was an unsafe companion, and was reassured by a slight nod of his head.
Miss Steppingley soon found a friend to chatter to, leaving Bel alone with him. ‘That was probably very wise of you,’ he said, following the giggling pair with a tolerant eye. ‘She’s far too young and trusting to know the ropes yet. Not at all up to snuff. Very dangerous.’
‘For her to be with you, Mr Layne? Surely not.’
‘For me.’ Patrick Layne grinned. ‘The next thing you know with girls that age, they have decided that a little mild flirtation behind the potted palm indicates lifelong devotion and you’re in Papa’s study explaining your intentions.’
‘And have you ever been in that position?’ Bel looked round the room as though watching the party. Ashe had vanished.
‘No, I am glad to say. I prefer ladies closer to my own age.’ As she guessed he was twenty-six, her age exactly, Bel wondered if this was another of his indirectly flirtatious remarks.
‘There is your sister.’ It was better, she decided, to ignore it. Her brain was spinning too much to worry about Mr Layne’s intentions. ‘I must say goodbye.’
‘Do call.’ The poetess slipped a card into her hand as Bel explained she was about to leave. ‘I would be delighted if you would call and take tea.’
‘Thank you.’ Bel put it carefully into her reticule. This was precisely what she had hoped for in coming to London, to make new friends, to build a pleasant social life for herself. It was not, whatever she had fantasised, to take a lover. But she had—almost.
If Ashe Reynard had not had too much to drink the other evening, this would not be happening, Bel thought, settling back in the corner of her carriage and ignoring how badly her new evening slippers pinched. But Ashe had ended up on his old, familiar doorstep, and they had met, and something inside her could not stop yearning for him.
She had danced with several attractive gentlemen that evening. Patrick Layne was good looking, good company and, she was certain, discreet. But it would never cross her mind, not for a single moment, that she might want an affaire with him.
But with Ashe she had met the man of her fantasies, it was the only explanation. And if she did not follow her instincts now, she would never have the chance, or the courage, again.
Chapter Seven
‘Did you have a pleasant nap, my lady?’ Philpott placed a cup of tea by the bedside and went to draw back the curtains at the window, letting in the late afternoon sunshine.
‘No, not really,’ Bel said vaguely, pushing her hair back out of her eyes. Philpott, studying her with professional frankness, sniffed.
‘You will have bags under your eyes, my lady, if you do not get some sleep. London life does not appear to suit you. You look as though you did not get a wink last night either. You are quite pale.’ She leaned closer, frowning, convincing Bel that she must look such a hag that Ashe would retreat in alarm after one look at her.
‘Yes, there are smudges under your eyes, my lady, even if there are no bags. Yet.’ The dresser turned away, leaving her mistress to digest this ominous lecture, and began to tidy the dressing table. ‘Once a lady reaches a certain age, she has to take extra care,’ she added. ‘In my last position, try what I might, I could not persuade my lady to use Denmark Lotion. And look what happened.’
‘What did happen?’ Bel slid her arms into her wrapper and got up. Perhaps if she got dressed and had a walk before dinner, she could manage a short sleep after it.
‘Crows’ feet,’ Philpott confided bleakly.
Bel sat on the dressing-table stool and regarded herself in the mirror. Even if the ultimate horror of crows’ feet had not yet arrived, she certainly looked like a woman short of sleep. And that was hardly the way to appear to a sophisticated, experienced gentleman who was used, she had no doubt, to lovely, assured and vibrant lovers. Not to inexperienced ones who were too nervous to sleep and consequently were wan and heavy-eyed. To say nothing of utterly ignorant on the subject of pleasuring a man in bed.
The thought of pleasuring Ashe in bed, whatever it involved, had Bel closing her eyes with a breathless sigh of anticipation. Then she opened them again and stared at her pale reflection.
She tried to find consolation in the glossiness of her hair, which she had washed that morning. Philpott began to style it again and Bel was seized with a new worry. How should she dress to receive Ashe? Would he expect her to be in evening dress and for them to have a conversation first? Or would he expect her to be in bed? Or up, but en négligé? How on earth was one supposed to know these things? Bel worried, distractedly buffing her nails. There ought to be a book on the subject. Perhaps there was, and she was too ignorant to know how to find it. Poor Lord Dereham.
Ashe slid the key carefully into the lock and eased the back door open. The night was quiet, moonless, and here, at the rear of the house, almost totally dark. As he had passed the front façade on to Half Moon Street he had seen the candlelight flickering through a gap in Belinda’s bedchamber curtains. She was awake and waiting for him.
His lips curved in a smile of pleasurable anticipation, unclouded by nothing more than two glasses of claret with his dinner. He had returned to his chambers for a shave and to check there was no last-minute message cancelling their rendezvous and now he was conscious of the steady pulse of his blood, of a certain tightness low in his belly and the slight, pleasurable, frisson of nerves.
He expected it before battle, welcomed it to keep him sharp and alert. It amused him to feel it now, before the start of a new affaire. It was novel, that feeling in these circumstances, but then Belinda was different somehow. He had never been a careless or thoughtless lover, he reassured himself as he made his way unerringly through the familiar house. But this was important to get right.
He paused halfway up the stairs, frowning into the darkness. Why was that? Then he shrugged. The lady was not going to thank him for keeping her waiting while he brooded on the philosophy of relationships. As soundlessly as he had moved operating behind enemy lines Ashe drifted upstairs, turned right on to the landing and scratched lightly on the door panel.
She opened the door to him on to a room lit by a candelabrum on a side table and another by the bedside. As he stepped inside, Bel closed the door and moved wordlessly to stand by the table. It looked as though she had been sitting there reading.
The flickering light struck rich reflections off her unbound hair, as though amber had been threaded through its brown length. Ashe wanted to lift it, run his fingers through it. All in good time. Patience: she is worth it. ‘Lady Belinda.’
‘My friends call me Bel,’ she confided, her voice husky with nerves.
‘Bel.’ He tried it and smiled, pleased with the sound on his tongue. A small word, but sweet and rounded, like her. ‘Lovely. It suits you.’ She was wearing a long robe of amber silk tied with ribbons that fluttered as she moved. Under it he could see a nightgown in a deeper hue. With her hair heavy on her shoulders and her bare toes peeping out, she was the woman he remembered from that first night.
Only he did not recall her being this pale, nor her eyes looking so enormous in the oval of her face. Last night, at the dance, she had not seemed so fragile. ‘Are you all right, Bel?’ He moved to come to her and stopped, his toe stubbing against something. He looked down. Malevolent green-glass eyes glinted up from a massive furry head. His toes were against a set of savage teeth. That ridiculous bear again. ‘Good evening, Horace,’ he said, sidestepping the thing.
Bel gave a little gasp of laughter. ‘I am all right. I am just…nervous, I suppose.’
‘So am I,’ Ashe said easily, closing the distance between them. Hell, she looked as though she had not slept at all, and the hem of her gown was vibrating as though she was shivering. He had the sudden thought that if he clapped his hands she would faint out of sheer alarm. Now was not the time to stand around talking, she needed sweeping off her feet.
Ashe lifted his hands to her shoulders, feeling the slender bones and his breath hitched in his throat. She stood watching him, grey eyes wide so he saw his own reflection as he lowered his mouth to hers.
The shock jolted through him as their lips touched. What was it? The scent of her, faintly floral, wholly feminine—or the taste of her? Even at that light touch he could sense sweetness. But he had touched his lips to her skin before, held her close. Perhaps that familiarity accounted for the sense of rightness as he angled his mouth to slide questing over hers.
Bel gave a little gasp against his lips, but her hands came up to press against his upper chest as though she did not know whether to hold on or push him away. He let his tongue explore along the seam of her lips, wondering how easily she would open to him, how she would taste as he slid inside. Surely she understood what he was doing, what he wanted? He sucked gently on that deliciously pouting lower lip and felt her jolt of surprise.
It seemed she did not understand. Ashe did not try to force it, but eased the pressure, letting his tongue slide over the swell of her lower lip. Her hands crept up to curve over his shoulders and she moved a little closer. Encouraged, he let his own hands slide down to hold her against him, supple, yielding as she had been in the waltz, letting him lead.
He sucked her lower lip into his own mouth and she came up on tiptoe, pressed against him so that the urge to cup her buttocks and crush her against his swelling groin was almost painful. At last her mouth was opening to his gentle assault. Ashe slid his tongue between her lips, into the warm, moist sweetness and her own tongue moved to touch his in a shyly tentative caress. He did not think he had ever felt anything so touching as that innocently trusting gesture.
It seemed her husband was not a magnificent lover who had left his wife bereft after all. But how could a man be married to Bel and not want to lavish every art of seduction and eroticism upon her? How could she be this innocent?
She was clinging to his shoulders now and he sensed it was only that grip that was keeping her standing. Gently Ashe lifted his mouth and smiled down at her. The colour was animating her face now, a little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Already it seemed fuller, more swollen from his assiduous kisses.
‘Hello,’ he murmured, as though she had been away.
‘Hello.’ Her lashes fluttered down to hide her eyes and he opened his hands to release her. Those frivolous ribbons fluttered with the movement and he began to undo the bows, slowly, indulgently, letting the sensual slide of the silk satin through his fingers tantalise him with the thought of how her skin would feel when he caressed her.
‘I can do that,’ she said uncertainly, her hands fluttering above his as he worked with slow concentration.
‘I enjoy it. This is a very lovely garment; the colour is perfect against your skin, your hair.’ The last bow yielded and the robe fell open to reveal the low-cut neckline of the nightgown. Ashe had seen the lovely swell of her breasts before—this was no lower cut than the fashionable gown she had worn last night, but this time it was for him alone, and he could touch her. Holding his breath, he trailed the back of his fingers across the exposed skin.
Bel gasped, stepped back, but he simply stepped forward, matching her retreat, caught the edges of the robe and pushed it off her shoulders. Long, slim arms, bare now without gloves, the light glinting on her skin, turning it to ivory, and shoulders, naked except for slim ribbon straps, sloping elegantly up to the column of her neck. The pulse there was beating wildly, he could see it, was immeasurably aroused by it. Low down, where he ached for her, his echoing pulse throbbed with urgent need.
‘Belle.’ He gave it a lingering French intonation, laying his fingers gently against the betraying pulse. ‘Belle. You are so lovely, so lovely.’
‘Should I…should I get into bed?’
He had planned to kiss her almost insensible there where they stood, then scoop her up and enjoy the sight of her sprawled on the deep green satin of the bed cover. But all his instincts told him to go slowly, let her do what seemed comfortable to her. ‘If you like.’
She edged backwards, lifted the side of the covers. ‘With the candles lit?’
‘Why, yes. I want to see you.’
‘You do?’ She slid into bed and sat watching him, the covers up to her chin.
‘Definitely!’ Ashe sat down with caution on the delicate bergère armchair, took off his shoes, undid the buckles at the knee of his evening breeches and began to roll down the silk stockings. With his feet bare he stood up and shed his coat, letting it fall with a carelessness that would have wrung a moan from his valet’s lips.
As he began to unbutton his waistcoat, Bel stammered, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Undressing.’ He dropped the garment on to the coat and pulled the knot of his neckcloth free.
‘But…don’t you want to do that in the dressing room?’
Ashe stared at her. ‘No. No, I would like to undress here, where I can watch you.’
‘Oh.’ Bel shut her eyes. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘Bel.’ They stayed shut. ‘Bel, I know you have seen a naked man before—’
‘No, I have not.’
‘What?’ Ashe sat down, heedless of the crushed garments on the chair. No, do not tell me you are a virgin. Please! You heard about it. Marriages that stayed unconsummated for one reason or another. He had never made love to a virgin in his life, and he was most certainly not going to start now.
‘I have never seen a naked man because Henry always used to come to my chamber in his nightgown and then snuff out the candles,’ Bel explained prosaically, eyes still screwed firmly shut. Ashe let out a tightly held breath and felt the sweat cooling on his brow.
‘And then he would take his nightshirt off?’
‘Oh, no. He would get into bed and kiss me on the cheek and then he would…you know.’
‘With his nightshirt on?’
‘Of course.’ Bel opened her eyes cautiously as though expecting to see him standing there indecently naked and rampant. She seemed relieved to find him still in shirt and breeches.
‘And you still in your nightgown?’ She nodded. ‘And then he would make love to you?’ Another nod.
‘And then he would kiss me on the cheek again and say “Thank you dear. Goodnight”, and off he would go until Wednesday. Or Saturday.’
‘He would visit your room twice a week on set days?’ Ashe knew he was staring, but couldn’t help himself. His mouth was probably open. The man must have either had ice water in his veins or have been blind. Or both.
Bel yawned, hugely, clapping both hands over her mouth. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t sleep very well last night.’
Ashe ignored the yawn. ‘Forgive me, but may I ask…was your husband a very passionate man? I mean, did you find his lovemaking, er…?’
‘Dull. I found it very, very dull. But Henry did not seem to think I ought to be enjoying it, you see. He was always rather apologetic about doing it at all, so I assumed it was expected to be horrid.’ Ashe blinked at her frankness. Poor bloody Henry. You idiot. ‘So I had no idea that there was more to it, or that I might enjoy it. Not for a long while. But then there were things people said—when I stopped being a new bride—and things I read. I guessed that perhaps it can be more than just sticky and boring and embarrassing.’
Bel regarded him hopefully. ‘It is, isn’t it? More? I mean, I began to feel there was something I needed.’ She frowned over the word, then gave her head a little shake as though she could not think of a better one.
‘Yes. I promise it is. So much more. So much that will satisfy that need.’ She looked so fragile, sitting up in that big bed. And so nervous and so tired. ‘Bel, you have not considered simply getting married again? It would have been a more conventional way of finding affection. Safer, perhaps.’
‘Goodness, no. No, I am absolutely determined never to marry again. You do not know what a husband is really going to be like—look at Henry. I mean, he was a decent, honest, respectable man. He was kind. But he was so dull and he made me be dull—yet I never guessed how it would be until I married him.
‘And even if he is not dull, a husband rules his wife and now I know what it is like to be able to think for myself I could not bear it. And then, if by some miracle he did not try to dominate me—imagine how awful it must be to be married to the sort of man who did not care what you did and positively encouraged you to take lovers. How do you respect a man like that?’
‘And unlike a husband, you can change a lover if he does not please you? Like a library book?’ Ashe asked, only half-jesting.
‘No! You should not treat people like that.’ Bel wriggled up against the pillows, forgetting to be shy in her indignation. ‘That is why I thought it could only be a daydream, a fantasy. I never intended to take a lover, not really. I had no idea how to find one. And then you came that night and I thought you were attractive. I was tempted, when you woke up on top of me, to say nothing, but to kiss you and see what happened. I did not, of course.’ She blushed. ‘But I thought you were safe.’
‘Safe?’ Never in his life had Ashe been called safe. Dangerous flirt was the term that careful mamas had applied to him in the course of the last Season he had spent in London. Amorous devil was the description not a few society ladies had used, not without a secret smile as they said it. But safe? He rather thought he had just been insulted. ‘I was drunk, for goodness’ sake!’
‘I think that drink shows what people are really like. It makes bullies worse and cruel people violent. You were gentle and funny and polite. And you seemed to want me, but you did not take advantage of me.’
‘I did want you. I do.’ And if he did not have her soon he was going to be in agony. Every word she said made him want her more, made him ache to teach her just how sweet love making could be. There was so much to explore together.
‘So you see?’ Bel’s lips curved into a smile. ‘You are safe, and you said you are a rake, so you understand about not wanting entanglements, and I will not have to worry about toying with your affections or breaking your heart or anything like that. But you do want to make love to me—even I can tell that. I quite understand if it is only once—I do not expect I will be any good at it. But then at least I’ll know what I have been missing.’
‘Close your eyes,’ Ashe said, returning that smile. ‘I can promise to be safe. And gentle. And to show you what you have been missing. But I am not sure I can promise to be funny, not all the time.’
‘All right.’ Reassured, still smiling, Bel closed her eyes and waited, trying to follow what Ashe was doing. There was some rustling, then his footsteps padding round to the other side of the bed.
‘You close your eyes, too, Horace,’ she heard him order, and stifled a gasp of nervous laughter. The covers lifted, cooler air fanned over her body for a moment as the bed dipped with his weight, then she felt the length of him against her side. Long, hard, warm. ‘You can look now,’ Ashe said as he put an arm under her shoulders and pulled her against him.
‘Oh.’ Instead of the bare skin she was prepared for, there was the soft linen of a dress shirt. ‘I thought…’
‘And I thought you might be more comfortable like this for a little while. Now, relax, snuggle up, put your arm here and just lie with me. We do not have to hurry.’
It was not at all what she had expected, but Bel did as she was told, awkwardly putting her left arm over Ashe’s chest and letting herself be gathered in against his ribcage.
He was as big as she remembered, his chest broad as she spanned it, the shoulder her head was cushioned against as solid as only hard-won muscle could make it. Her own breathing was all over the place, Ashe’s was steady, deep and easy.
And the scent of him was the same, too, only without the tang of sweat from a hard night’s revelry or the strong smell of brandy. There was a hint of a subtle citrus that she guessed was his soap, the laundry smell of clean linen, fresh from the iron, and, underneath it, man. Ashe’s own, personal scent, his skin.
Bel rubbed her cheek against his shirt, wishing she could feel the texture of that skin. Their feet touched, bare, and Ashe hooked his right ankle over to capture her feet. It felt secure, warm, as though she was special. Her eyes drifted closed as his hand began to stroke her head. The span of his fingers could have encircled her throat, had wielded a weapon, could master a horse, and yet his touch was so gentle that she sighed with content. The thought drifted through her mind that already he had spent almost as much time in her bed as Henry ever did in one visit.
She had expected almost any emotion, any sensation other than this peaceful drift, this warmth moving gently to the rhythm of his breathing. So peaceful, so safe…
