Fortune's Son (12 page)

Lady Messingham slept fitfully, hungrily, with a thousand thoughts and images playing though her mind. Philip, with his mesmerizing, sometimes brooding dark eyes was foremost among them—Philip teaching her the dice in the carriage, flaunting his conjuring tricks, and sharing his dubious gaming philosophies.

His kisses, a lover's kisses, had ignited a flame she thought extinguished over a decade ago. It had been so very long, she'd almost forgotten how a kiss like that could bestir one's entire being. She did want him, she confessed, with an urgency she had failed to repress.

The simplest solution, provided she could trust his discretion, would be to take Philip to her bed. Was she not a free woman and able to do as she pleased? Then again, was this merely physical attraction or was it more? The same feelings that thrilled her now filled her with panic.

Only one other man had ever affected her so. Recklessly, she'd abandoned herself completely to her passion, and the repercussions had been harsh. She'd barely survived with her life, and an empty one it had been, following a broken heart and shattered dreams. Yet Philip had resurrected those powerful and long-suppressed yearnings that kept her from repose, leaving her restless, dissatisfied, and yearning.

She had vowed never again. The risk was far too great, to love and be cast aside, yet she felt connected with him at so many levels. He, like she, rebelled against another having control of his life. In her case, it had been a jealous and possessive husband; in his case, an overbearing and ambitious father who would try to mold Philip to fit his own design.

She and Philip both struggled on the outer fringe of a society they secretly despised, but while she did her utmost to maintain her position in their eyes with a false façade, Philip seemed to go out of his way to cultivate a wastrel's reputation. Yet she had seen beneath the feckless exterior. Philip Drake was so much more than he would have the world believe.

***

After close to four hours riding in a downpour, Philip and his misbegotten passenger reached the outskirts of London. He was by now thoroughly drenched, haggard, and still confounded about what to do with his newly acquired baggage. Moreover he was uncomfortably aware that the longer she remained in his keeping the more responsible he would become, a thoroughly unsettling thought.

It would have been easiest to take her back to Moll King, but having risked his neck to rescue the unwary chit from one bawd, how could he in good conscience deliver her unto another?

With a groan of defeat, and with great reluctance, Philip redirected his horse toward Westminster, to seek out the only person he believed might render assistance in his time of need.

Pulling around to the mews, Philip dismounted and then assisted the limp and shivering girl to the ground, catching her in his arms as her legs, cramped from the ride and numb from the cold, gave way beneath her. He cursed the want of a groom, but the hour was far too advanced, or rather, he thought wryly, far too early for any to be stirring.

By no means assured of a warm reception, Philip tied the horse under the sloped shelter, and beckoning the girl to follow advanced to the servants' entrance of the house at 10 Bedford Street.

***

Having failed to sleep, Lady Messingham rose at the first tentative scratch upon her door. By the shadows yet looming in the room, she guessed it just before daybreak. Following the ways of fashion, she rarely rose betimes. She marked the rising sun a certain novelty, albeit not the most welcome one at the moment.

“Yes. Yes. Come in, Nancy,” the lady mumbled, sitting up in bed and reaching for the tinderbox to light the lamp.

Tentatively, the maid peeked through the doorway.

“Enter for goodness' sake. I shan't bite off your head!”

The maid approached, wringing her hands.

“What is it, Nan?” her mistress demanded, perplexed.

“There be someone at the door to see ye, my lady.” She winced apprehensively.

“What! Who on earth would make morning calls when 'tis not even daybreak?”

“'Tis a young gent and a…” The servant frowned seeking the right word. “…a female creature,” was the best she could do.

“A creature, you say? What on earth do you mean?” She rose from bed and pulled on her wrapper. “Have you a calling card? Or at least a name?”

The servant's distress grew by the moment. “I can't rightly say, ma'am.” She hastened to add, “I would not ha' woke ye, but the gent, he was most persistent like. And being he's an acquaintance of yours, I durst not send him away, not wi'out your knowledge of it, my lady.”

“So I know this young gent, you say? What does he look like?” The image of Philip was already forming in her mind.

“Most like a drowned rat at the moment, yer ladyship.” The maid stifled a giggle.

“Does he indeed? You did well enough to wake me, Nan.”

The maid's shoulders visibly relaxed.

“I suppose I'll just take a look for myself. Where are my damp guests at the moment?”

“In the kitchen, ma'am. At least they had the decency to come by the servants' door.”

“Then pray light a fire in the small salon and heat a kettle for tea. I shan't have anyone catch his or her death at my door. Let them know I'll be down anon.”

“Yes, yer ladyship.” The maid smiled faintly and bobbed.

***

Divested of his wet coat, Philip shivered in his shirtsleeves as he paced before the newly rekindled fire, thinking the wait interminable. At least she hadn't yet thrown him out on his arse, if that was any sign of goodwill, but perhaps the maid had not mentioned the girl.

Knowing Nell completely out of her element, and she herself being an element that would only complicate matters with Lady Messingham, Philip had instructed Nell to take her tea in the kitchen with the servants rather than joining him in the small parlor. Although the maid had openly viewed the pair askance, she had the kindness to provide the dripping girl with a blanket.

Once assured that his reluctant charge had been seen to, Philip followed the servant to the room where he now waited. And paced.

Philip clawed an exasperated hand through his wet and tangled hair, still at a loss for a rational explanation. Whores, idolatry, debauchery, even attempted rape. The entire episode was nothing short of scandalous, and no tale fit for a gentlewoman's ears.

How much could he tell her? Would she believe a word of it? Moreover, could he trust her to help? He hadn't time to ponder the answers before the chamber door quietly opened.

“You,” she said. She ventured toward him with only a blink of her eyes betraying her surprise. “What in God's name has brought you to my house at such an hour? And in this… this condition?”

She regarded him intently, fully taking in his appearance. His clothes and boots were sodden and bemired from hours on the mucky roads. His shirt was translucently plastered to his torso, and his breeches clung to his thighs like a second skin, revealing the lean, hard musculature of a man in his prime.

Philip performed a sopping bow he knew would appear almost mocking under the circumstances. Still at a loss where to begin, he offered a sheepish apology. “A thousand pardons, my lady, for both the state of my appearance and for the ill-fated affair which brought me to your door.”

“Indeed?” She looked about the room. “But what of your companion? I was apprised that you had arrived with a… female… in tow.”

“There is indeed a young woman with me.”

Her eyes flashed daggers. “What game is this, Philip? I fail to comprehend why you would think it amusing to bring your strumpet to my home.”

Philip stepped toward her with hands raised in supplication. “Amusing? This is anything but, and pray disavow the notion that she's a whore.”

The arch of a singular brow marked her disbelief. “Then who, or what, is she?”

Philip scrambled for explanation. “She's a tavern maid.”

The brow was joined by its twin in a dubious scowl.

“Well… I suppose one might presume… but there were extenuating circumstances.”

“That would bring her to
my
door
?” she asked, incredulous. “What precisely is she… to you?”

Philip remarked her resentment, but there was something more. Was it a twinge of jealousy? “I don't wish to burden you with a long and tedious explanation,” he dissembled through chattering teeth. Even positioned by the fire, he visibly shivered with cold.

“Tedious? This tale is anything but that!” Remarking the blue tinge to his lips, she was reluctantly moved by compassion. “Mayhap my inquisition can wait until you've at least dried.” She then departed, returning promptly with a towel and blanket.

Philip gratefully accepted the former and began to pat his face dry.

“You'll need to remove your wet clothing before you catch the ague,” she said. “By the look of you, you're half there already.” She set the blanket on a chair and moved to assist. “Now, out of those wet clothes.”

She spoke matter-of-factly and Philip responded with a stare of disbelief. “Here? Now?”

“Oh, come now!” She forced a laugh and a tone of nonchalance. “No need to be missish about it. I am a widow, for heaven's sake, and not easily affected by male nudity,” she lied through her teeth. She was very affected at the thought of him unclothed. “Besides, you'll need help,” she added. “Your shirt and breeches are nigh plastered to your skin.” She moved once again to assist.

Philip warily took a step back. The thought of her undressing him had him completely discomposed. Had she no idea? “Haven't you a manservant? A footman or coachman even?” he asked.

“There's food enough for scandal without waking my entire household. Besides, I have blankets to cover you.”

He was frozen to the bone and knew he'd never recover while wet. With a sigh of resignation, he reached for the placket of his breeches to untuck his shirt, and she smartly went to work on the buttons.

Her trembling hands belied her feigned dispassion. In truth, it had been a very long time since she last undressed a man, and when she peeled the wet cloth from his body she realized Nigel's paunchy stomach and hairy back and buttocks had done nothing to prepare her for the cleanly sculpted muscles of this young, strong, and incredibly virile-looking body. Her throat suddenly went dry. She experienced a shiver of her own, but certainly not from cold.

Briskly, she took up the blanket and shook it out vigorously to put breathing space between them. With a jerk of her head, she indicated his breeches. “Now, your smallclothes.”

Philip's mouth twitched. “There is one problem.”

She raised the blanket between them, speaking in a decidedly primmer tone than she had previously adopted. “I'll simply hold this as a curtain betwixt us while you finish. You may then wrap it about you until your garments have properly dried.”

“That's not the problem I meant. Mayhap you have not undressed so many men after all.”

She looked perplexed.

Philip pointed down. “The boots, my lady. I require assistance to remove them before I'll be able to take off my breeches. Have you perchance a boot jack?”

“I fear not,” she said.

“If you are bound not to disturb a footman, shall we call your maid to assist?”

“I've sent her for more blankets.”

He glanced down at the sodden, muddy leather. “Boots are difficult to remove in the best of circumstances. Wet boots are nigh impossible.”

“I'll help with your boots,” she spoke impatiently. “Just tell me what to do.”

“It's no task for a lady.”

“Botheration!” she cried. “Just sit!”

Shrugging, Philip covered the silk damask chair with the blanket before he sat upon it. Facing him, Lady Messingham bent to grasp his heel.

“No. Not like that.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because you'll pull with all your might to loosen the accursed thing, and when the boot gives, you'll fall backwards arse over teakettle.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “I had no idea it was so difficult. Then how am I to pull them off?”

“If you don't wish to become unbalanced, you needs must turn your back to me and place my boot between your legs for leverage to pull it off.”

He watched her dubious expression as she digested these instructions. Although it sounded sensible, she just didn't know whether to believe him.

“You wish me to hold your leg betwixt my thighs, with my nether end practically in your face?”

He grinned raffishly. “That is precisely the idea, although the deed is customarily performed by a valet,” he added by way of explanation. “Are you quite sure you don't wish to awaken your footman?”

“I… Of course not. I trust Nan's discretion, but dare not place the same faith in the others.” Truth be told, she'd dismissed the footman just the day prior as part of her new economy. With an exasperated huff, she turned and hiked her skirts above her knees, providing him a gratuitous flash of shapely calves, before taking his extended leg between her naked thighs.

When she bent over to pull, with the perfectly formed globes of her backside clearly defined against the thin fabric of her gown, Philip wished he had cut the damned things off.

He was nearing the end of endurance and contemplating the dangers of pulling that lovely round bottom onto his lap when the boot finally gave. She held it up with a triumphant cry.

“There's one. Now, give me the other.”

God
no. I can't bear it again. I'll ravish her on the carpet.

“What are you waiting for?” she demanded.

Philip shifted in the chair to relieve the discomfort his thoughts had wrought.

“Oh,” she replied, raising a finely arched brow.

“I'm glad you find it amusing.”