Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square (16 page)

Instead, Northcote waited below, looking serious and saturnine.

He held out a hand.

She almost refused his assistance. Then she caught sight of his expression and changed her mind. She was just too tired to argue tonight.

But he released her the moment she was on the ground, leaving her to make her way into the house alone. Burr trotted at her heels, his pink tongue lolling.

Grumbly will see to it that I have everything I need.

Then she remembered.

Mrs. Grumblethorpe wasn’t with them; she had been left behind at Braebourne. Northcote had made up some excuse about the house being small and how they needed to travel light. Since they were there for their honeymoon and would have no occasion to entertain, he’d argued that she could do with the services of a local girl to attend her while they were in residence.

But she knew he’d refused to take Mrs. Grumblethorpe because of the remark Esme had made about her longtime maid not approving of his actions. He would want no interference now that he had her alone.

She shivered and trailed him inside, glad she at least had Burr.

•   •   •

As good as her word, Mrs. Canby showed her to a pleasantly decorated bedchamber done in refreshing shades of green and white. Despite the fact that the room was
only a third of the size of her bedroom at Braebourne, it was surprisingly comfortable, with a soft woven rug to warm the wooden floors and a spacious cherrywood canopy bed that dominated the space.

A cheerful fire was crackling in the hearth by the time she was shown to the room by Mrs. Canby, who stayed only long enough to help her change out of her traveling dress before she set off downstairs for the kitchens to fix dinner.

Esme washed her hands and arms and face with the fresh water Mrs. Canby had also been kind enough to provide; then she sagged down onto the mattress. She gripped one of the wooden bedposts, then closed her eyes, fighting the odd urge to cry.

The door opened without a knock and her eyes flew open.

Northcote stood on the threshold.

Esme lunged for the counterpane, yanking it up out of its neat tuck. She held it in front of her like a shield. “What are you doing here?”

He walked in and shut the door. “Mrs. Canby told me she hasn’t been able to hire a girl from the village for you yet, so I’ve come to play lady’s maid.”

“There would be no need of anyone’s help if you’d just let me bring Mrs. Grumblethorpe along.”

He ignored her remark and crossed to her luggage. Opening her trunk, he reached inside.

“Stop that,” she said. “I can look after myself.”

Again, he ignored her, pulling out a lavender evening gown embroidered with rows of tiny blue forget-me-nots. It was one of her favorite dresses, but not tonight. Not since he’d chosen it for her to wear.

“Stand up,” he said. “Let’s get you into this.”

She wrapped the coverlet tighter around herself. “I told you I don’t need your assistance. You may go.”

He eyed the gown and the long row of tiny buttons that ran along the back. “Don’t be absurd. You’d never manage to fasten even half of these buttons on your own.”

“Then I shall choose another dress.”

There must be an easier-to-fasten gown somewhere in her luggage. Maybe one of her sketching dresses?

“There are no other dresses,” he said, as if he were fully aware of her thoughts. “At least not ones you can put on without an extra pair of hands. And if you’re thinking about donning one of those disreputable rags you wear when you see to your animals or go painting, I’ll tell you right now that I had the lot of them burned.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You did not!”

“No wife of mine is going to parade around in public looking like the lowliest of scullery maids.”

“How dare you. Those were my dresses and you had no right—”

“I had every right,” he said, cutting her off. “I am your husband and you are a viscountess now. I expect you to look like one. Now, stand up and let me assist you into this gown so that we may go below and dine.”

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the bedclothes harder and shot him a glare.

He arched a single dark brow. “Or would you rather forgo the evening meal and get straight to bed? I can
undress
you just as easily as dress you, you know.”

Words of outrage trembled on her lips. How she wished she could tell him to go straight to the devil. But she hesitated, aware by now exactly how dangerous it could be to spar with him. She’d learned early how to spot a lethal predator; she was coming to understand that he might be the most lethal one of all.

Still, she held out against him for a few seconds longer before loosening her hold on the counterpane without entirely letting it go. “You could at least turn your back.”

He gave a quick laugh. “Oh, I think not. And might I remind you that I’ll be seeing far more than those pretty unmentionables of yours quite soon. Now, up you come.”

She considered protesting again but realized he had her neatly trapped.

Loathsome cur.

Flinging back the coverlet, she hurried to her feet and turned her back to him as quickly as possible.

She waited, wondering what he would do. But he only chuckled.

“Raise your arms.”

The dress billowed around her as he lifted the gown up and over. Her head popped out seconds later as he settled the material into place with nothing more than a few quick, efficient tugs.

He really did know how to dress a woman, didn’t he? Given his reputation, she supposed he’d done this for a great many women. Dozens? Hundreds?

Her forehead creased, her stomach quivering at the thought of his vast experience and her complete lack.

She held still as he set to work on the buttons, his fingers brushing ever so faintly against her corset-covered back as he moved upward.

His pace slowed as he came to the last few buttons.

Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.

Breath caught in her throat as he skimmed his thumbs over the sensitive skin along the nape of her neck, hot shivers chasing after one another in crazy circles.

Leaning nearer, he pressed a kiss against the edge of her jaw and another behind her ear before he took her earlobe between his teeth. He bit, exerting just enough pressure to send her pulse ricocheting yet careful not to cause pain.

She barely had time to adjust to the novel sensation when he slid his hands down and around to boldly cup her breasts. He held her without an ounce of inhibition, cupping and exploring her flesh with a shocking kind of possession. It was as if he owned her body and could do anything he liked, which, given marriage laws and the ring on her hand, some might say he did.

Her mind turned dull as he caressed her further, her lips parting on a silent gasp. For despite the material of her dress and the confinement of her stays, his touch
left her feeling naked, as if there was nothing between their skin but air.

Her nipples drew taut, the intimate place between her legs aching in a way she didn’t expect or fully understand.

Then, as abruptly as their interlude had begun, he let her go.

She shuddered and fought to keep her balance, her hands clenching at her sides.

Damnable man.

How could he do that to her so easily, especially when he’d just put clothes on her rather than taking them off?

As for him, an upward glance showed him looking calm, as if he’d just been discussing the weather with her rather than brazenly fondling her breasts.

Perhaps, for him, such acts had little meaning. But for a woman . . . for her . . . it meant more.

He would be her first, her only. And when he finally took her to his bed, she needed it to mean more.

“Shall we, my dear?” he asked, offering his arm.

She stared at his coat sleeve for a moment, then accepted.

E
sme ate sparingly despite the excellent quality of the food; she was too worried about the night to come to really enjoy the meal.

Mrs. Canby had worked miracles, particularly considering the limited amount of time and ingredients at her disposal. Yet somehow she had put a delicious meal on the table consisting of a piping-hot cream of potato soup with bits of browned onion and black pepper, slices of fine local cheese, cured ham and crusty fresh bread. She’d even managed to whip up an apple tart with brandied whipped cream to finish.

Not wishing to injure the older woman’s feelings, Esme had made an effort to try some of everything—everything, that is, except the ham.

“Is that all you’re eating?” Northcote said, pointing a fork toward her plate when he noticed her lack of appetite. “Here, have some ham.”

“No, thank you,” she said.

“Why not? It’s delicious. Or don’t you like ham?”

“Actually no. I do not eat meat.”

He stilled. “What do you mean, you don’t eat meat? Everyone eats meat.”

“I don’t. I find it repugnant.” She forced herself to swallow a spoonful of soup; it really was delicious.

He studied her for a moment. “This is because of all your furry creatures, I suppose? You don’t like eating the little friends you’ve just rescued.”

“Well, of course I don’t. I would be the most dreadful hypocrite otherwise, don’t you think? But before you grow alarmed, you needn’t worry. I don’t expect you to give up the consumption of animal flesh. Everyone in
the family eats meat and I gave up trying to change their minds long, long ago.”

“Animal flesh, hmm? I suppose that’s an accurate way to describe it.” He cut a piece of ham, put in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Delectable.”

He smiled.

She applied herself to her soup.

“At least eat some of that cheese,” he urged a minute later. “You do eat cheese, I presume?”

“Yes. Cheese, milk and eggs, just not the animals who produce them. I have been known to eat the occasional clam or mussel, but I always feel rather guilty afterward, so I generally refrain.”

“Well, you’d better let Mrs. Canby know. She’s probably planning to stock up on dead beasts at the market tomorrow and slaughter any of our chickens who have recently quit laying.”

Esme set down her spoon. “I most certainly hope not. I shall tell her directly.”

She made to stand up, but Northcote reached out a hand to stop her. “Sit. There’s plenty of time to discuss the menu planning tomorrow. And I’ll mention your aversion to the Canbys tomorrow so there is no misunderstanding.”

“You would do that? When people find out about my dietary preferences, most of them think I’m either peculiar or overly softhearted.”

He leaned back in his chair, nursing his glass of wine. “Well, there’s no doubt you have a very soft heart, but there’s nothing wrong with that. As for being peculiar, I’ll reserve judgment for now.”

A laugh escaped her and, without even realizing, she relaxed a little for the first time in days.

She ate more soup and a small slice of cheese before he coaxed her to try the apple tart. It was as divine as the rest of the meal.

He refilled her glass of wine and they sat for a time in a silence that was almost companionable. Her
weariness returned, her eyelids beginning to droop as a wave of sleepiness washed over her.

She came abruptly awake to the touch of his hand against the back of hers. Gently, he slid her wineglass out of harm’s way. “Why don’t you go upstairs? I’ll join you in a bit.”

Her eyelids popped wide, her sleepiness vanishing in an instant.

“Mrs. Canby will attend you.” He picked up the brandy snifter at his elbow and swirled the amber liquor inside the glass.

When had he gotten that? Just how long was I asleep?

She searched for some excuse, anything to postpone her return upstairs. But nothing useful came to mind. She supposed her efforts to delay were over.

They were alone.

With a fine tremor of nerves running through her, she stood and left the room.

Mrs. Canby was waiting for her when she entered her bedchamber. Burr was there as well, wagging happily as he came forward for a pet, which she gladly bent to bestow.

The older woman greeted her with a cheerful smile. She began chatting in a quiet, pleasant voice as she helped Esme change into the nightgown and robe that had been laid out across the bed.

While the housekeeper hung her gown inside the wardrobe next to the other dresses the servant had unpacked earlier, Esme moved to the washbasin. Carefully, she bathed her face and hands, then brushed her teeth with a mint tooth powder that left her mouth tingling and fresh.

And then there was nothing left to do but go to bed.

Esme stared at the smooth, clean sheets and coverlet that had been invitingly turned back but made no move to climb in.

Mrs. Canby extinguished all but one branch of candles, wished her good night and went to seek her own
rest. Burr circled, then settled down on a rug near the fireplace and closed his eyes.

She considered inviting him to join her in bed but decided not to chance it. Not that she thought Lord Northcote would be mean to the dog, but he would surely be displeased to find his side of the bed occupied by the animal.

Her stomach jittered, her skin crawling with anxiety.

Don’t be so nervous,
she told herself as she cupped her hands underneath her elbows and hugged her arms to her chest.
It isn’t as if he is some despicable fiend or repulsive toad.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Northcote—although she supposed she really ought to start calling him Gabriel since he would soon be sharing her bed—
Gabriel
was everything a man should be.

Attractive, intelligent, urbane.

Sexual and sophisticated, with a depth of experience she couldn’t even begin to fathom. Surely, he must like his sex in the normal way, whatever that might be. Then again, based on some of the rumors she’d heard . . .

A fresh tremor went through her and she hugged her chest tighter.

What would he expect of her? What if he grew impatient with her inexperience? What if she couldn’t give him the things he desired?

She’d seen stallions covering mares, witnessed the frenzied power, the near violence of their coupling. Surely it wouldn’t be like that?

Closing her eyes, she thought of his kisses.

She liked his kisses. More than liked them actually.

And his caresses . . .

Those were wonderful despite his unsettling boldness.

Her body warmed at the memories.

Maybe she was worrying needlessly. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Hurrying forward before she could change her mind, she jumped into the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Lying flat on her back, body rigid, she waited for him to come.

•   •   •

More than an hour after Esme left the dining room, Gabriel finished the last of his brandy and made his way up the stairs.

The house was dark except for the candle he carried.

He listened to the silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the sea and the gentle brush of the wind against the windows and eaves.

He hadn’t brought a valet with him; he could do for himself here in the countryside. Entering the bedroom next to Esme’s, he set down his candle, then stripped off his clothes. He washed, brushed his teeth and shaved, then put on a robe and slippers and let himself out into the hall.

Esme lay in bed, the covers pulled so high he couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep. Her long hair trailed over her pillow like a dark river. She didn’t move or acknowledge him in any way.

Asleep, he guessed, holding back a sigh.

Her dog Burr thumped his tail in greeting, however, and briefly lifted his head from where he lay curled near the soothing warmth of the fire.

Gabriel crossed to stroke his head. Burr closed his eyes with pleasure and settled back to resume his doggy dreams.

After blowing out all but one candle in the branch of candles on her dressing table, Gabriel carried his own light over to the bed. He set it down on the end table, then turned, his hands going to the belt on his robe.

She lay staring at him, her eyes as wide as those of a doe who’d just sighted a hunter.

“So you
are
awake,” he said casually, letting his hands fall to his sides. “You were so still I figured you’d drifted off.”

“No,” she whispered, her voice pitched high.

He studied her, abruptly aware how young she was—not even twenty—and how innocent. It was easy to forget what it was like the first time. His own first time seemed like centuries ago.

At fourteen, he’d been seduced by the wife of one of his uncle’s friends when the couple had come to visit that summer. He’d awakened one night to find her in his bed, her lips wrapped around his cock. By the time he’d gone back to school that autumn, he’d had little innocence left. Since then, he’d grown increasingly jaded, memories of the boy he’d once been dim and difficult to recall. Yet tonight, some lingering remnants resurfaced, along with an uncharacteristic compassion for Esme’s virginal fears.

He sat down on the bed, facing her. “You needn’t look so distressed. I’m not going to pounce on you, you know.”

She didn’t seem reassured. “What
are
you going to do?”

“Well, I keep hoping I’ll get to make love to my wife, but we can talk for a while, if you’d rather.”

Her forehead creased. “You want to talk? Now?”

He shrugged, a long, slow roll of his shoulders, as if they had all the time in the world. “Certainly. What would you care to discuss?”

She shrugged back, clearly at a loss.

“Hmm. What about fashion?” he suggested. “Most women love talking about fashion.”

Her lips twitched as though she found the idea of him discussing fashion amusing. Wouldn’t she be surprised to learn that he knew rather a lot about women’s attire? He’d bought enough gowns for his lovers over the years that he’d picked up quite a bit of knowledge
concerning fabrics, styles and all manner of feminine furbelows.

She shook her head again. “My apologies, but the latest fashions are more my sister’s realm. Not that I don’t like pretty clothes. I do. But I’ve never been the sort who waits anxiously for the latest issue of
La Belle Assemblée
to arrive, then spends the next two weeks rhapsodizing over all the new dresses I want to order.”

His gaze lingered on her, imagining the body she was hiding beneath the covers—dressing it and undressing it. “I suppose I ought to count myself lucky, having a wife who won’t run up outrageous bills at the mantua-makers.”

A tiny smile curved her mouth. “I believe you are safe in that regard.”

“But I’ll bet not when it comes to art supplies. I suspect you spend a king’s ransom on pencils, paints and paper. Oh, and canvas, of course. You paint as well as sketch, do you not?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Oils or watercolors?”

A warm light brightened her eyes, her body relaxing subtly beneath the bedclothes as her thoughts moved off into pleasant territory.

“Both. Though I enjoy oil painting more since it’s so much more forgiving. And the range of colors is so vast with oils. You can paint any shade in the rainbow so long as you’ve the right primary colors and a good palette knife.”

“I’ve always admired people who are possessed of genuine artistic talent, such as yourself. I have no abilities in that regard myself, which is why I collect art rather than create it.”

She hooked a finger over the edge of the bed linens and traced the edge of the sheet. “Yes, I’ve heard about your collection.”

“Have you, now? And what exactly were you told?”

“They say you buy whatever takes your fancy, a few
old masters, such as Vermeer and Raphael, and some newer artists like Constable and Turner, but that . . .”

“Yes,” he prompted when her words slowed. “Go on.”

Color slid into her cheeks, a glorious dusting of pink that was visible even in the low light. Her lashes fanned downward as she looked away. “Someone said you have an extensive collection of erotic art, nudes and bacchanalia and such.”

A slow smile moved over his lips. “That ‘someone’ wouldn’t happen to be your twin brothers, would it? You see, I rarely show my collection to anyone, and then only to a select group.”

Her eyes flashed up to meet his. “They weren’t boasting or gossiping, if that is what you’re implying. I overheard them one day, months ago at Braebourne. I am always interested in art, and when they mentioned Raphael, well, I . . .”

“Couldn’t resist,” he finished. “Of course you could not.”

He fell silent, waiting for her to start relaxing again before he continued.

“Now, as for the erotic works in my collection, nudes and bacchanalia and such,” he said, quoting her, “what would you know of such things?” He leaned closer. “Although, forgive me, my dear, for forgetting that nudes are a specialty of yours.”

“No, they are not,” she said defensively, making no attempt to misunderstand his reference to her sketch of him. “I’d never drawn anyone unclothed before that day at the lake, and certainly not a man. It’s just that you looked so . . . so . . .”

“Yes? How did I look?”

But rather than answer, she shut her eyes and shook her head.

“Forgive me again, my dear. I should not tease. It was very wrong of me. Here, I meant to put you at your ease but instead I’ve got you closed up against me again like a pretty little clam.”

He stroked a finger over her cheek and watched the color rise once more beneath her skin.

“Or are you an oyster, hiding your pearls?” He slid his finger across her other cheek, then along her throat. She swallowed convulsively as he moved lower, his fingertip moving in a leisurely downward slide.

“Perhaps I can make it up to you.” Bending, he dusted a kiss against her cheek, one side and the other. Then he continued on, planting a line of unhurried kisses against the skin he’d just stroked with his finger.

He heard her breathing quicken and smiled as he pressed his mouth into the curve of her throat. He licked her there in a tiny circle, savoring the fragrant taste of her skin and enjoying the hard beat of her pulse where it throbbed erratically nearby.