Desire Becomes Her (22 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Desire Becomes Her
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After another night spent tossing restlessly in bed, her body desperate to feel one man’s touch, she stared grimly at herself in the mirror on Thursday morning. Hardly aware of what she did, Gillian brushed her hair and tied the sable curls at the base of her neck with a bronze-green silk ribbon, her thoughts on those agitating dreams. What was wrong with her? She had no business entertaining lewd dreams about Luc Joslyn. His similarities to her husband should have sent her fleeing, but did they? No. She dreamed of him, dreamed of that sensuous mouth moving over her lips, her throat, her breasts, and she woke longing to feel his naked flesh sliding against hers.
Remnants of those dreams taunting her, Gillian swallowed as she stared into the mirror, painfully aware of the throbbing of her breasts beneath the modest bodice of her cinnamon wool gown and the heavy moisture pooling between her thighs. If dreams affected her thus, she thought acidly, heaven help her if she was ever alone with him again—if he kissed her as he had done that night in the garden, she’d not deny him ... anything.
She closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of her own eager half-parted mouth at just the idea of Luc kissing her. I am a respectable woman, she reminded herself fiercely, and no silly virgin to be swept off my feet by an attractive male. Her eyes opened and she made a face in the mirror. She’d already let one man with a handsome face and charming manner dazzle her, and look where that had led; marriage to a man who had gambled away her money and traded her body for his vowels. Thinking of that terrible night, of the look in Winthrop’s eyes, she shuddered. No. She’d not be taken in again. She was old enough, she told herself, and wise enough to avoid the dangerous appeal of someone like Luc Joslyn. But if she was, whispered a sly voice, why couldn’t she put him out of her mind?
Nan Burton bustled into the room and, seeing Gillian sitting at her dressing table, said, “Mrs. Easley is in the breakfast room and is waiting for you to join her. Shall I tell her you’ll be down in a few minutes?”
Gillian rose to her feet and after one critical glance of herself in the mirror shook her head. “That won’t be necessary. I’m on my way.”
Since Stanley and Silas tended not to be early risers, as often happened, Gillian and Sophia had the breakfast room all to themselves. Helping herself to a cup of coffee, a piece of toast and a small serving of scrambled eggs from the buffet, Gillian took a seat across from Sophia.
There was the normal morning chatter between the two ladies until Sophia said in her usual brisk manner, “I suggest that we go through that last trunk from the cottage this morning, what do you think?”
Over the past few weeks their belongings had been unpacked and put away, but there was one remaining trunk still to be gone through. The majority of the furniture from the cottage held no great sentimental value for either woman and the largest pieces had been left behind, leaving only clothing and personal items to be transported to High Tower.
Since others had overseen the dismantling of the household and the packing of their belongings, the ladies had discovered a few things that had been sent along that could just as well been given to the rag man—or thrown away. One day last week, watching Nan shake out the faded and patched blue gown she’d worn to weed the garden, Gillian laughed and said, “Surely that garment could have been left behind? I doubt I would ever wear it again and certainly not here.”
“Indeed, and these along with it,” said Sophia, viewing with disfavor the old shoes she’d worn to gather eggs from the henhouse. “I’m sure that our uncle will not expect us to pick eggs or pluck weeds from between the vegetables.”
Gillian had not been left destitute by Charles’s death, but the past two years had not been pleasant. Except for the cottage and a small annuity, there had been little else in Charles’s estate and Gillian had learned quickly how to make every penny count. There’d not been enough to keep on the staff that Charles had felt was necessary for his consequence, and except for Nan and her two sons, fourteen-year-old James and sixteen-year-old John, all of the other servants had been let go. His horses, vehicles and the London flat had been sold to cover his gambling debts, and there’d barely been enough to cover them. She shuddered. If Winthrop had presented the vowels Charles had given him ...
Pushing aside the gloomy thought, Gillian glanced around her. It was a charming room in which she sat, the walls covered in gold-flecked cream wallpaper, an oak buffet littered with pewter trays and silver covered dishes was against one wall and a thick wool rug woven in shades of blue, gold and ivory lay upon the floor. She shook her head. While the cottage had been a pleasant home for a gentleman of moderate means, it bore little resemblance to the luxury of High Tower, and she found the change in her circumstances breathtaking. Only a few weeks ago she’d been worried about the root vegetables stored in the cellar and if there was enough grain and hay in the barn to feed the chickens, cow and sow over the winter, while today ... she glanced around the room once more and smiled.
Setting down her cup of coffee, Gillian said ruefully, “Realizing how different our lives are now, I wonder if I shouldn’t thank Canfield for trying to blackmail me.”
Sophia snorted. “You hardly need to go that far,” she said. “All things considered, I suspect that we would have ended up at High Tower even without his machinations, but it most likely wouldn’t have happened so swiftly.”
“I cannot argue with you about that,” Gillian said. “It was always troublesome knowing that Uncle had only servants to look after him—or question his absence. When I think of what could have happened the night Uncle Silas broke his arm if Mr. Joslyn had not come across him, and I see how happy he is that we agreed to live with him, I cannot regret our decision—even if Canfield precipitated it.”
Sophia eyed her slyly. “And what of the handsome Mr. Lucian Joslyn? What part does he play in your having no regrets?”
Gillian stared tongue-tied at her cousin. Her cheeks flaming, she finally managed, “Thoughts of Mr. Joslyn never cross my mind.”
“What a rapper,” said Sophia and when Gillian would protest, she added, “But I won’t tease you. After you finish your coffee, let us go see what delights await us in that trunk.”
 
On that same Thursday morning, Simon woke shortly after the conversation between Gillian and Sophia with his mouth tasting like the bottom of a swine pen. He’d had his reservations about accepting Padgett’s invitation, and after last night’s trip to The Ram’s Head, the reasons for his reservations had been confirmed. Padgett and Stanton were definitely not men he wished to call friends. He held the same opinion of that insufferable Canfield, and as for Townsend ... His lips thinned. Townsend might be Emily’s cousin, but the man was a fawning weasel, and if he had to spend another night in the company of any one of those four men, he’d be hanged for murder.
Not eager to rise, he lay there staring into space, his thoughts on the previous day ... and night. The day had been pleasant enough. The introduction to Broadfoot had gone well. He grinned. And for once his lordship actually had a decent animal for sale. The bay stallion was nearly everything Broadfoot had claimed the horse to be, and a deal was quickly struck. By the time they left Broad View for Stanton’s house in the late afternoon, Padgett was the new owner of prancing bay stallion.
And after that I should have bolted for Windmere, Simon reflected sourly. There had been no reason for him to stay another night at Stanton’s place or to accompany Padgett and Stanton to The Ram’s Head last night, but for reasons that escaped him, he had.
He frowned, thinking about last night. It had been ... interesting. Not the drinking or the ruinous gambling, he’d seen that in London often enough to be inured to it, but the relationship between the four men ... and Nolles had caught his attention.
Canfield had been clearly surprised to see Padgett and Stanton, but Simon had the impression that Townsend and Nolles had been expecting the other two men. Now how was it, he wondered as he lay there, that Townsend and Nolles appeared to have been aware of Padgett and Stanton’s arrival in the area, but Canfield had not?
His frown deepened. Though Padgett and Nolles acted as if meeting for the first time, Simon couldn’t shake the feeling that they knew each other very well, which led him to consider the common denominator between two such divergent individuals: Tom Joslyn.
He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were leading him. His brother Tom may have been Nolles’s main backer, but that didn’t mean that his brother had been the
only
one to press money into Nolles’s hand. If he’d had to name one person as Tom’s best friend, it would be Padgett. So had Padgett been investing in Tom’s smuggling operation? More importantly, had Padgett stepped into Tom’s shoes?
Simon’s eyes narrowed as he played back in his mind the events of last night. He wasn’t much of a gambler, but he’d lay money that Padgett, Stanton, Canfield, Townsend and Nolles were involved in some sort of enterprise that wouldn’t bear close scrutiny, and he had a fair notion precisely what that enterprise was: smuggling.
He sighed. Before he’d leaped to any further conclusions, Simon concluded that a conversation with Barnaby was in order. Perhaps Barnaby would laugh at his conclusions, he told himself hopefully, but the prickle at the back of his neck made him doubt it. He sensed trouble.
Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, Simon moaned as the room spun. Christ! How much had he drunk last night? Far too much, he decided when his head stopped spinning.
Gingerly rising to his feet, Simon walked to the small washstand in the corner and was grateful to find the pitcher held water. Thinking of Stanton’s two servants, Mr. and Mrs. Archer, Simon grimaced. Mrs. Archer might be called the housekeeper and Stanton might refer to Mr. Archer as his butler, cum-factotum, but Simon couldn’t remember when he’d laid eyes on a more rascally pair.
Pouring water into the stained bowl in the center of the washstand and preparing to shave himself, he thought wistfully of his valet, Leighton. Able to fend for himself, Simon often left Leighton at Monks Abbey, but this was one time he’d have been happy to have his precise valet bustling around the room. Not because he wasn’t perfectly capable of shaving and dressing himself, but because Leighton would have seen to it that a pot of hot, strong coffee had greeted him when he woke. If the past few days were anything to go by, he thought, he’d be lucky if there was
any
coffee available when he descended the stairs.
By the time he was dressed in a plum coat and dove-gray breeches, he felt able to face the day. And Padgett and Stanton. He sighed. Closer acquaintance with both men had not endeared them to him and accepting Padgett’s invitation had been a mistake, he admitted. Wondering how soon he could politely take his leave, he wandered downstairs.
The house, Woodhurst, that Stanton had inherited from his great-grandmother was a snug little place nestled in the middle of a hundred and twenty acres of woodland that had been planted over a hundred years previously. Once the house had been part of a larger estate, but with each generation more and more of the land had been sold until only the hundred and twenty acres and its woodland remained. The house and land, situated five miles from the village, had been more than adequate for Stanton’s great-grandmother, but Simon suspected that Stanton would sell it ... or gamble it away before too many more months passed.
As he’d guessed, there was no coffee or any sign of the Archers, and he walked out of the cold, empty breakfast room, intent upon getting his horse from the stables at the rear of the house. Hearing footsteps, Simon looked up to see Lord Padgett and Stanton coming down the stairs. Forcing a smile, Simon said, “If you’re looking for coffee, there is none.”
A big, burly man, with dark, heavy features, Stanton shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter,” Padgett said as he reached the last stair. “Nolles will have coffee waiting for us.”
“After last night, if you don’t mind, I’ll forego the pleasure of another visit to Nolles’s place,” Simon said easily.
Padgett’s pale blue eyes studied him. “I was surprised when you accompanied us last night—Nolles mentioned that your cousin, the viscount, prefers The Crown. I can’t say that you looked like you enjoyed yourself.”
Padgett was a tall, slender man with wavy fair hair and chiseled features. Like Stanton, he was in his middle thirties, and like Stanton, the signs of a dissolute life were already evident on his once angelically handsome face.
“I can’t say that I did,” Simon answered levelly. “Becoming cup shot and losing ridiculous sums of money isn’t my idea of a pleasant evening.”
“Tom always said that you were too nice in your notions,” Padgett drawled.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Simon said without a smile.
“Suit yourself,” Padgett returned indifferently.
That he had served his purpose as far as Padgett was concerned didn’t escape Simon, and glad there was no longer any reason to pretend an affability he didn’t feel, Simon said briskly, “I intend to.” Looking at Stanton he added, “Thank you for your hospitality. I shall send a servant over to pack up my things later today and bring them to Windmere.”
Stanton waved a dismissing hand.
Minutes later, glad to leave Woodhurst behind, Simon was on his horse and riding toward Windmere. Coffee was foremost in his mind, and after that, a private conversation with Barnaby.

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