For the Earl's Pleasure (18 page)

“I am confident that once we find your body all interest in me will be lost.”

A memory of a quaint Windsor shop filled with trinkets and personal items filled his mind. His third year at Eton. The scent of the tobacco pipes, the creams and perfumes. The shaving and dressing items for the men. The more delicate fripperies and expensive gifts for the women.

Her voice was hazy on the edges of his mind as she continued to speak. “It does little good to dwell on things that will not change.”

A rosewood box with an ivory handled brush. Impetuously purchased in the inept and gawking manner that had overwhelmed him at that age between youth and manhood.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” she said.

The embarrassment when one of his roommates had found it.

“And I feel as if we are close. You will be free.”

He had considered throwing it into the Thames. Had considered throwing
himself
into the Thames. Had buried the brush deep beneath his clothes instead, vowing to dispose of it soon. Vowing to dispose of all the uncomfortable thoughts connected to it.

“Free to return to your life.”

Had instead saved the damn thing and taken it home, buried in his trunk. Shoved awkwardly to the recipient on her birthday. A horrifying, tongue-tied moment. He had promised himself he would never to do such a thing again.

“And everything will be as it should.”

He had stupidly purchased the matching comb that autumn anyway. It still rested deep in the bowels of his closet.

“I’m sure of it,” she said softly, her voice breaking through the memory.

He looked at the brush, at the way her fingers stroked the handle.

“Abigail—”

One hand touched his chest sending all sorts of strange feelings through him—feelings tied to the memory, feelings new, and feelings old, but newly charged.

He looked at the desire on her face. A face that rarely withheld emotion from him. He loved to taunt her, to see the anger and passion. To feel something from her after all the barren years of not having her near. A purgatory that he had created through his actions. A gawky boy on the edge of manhood unable to deal with his feelings. A man at the top of his game unable to let go of his pride.

Her other hand played with the ties on her nightdress. “It is not tomorrow though. Tonight, tonight I want you to touch me.”

She was taking a huge risk, she knew it. But she didn’t care. She could see the desire reflected in his eyes, could read the lines of his body, and she couldn’t deny that she had wanted him to touch her for the longest time.

“Just a little,” she whispered. “Just to make me feel alive. To feel that you are still here.”

His eyes darkened and she pulled the string of her gown allowing it to fall away.

“Abigail,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What are you—”

“Thinking? I’m not.” She stepped forward against him, her hand still between them. “I don’t want you to think either.”

He was here, with her. Still alive, at least within her madness.

She let her palm skim the edges of his never-changing shirt, still in the state she had seen it in at the ball. She had never given a thought to how he must have unconsciously kept it that way. Just as his appearance reflected his emotional state. More bedraggled when he returned from wherever he was being kept, more vibrant when he was passionate or enraged.

Her fingers caught in the edge of the material and glided over the button connecting the two sides. The material disappeared beneath her fingers, and all of a sudden, she was touching smooth skin, just slightly cool, as if it once had been a hot cup of tea that had warmed and then cooled to the room. A side effect of his state in the in-between.

His indrawn breath made her bolder, and she ran her hand along the curves of his chest, touching the curling hair there and the chiseled planes.

“My clothes?”

“You have discarded them,” she said, not even glancing to the side, maintaining contact with his eyes, which were smoldering instead of cynical. “I’ve seen new spirits change clothing instantly. Sometimes in such a flurry that one outfit becomes the next ad infinitum until they settle.”

One hand rose toward her in a more tentative gesture than she was accustomed to seeing him use. “Abigail.”

“Are you going to touch me, Valerian?”

His fingers bent around the plait of hair that hung down her shoulder. He stroked the strands there. “I don’t know. Is it real?”

“It’s as real as we make it.” She undid another tie of her gown, the material spreading so that more skin was bared.

His hand smoothed the ends of her plait and then lifted to her nape. He tilted her head back and drew her closer. “Like a dream.” He pulled her to him and her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. As they drew careful strokes against the contours of her own, the smallest amount of resistance between them as they slid together.

Heaven. Perhaps she was in it. Perhaps this was her heaven, having Valerian all to herself, touching and depending on her. A wicked thought.

He deepened the kiss and traced the hollows of her throat. A trail of fire lit across the path, at odds with the cool touch of his hands. The coolness just intensifying her already burning skin.

His fingers descended down her throat and to the curves of her shoulders and collarbone, dipping to the valley below. She could feel her breasts tighten, an odd sensation that promised pleasure if she could just do…something.

He grasped the edge of the third tie, his fingers lightly stroking along the edge of her left breast as he did so. The sensation grew and her nipple hardened. “I’m looking quite forward to seeing what is behind this tie. You have clung to that shift beneath. I’m going to unwrap you finally.”

The tie fluttered between his fingers, then fell through, the same way that her glove had refused removal. He paused for a moment and she breathed heavily against his neck, eyes tightly shut, hoping that he wouldn’t pull away like he had before.

Fingers, gentle, protective, possessive fingers, curled around the hand she held at his chest.

“If you only knew,” he whispered and pulled her hand down. He pressed her hand to her own body, stroking back up, over her breast, circling the taut peak, causing her eyes to half close, using her own hand to do so. Her fingers touched the tie. His hand stroked up hers and took her forefinger and thumb between his, pinching them together around the ribbons. She looked up sharply, breath catching. His eyes were hot as he slowly pulled her pinched fingers away from her body, dragging the end of one ribbon from the clutch of the other, setting the edges of the fabric free.

Her heart thumped. He hadn’t stopped. The look in his eyes said that he wasn’t even considering the possibility. That she would be stripped naked before him if he had to have her undo and stroke every part of her body to do so.

“I don’t know whether to speak to your surprise or just revel in the look in your eyes and the flush across your throat.” He bent his head to her neck. “Beautiful.”

She leaned her hips into him while tilting her head back and giving him more access. His fingers took her hand and drew them down the valley between her breasts and to her stomach, to the next tie in the gown. He gripped her thumb and forefinger together again and pulled, more insistently this time. The gown parted further.

Another slow descent of her hand to her abdomen and then the vee below. Over the coiling heat and fire. He pressed her hand into her body and leaned back. “Have you ever touched yourself, Abigail? Watching the spirits as you say you do? Wanting to emulate their actions?”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t answer. She shook her head in the negative.

“I’m surprised. You are one of the most intrepid souls I’ve met.”

But it had seemed so wicked every time her hand had gone near. Every time the lack of touch from others had impressed upon her. That somehow she was not worthy of touch, even her own.

He pressed her hand more firmly against the center of her heat, and his lips touched her ear. “I want to see you touch yourself, Abigail. But right now I want to touch you even more.” He gripped her fingers firmly and ripped apart the tie, the gown parting as if by command.

He let go of her hand and it dropped boneless to her side. His palm was immediately upon her, cupping her through the shift, making her gasp and arch into him, partially in shock and partially because her body demanded it. Long fingers stroked a trail along her most intimate area, the cloth of her shift providing little barrier, and in fact urging the heat onward as it pulled against her. Her mouth parted on a silent phrase and her eyes locked with his.

He used his free hand to pull her head toward his and he kissed her with all of the passion that she had ever hoped for. His fingers continued their trail of fire, burning her, making something inside of her tighten and throb. He pressed two against her, nearly lifting her an inch, and then his fingers fell through the cloth, touching her skin, her curls, the throb that seemed to have blown into something tangible and physical.

A small sound worked from her throat and he swallowed it, pressing his lips more firmly, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth and causing more of those sounds to work forth. One finger below imitated the action and curled into her heat, through the barriers, dipping inside. The sensation nearly undid her and her fingers wound into his hair, pulling him more firmly against her, the only thing that she could do in the increasingly deep, maddened frenzy to complete the action. To climb against him and make him undo the almost unbearable throbbing that had coalesced.

He broke free, and only the bright, swollen lips and heated eyes, his bare chest heaving to the same beat as hers and his hair gloriously out of place, caused her to stop from panicking. He leaned back against the pole of the four-poster, his eyes still hot, but some sort of tenuous reserve—held by tenterhooks—called to the fore. “Remove your shift.”

“Pardon me?” she asked, unable to work up the correct words for what she really wanted to say, which was something more along the lines of asking why he had stopped touching her, demanding he continue, and perhaps adding a few curse words to the entire diatribe.

“Remove your shift.”

She caught the light upon his darkened eyes, the way he was gripping his fists in the cross of his arms across his chest. She leaned down to the edge of her shift, looked up at him, and slowly began dragging it up her knees, her thighs. She paused, self-consciousness asserting itself as she reached the part of her that few had seen.

“Remove your shift, Abigail.”

She met his eyes again; saw the challenge there, the soft mocking, not against her, not indicating that he was going to poke fun at her, but a challenge to see if she was really ready to do this. She took in his clutched fists and pulled upward, the fabric sliding across her belly, up and over the peaks of her breasts, causing them to lift and then fall as she did so, then finally over her head.

She held the fabric there for a second before reconnecting with his eyes. She took in his heated gaze, saw the way his body started to move toward hers before he regained control, and a different sort of throb, of pleasure, flowed through her, a womanly confidence and she let the cloth fall to the floor, pooling there in a reflection of her state.

He moved toward her swiftly, twirling her and pressing her down against the bed, lifting her leg and opening her to him as he kissed her again, more urgently, both hands reaching up to grip her neck, the kisses consuming her soul as he took, took, took. Then his mouth moved downward and he took her right nipple in his mouth. She arched off the bed with a silent scream, the sensation too surprising and overwhelming to vocalize. Strong tremors rocked her as he tugged her nipple and she arched against him and then bowed back straight repeatedly, her body unsure that it could withstand the treatment.

“Valerian,” she gasped as he switched to her other breast.

Fingers drew down her ribs, stomach, abdomen and curled right back into her heat. The arch of her body grew more taught as one finger breeched her an inch, circled, and then stabbed again. Her fingers wound into his hair, her body spasming nearly uncontrollably as he sucked and stabbed, sucked and stabbed. The heat became more pointed, more focused, the coil straightening into an arrow, almost painful in its intensity.

His long finger circled just inside of her and she arched for the teasing stab, wanting it, waiting for it, but instead he pushed fully inside, a trail of heat pushing up that connected to the arrow, a crook of his finger knotting them together and everything exploded.

A
bigail woke, stretching. When she didn’t see Valerian she instantly panicked.

“Lemons. I saw the first one on the vine. It must be cultivated or it will wither.”

“Aunt Effie?” Abigail rose into a sitting position, alarmed by the look of the ghost. “What are you…?”

The edges of Effie’s old-fashioned dress crackled, faded, then crackled again. Abigail swiped the covers away and scurried over to where the apparition sat. “What is happening to you? Were you hit by the man yesterday?”

“No, dear. It is just lemon season upon us.” Effie smiled gently. “Lemons are lovely, do not fear them.”

Abigail sank down and held out a finger to Effie, but it slid through just as it always had. “Why is it that now you have started to converse with me in a real manner? Why can’t I touch you?”

“You are at a crossroads and I am in your grasp.”

“What do you mean?”

Effie sipped her tea. “I do not know. Only that you are at a crossroads. Lemons, dear.”

“But why now?”

Effie continued sipping.

“Lord Rainewood?”

Effie tilted her head. “I am but a spirit, dear. I only see that lemons are within your grasp or in danger of falling, rotting, unpicked.”

“Miss?”

Abigail turned to see Telly standing by the dressing table. She wondered how long her maid had been there.

“Yes, Telly?”

“Your mother wants to know whether you intend to keep the appointment today with Lord Basil.”

Abigail looked back at Effie, who merely kept sipping. “Tell her that I do.”

“Very well, miss. I will deliver the message then be back to help you change.” Telly slipped from the room.

“You are up. Finally.” Valerian had somehow slipped inside too.

She rose, feeling the color in her cheeks follow the movement. What to say to him?

She smoothed her hands down her nightgown, watching them, and thinking of other fingers touching the fabric. “I am.”

Fingers touched her chin instead, lifting it. “Embarrassed, Abigail?” His eyes drifted past her to her dressing table. Something shifted in the dark brown. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

Telly returned before she could say or do anything truly embarrassing—like throwing herself at him or admitting secret thoughts aloud.

She changed into a morning gown and tried to keep up thoughtless, easy conversation with both her maid and Valerian—a hard prospect when Telly kept twitching. She’d have to ask her about that later.

Abigail walked downstairs to where her mother and Mrs. Browning had gathered over steaming cups of tea.

She clasped her hands in front of her and said as calmly as she could manage, “I need to run to Bond Street to secure new ribbons.”

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Browning said. “After your absence at all events yesterday, being tardy today will not do.”

Abigail kept the smile on her face and her eyes focused on her mother.

“Be quick,” her mother said in a quiet voice.

Mrs. Browning’s head shot to the side in complete shock. She had never been overruled in the household before. “Mrs. Smart,” she sputtered, and Abigail took perverse pleasure in the reaction.

“Thank you, Mother. I will be back in plenty of time.”

She gathered Telly and walked toward the door. She turned back just in time to see Valerian, following lazily behind, smirk at Mrs. Browning and make a rude gesture. Abigail would have given her real ribbon money to have seen him do that where Mrs. Browning could see it.

They hailed a hack as soon as they could. She cursed her foolishness for taking the family carriage the night before. Not that the driver would know to say anything other than how odd she continued to act.

Of the last five places on Telly’s list, the first two were not possibilities, but the third, O’Malley’s Tavern was located across from what looked like an abandoned building. A building with windows that faced the tavern sign.

“We could—”

“No, Abigail. I forbid it.”

“But it’s a possibility.”

“And I’ll figure out on your outing how I can search it, if needed.” The edges of his mouth turned down. “You will stay away from that building.”

“But—”

“There is no time anyway. Don’t push your mother or that harpy you hired. Let’s drive past the final two and return.”

She gave in and told Telly to give the driver directions for the final two places, much to her maid’s relief. The final two yielded nothing.

O’Malley’s was the most likely candidate and she found her blood pumping a little more quickly, and her heart racing a little more erratically, at the thought that they might find him.

“I’ll gather information on the tavern and surrounding buildings, miss.”

“Excellent, Telly.”

“Yes, let your maid do it.” Valerian tilted his head back against the seat in a manner that stated he expected to be obeyed.

Abigail glared. Some things remained the same.

They returned home in time for Abigail to change and receive a reprimand from Mrs. Browning for her near tardiness. She grilled Abigail on what shops they had frequented and demanded to see the new ribbons. Thankfully, Valerian had suggested they purchase some.

Her mother kept silent throughout. There was still a slice of underlying fear that her mother would revert back to her former position regarding her treatment, yet the new sense of purpose that had bloomed in the wake of the tentative renewal of friendship with Valerian, and the quest to find him, kept the fear just below the surface.

Basil arrived in one of the open family carriages about half an hour later.

He greeted them with a jaunty gait and smile. “Miss Smart, I’m looking forward to our outing. I hope you like my surprise.”

She hoped she did as well. She was taking a chance by going with him and she could hear and feel Valerian’s displeasure.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Lord Basil,” Mrs. Browning said, “where are we going?”

“Hobbyhorse races in the park. There will be a number of familiar faces in attendance. And a chance to try the vehicles, should one desire. Though, perhaps not to race, unless one is daring enough.” He smiled winningly.

Valerian snorted, circling his brother with narrowed eyes. Mrs. Browning looked less than ecstatic.

“Excellent, Lord Basil,” Abigail said, smiling back. That sounded safe. Nice large crowd. Plenty of people she’d know in attendance. She smiled at Valerian, trying to indicate relief, but he continued to maintain his dark look.

“I do hope you are interested in the races, Miss Smart,” Basil said after they settled into the carriage.

He began expertly guiding the team. She wondered when he had gotten past his childhood weakness and become so adept.

“I expressly thought it something you might want to see,” he added.

She and her mother had left their house in the country and moved to London before Basil had fully recovered. A move that her mother had deemed the next step in establishing themselves. A move that had separated Abigail from the sorrow and demons of the estate. She hadn’t put up a fuss.

If she had known what awaited her in London with the doctor, she might have.

“I am,” she answered. “I confess that I have been most interested in witnessing how they work.” She didn’t add that Mrs. Browning found them plebeian and so they had abstained from the activity in the past. Only Lord Basil’s standing and the fact that the invitation had been issued in front of the dowager kept the woman smiling grimly now.

“Capital. I am sure that we can get you on one as well. There’s even a version for the ladies.”

“No,” Valerian said sharply from his seat inside Mrs. Browning. He seemed to enjoy making the woman shiver uncontrollably. It was still disconcerting to see their double features together, like some childish painting. “Do not attempt to ride one, Smart.”

She smiled at Basil. “That would be quite the lark, Lord Basil. I do believe that it would give my mother a fright, however. She is a terrible worrywart.”

Her mother simply nodded, but Abigail focused on Valerian as she said it. His eyes narrowed in promised retribution.

“Do you have a fondness for racing, Lord Basil? Or for the hobbies in particular?” Abigail hadn’t heard of him being exceptionally prone to gambling or sport.

“Science. I find modern science completely enthralling. Johnson’s design is masterful and I find myself excited for what might happen next. The rails and steel monsters that are all the newest whisper on science’s lips are fantastic to contemplate. Can you imagine what we might accomplish with interconnecting rails—twice as fast as horses, with none of the stops needed?”

“You should speak to Mr. Brockwell. He is also a lover of all things mechanical.”

“I have,” he said surprising her. “Just because my brother chose—chooses—not to, does not mean that I have to follow,” he said calmly, but his knuckles whitened around the edges.

Valerian muttered something inappropriate.

“That is too true, Lord Basil.” She wasn’t sure about his choice of tense, but let it pass, unable to say anything about it without bringing uncomfortable attention to the matter.

Mrs. Browning continued to adjust her shawl against the chill only she could feel while Abigail’s mother stared from the side of the open vehicle, a latent sadness in her eyes. Basil continued speaking about the merits of Phillip’s mind and the Young Scientist’s Society. Valerian muttered something, his lips moving on Mrs. Browning’s large forehead, his eyes dark in her high, knotted hair.

Abigail felt a sudden disconcerting notion that she had already entered the gates of Bedlam for the final time, never to return outside.

They arrived in the park to a sea of faces. All of Valerian’s cronies were there as well as Basil’s. She was surprised to see other faces as well—Gregory and Phillip, and a few other men and women that she wouldn’t have associated with the event. Then again, dandy horses were all the rage and nearly everyone wanted to be in on the latest frenzy. And Basil had just finished his explanation on Phillip’s keen mind and enthusiasm, so perhaps she should have expected it.

Gregory gave her a dark look as she stepped from the carriage with Basil’s help. Phillip just chewed his lip.

She gave a wave, chewing her own lip when only Phillip tentatively returned the gesture. She tried to shrug off Gregory’s snub as Basil helped her mother and Mrs. Browning from the carriage.

The crowd was gathered around five hobbyhorses held by waiting servants. Curved smooth wood with perky saddles on top. One of the more daring ladies rode around the crowd on a modified horse fit for her skirts—her feet pushing along the ground in demure strides. Abigail would have loved to try one had circumstances been different. Had she been out of the eye of the public, and assured that no one meant her harm.

The lady preened under the attention of the rogues and dandies who were eyeing the machine, and eyeing the hem of her dress brushing her moving slippers—hoping for a bit of a show, no doubt.

Mr. Stagen walked toward them, an unreadable expression on his face, his walking stick thumping against the earth. “Lord Basil, Miss Smart.” He acknowledged the two older women as well when they drew alongside. “A good day for racing, is it not? The skies seem to be holding to themselves.”

Stagen had never been rude to her before, more a figure watching from the side, powerful in his own way, but more apt to keep his own counsel in public, at least. But he had never chosen to speak to or approach her before Valerian had disappeared either.

She gamely played along, as if it were normal for the two of them to converse informally. “Who is racing?” she asked, having not kept up with that aspect of the gossip, too many other things on her mind.

“Many of the gentlemen here, and even a few of the more spirited ladies, should you wish to join.” He pointed at the woman still riding around on her wooden steed. “There is no one here that will gainsay you, should you wish to try it.”

There was something probing in his eyes. Watching, questioning, accusing. Perhaps a combination of all of those things.

Valerian had been the natural leader of the group. Templing had been the witted viper. With both of them gone, the popular group was subdued.

“That is true.” She met his eyes squarely. There was something about Stagen that said she could trust him to be on Valerian’s side at the very least. That didn’t mean he was on hers, however.

Stagen returned her regard, then tipped his head. “And there are a few individual races. Campbell and Penshard have a special bet.”

She looked sharply at Gregory, who was examining his nails, seemingly bored.

“Why?”

“A challenge. I don’t know the details,” Stagen said, twirling his stick in the dirt. She narrowed her eyes. She’d bet every groat in every pocket in attendance that he knew exactly what the challenge was about and how it had come into being.

“I see.”

“You should ask Penshard.” Stagen’s eyes still questioned, his head still tilted in consideration, but there was a less sharp quality to him than there had been when he’d first approached.

“Perhaps I shall. But a gentleman hardly enjoys speaking of his bets with a lady.” She tested his new relaxed stance. “Or about other matters that he might find questionable.”

“Abigail, Stagen will draw and quarter you,” Valerian warned from somewhere behind her.

Stagen gave his stick another twirl. “That is true, Miss Smart. But someone else might be able to tell you—your friend Miss Penshard, perhaps?”

“Riders in the first race, line up!”

Abigail watched as the first five men stepped forward, pulling their hobbyhorses from the hands of the servants and into position at the makeshift starting line.

They mounted the wooden beasts.

Campbell walked toward their group, smiling. Valerian said something under his breath behind her. Stagen’s stance changed again, more alert and wary as Campbell navigated the crowd.

“Go!”

The men kicked off, their legs racing along the ground. One of the men tried to run too quickly after kicking off and became entangled in his own momentum. He lurched forward, turning the wheel and veering to the right before toppling and crashing to the ground. The crowd laughed and the man’s friend rushed over to see if he was hurt.