Lord Savage (4 page)

“As you wish, ma’am,” Hamlin muttered, making it clear that it wasn’t what she wished
at all. “But from what I’ve been hearing, ma’am, things might be more
easy
at this particular house than you might be expecting.”

I turned to the maid, curious. I’d encountered a few raised eyebrows among my own
London acquaintances when I mentioned that I’d accepted Lady Carleigh’s invitation,
but they’d all been too discreet to elaborate. “What exactly have you heard, Hamlin?”

“That this Wrenton Manor’s called Wanton Manor on account of all the shenanigans that
happen there, ma’am,” Hamlin said, briskly rolling my silk stockings into tidy balls.
“That having a noble title before your name’s no guarantee of decency, if you understand
me, ma’am. You can be sure I’ll see that your bedroom door is locked each night, ma’am,
to keep out the lechers and other rude gentlemen that prowl those halls.”

“‘Wanton Manor’?” I laughed, even as I thought of one rude gentleman in particular.
“Oh, my, that is rich!”

“It’s the truth, ma’am,” Hamlin said with gloomy certainty. “Everyone here says so.
It’s a wicked, sinful place.”

“Well, then,” I said, “I promise you I shall be on my guard at all times.”

I found Hamlin’s gossip more exciting than cautionary, for servants often knew far
more of their masters’ habits than most realized. If the servants here at the Savoy
said that the goings-on at Wrenton were wicked and sinful, then wicked and sinful
they must be—and I could scarcely wait.

“I doubt I’ll be in any true peril, surrounded by ladies and gentlemen,” I continued.
“And it’s not as if I’m a fresh young debutante.”

“A good thing you aren’t, ma’am,” Hamlin said darkly. “From what I’ve heard, an unmarried
young lady would sooner spend a night in the stalls at Covent Garden than accept an
invitation to Wrenton Manor.”

I raised my brows with disbelief. “Really, Hamlin. Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not, ma’am, not by half,” Hamlin declared, shaking her head. “They say the king
himself has been a guest, all the way back when he was Prince of Wales, and he didn’t
bring the princess with him, neither. Actresses and other strumpets, that’s his taste,
low women eager for any sort of royal debauch, ma’am.”

“His majesty has long been a friend to Lord and Lady Carleigh, Hamlin, so I’m not
surprised that he has been their guest,” I said, ignoring Hamlin’s more salacious
comments. “I’m certain her ladyship is an excellent hostess, one who addresses her
guests’ every comfort and need.”

“I’ll be the one looking after you and your good name, ma’am.” Hamlin shook her fist
to ward off imaginary libertines. “It won’t be the first time I’ll keep a cudgel by
my bed, just in case.”

“I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Hamlin,” I said, “but I’m certain it’s
not necessary.”

I paused, knowing that what I’d say next would not be well received.

“Besides, you shall not be accompanying me to Wrenton,” I continued quickly, deciding
speed was best. “Lady Carleigh has advised us to leave our own servants at home, and
rely on her staff to attend us while we are her guests.”

Hamlin gasped, stricken, her open hand pressed to her bosom.

“Not take me, ma’am!” she exclaimed. “Why—why, I have always attended you, ma’am!
It’s not proper for a lady of your station to travel alone, not at all. How can this
Lady Carleigh expect you to—”

“Hamlin, that is enough,” I said firmly. “You will remain here at the Savoy, while
I will be making the journey to Wrenton by train, unaccompanied, the way hundreds
of other women do every day without incident.”

“But they’re not you, ma’am,” Hamlin insisted. “Not you.”

“Hamlin, I am perfectly capable of— Yes?”

“These arrived for you, Mrs. Hart.” One of my other servants appeared in the doorway,
holding an enormous crystal vase of roses.

“How lovely!” I exclaimed, grateful for the interruption.

I leaned over the vase, breathing deeply of the flowers’ fragrance. The roses were
as lush as velvet, and so deep a red as to be almost black. Tucked among the stems
was an envelope, and with my heart racing with anticipation, I slipped my finger under
the flap to open it.

The roses could have been sent by any number of people—friends, acquaintances, even
the hotel itself—but I dared to hope they’d be from one gentleman in particular.

Ever since the night of Lady Carleigh’s ball, I’d played my dance with Lord Savage
over and over in my head, wishing I’d been more witty, more charming, less shocked
by all he’d said and done. I thought of myself as a lady who was always composed and
in control, and yet in the course of a single dance he had ruffled me, unsettled me,
rattled me in ways I’d never expected.

I couldn’t recall another man who had radiated power and confidence in such a sexual
manner, and I’d been drawn to him so completely that I almost felt as if I’d had no
choice in the matter. He’d called it kismet, or fate, and though I’d tried to dismiss
his words as the sort of pretty emptiness that men say while dancing, with him it
had sounded like the purest truth. I scarcely knew him, and yet I felt as if we’d
known each other forever.

When he’d guessed—for it had to have been a guess—that I was not a woman with scores
of friends, I’d been stunned by his accuracy. A renegade, that’s what he’d called
me. If I were honest, I liked the sound of that, the hint of danger that he’d added
to the word. But what I’d liked more was that he’d confessed he was the same, a strange
thing to share, and yet perfect because he’d said it.

I had always been alone, one more product of my suffocating, solitary childhood, and
apart from the rest of my equals even as I’d stood among them. I’d also accepted that
no one else felt the same. But to hear Lord Savage say the same of himself, a casual
fact shared while we danced, had been exhilarating—yet almost frightening as well,
because he’d made me feel dangerously vulnerable. It was as if he’d been able to look
past my well-crafted, jewel-covered facade and see me as I really was.

There’d been danger in his sexual presence, too, a danger that had been equally irresistible.
He hadn’t been coy, and he hadn’t been flirtatious. Instead, he’d stated his physical
desire for me and frankly described mine for him. He had used words no gentleman should
use to a lady, and yet from him they had sounded right, even as they’d shocked me,
and excited me, too.

No, he excited me, shamelessly and without apology. Over and over, I’d imagined myself
as the woman with him in the garden: her hips that he’d caress with a mixture of reverence
and possession, her fingers clutching tight to the bench with her legs spread wide,
the better to feel the full force of his cock.

I thought endlessly of how he’d pushed her hard against the bench with each thrust,
how his fingers had dug into her hips to keep her steady, how she’d matched each of
his primal groans with a cry of her own. Was it wrong to want that, too? He would
be the one man who’d show me the kind of pleasure I’d read about in forbidden books,
and had never felt with my husband. But Lord Savage would take me, claim me, ravish
me, make me wild with joy, and then smile, and kiss me, and make me laugh softly,
as if I were the only woman in his world.

No wonder I’d had trouble sleeping. He had behaved so differently from any other gentleman
I’d ever met. I’d been thrown so off-balance by his sheer masculine arrogance that
I’d been unable to measure his true interest, or if it came close to matching my own
desire. Days had passed without so much as a word from him, and not once in my whirlwind
of engagements did our paths cross. I’d despaired, fearing my obsession with him must
be completely unrequited.

Yet as soon as I saw the embossed arms of the Earl of Savage on the card, I knew I
had my answer. He’d written only a single word on the card, underlined with a bold,
inky slash:

Tomorrow

That single word promised infinitely more than an entire book of flowery poetry because
it had come from him. From
him.

“Where shall I put the roses, ma’am?” Hamlin asked, seizing possession of the vase
from the lower maid. “In the parlor?”

“On the table beside my bed, Hamlin,” I said, keeping the card. “I wish to breathe
their fragrance as I sleep.”

Yet, Hamlin remained with the vase in her hands, clearly hoping I would reveal the
sender’s name.

“Quite the honor that is, ma’am,” she said. “Whoever sent those roses would be mighty
glad to hear you liked them so well.”

But I only smiled, lightly tracing the embossed arms with my fingertip with anticipation.
Hamlin didn’t need to know; she would only disapprove. What happened next was between
me and Lord Savage, and no one else.

Red roses meant passion and desire, and tomorrow—tomorrow I’d begin to learn how deep
that desire would run.

*   *   *

The next afternoon, I looked eagerly from the window as the train slowed for the stop.
One glance at the sleepy little station, surrounded by green fields filled with cows,
was sufficient to show that Wrenton was in fact in the country and far from London.

Yet, it was all part of the adventure that this trip had become for me. Before today,
I had never once traveled unaccompanied, not even to cross the street. I’d first been
with my father, and then my husband, and always surrounded by nursemaids and governesses,
servants and porters, private secretaries to make arrangements, and security men with
pistols beneath their jackets to keep me safe from the kidnappers Father had so feared.
Long ago I had found a way to set myself aside mentally, to be alone in my head even
with the others close around me, but they had always been there.

But today I had left my staff behind at the Savoy, with only Hamlin scowling on the
platform at Victoria Station. I had chosen the viscountess’s own compartment and had
proudly handed the conductor my ticket myself, and in my purse were the chits for
my two trunks.

These were ordinary experiences for most people, but for me they were rare, glorious
signs of independence, as was the neat, fitted traveling suit of lavender serge that
I wore with a large cream-colored hat and a heavy veil. I’d told Hamlin the veil was
to protect my privacy, but covering my face had secretly made me feel worldly and
mysterious, as if I traveled like this every day, and a bit wicked, too.

No, more than a bit wicked. Wasn’t I even now on my way to join the gentleman who
had feverishly occupied my thoughts and dreams ever since we’d met? If things went
as I hoped, I’d soon see the man who would become my lover before this week was done.

My lover,
I thought, thrilled to think of Lord Savage in that way. No wonder I was smiling
as I stepped from the train, and for the first time since I’d left London, I lifted
back my veil to breathe deeply of the country air.

“We’ll have your things down in a moment, ma’am,” the conductor said as the station’s
single porter wrestled my luggage to the platform. For me it was next to nothing:
only the two trunks for gowns, three hat boxes, and several smaller valises and bags
for the rest of my belongings.

I was disappointed to see that I was the only passenger to disembark at Wrenton station.
Even though Lady Carleigh had promised that our party would be a small, select group,
I had still hoped there would be others here to join me on the way to the manor house.
I’d even dared to hope that Lord Savage himself might be on my train.

But I soon saw that I wouldn’t be entirely without company. An elegant motorcar, accompanied
by a horse-drawn cart, were waiting before the station, and as soon as I stepped from
the train, the chauffeur threw open the car’s door and trotted up to the platform.
In his hands was a small introductory placard with my name neatly lettered upon it,
a nicety made unnecessary by my being the only lady on the platform.

“Welcome to Wrenton, Mrs. Hart,” he said, touching the front of his livery cap. “I
am Simon, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon, Simon,” I said, smiling warmly at the chauffeur. It was impossible
not to, really: he was a delicious young man with a ruddy face, bright blue eyes,
and curling blond hair. His livery coat barely contained his broad shoulders and the
rippling muscles of his arms and thighs, and he truly was the perfect model of a country-bred
Adonis.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hart,” he said, smiling in return. “My only wish is to please you.
Parker and I will see to your trunks.”

That smile surprised me, and not just because of his dimples, either. I hadn’t expected
such—such
familiarity
from Lady Carleigh’s staff. Simon was a servant, and servants were not supposed to
smile like that at female guests of the household.

It was one thing for Hamlin to be impertinent, but another entirely for a male servant
from another household to be so bold. Keeping my expression stern, I lowered my veil
back over my face, determined to reinforce decorum.