Bedchamber Games Page 14

  She stood, her legs wobbly beneath her. Somehow she managed to climb safely down to the pavement before turning back.

  “Good night, my lord,” she said quietly.

  “Good night.”

  She turned and made her way up the steps. As silently as possible, she inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. Behind her the coach was still waiting. Only after she was inside did she finally hear it drive off.

  She leaned back against the door and released a shaky exhalation. Around her, the house was shadowed and silent, the servants all abed. She waited, half expecting to hear Bertram’s familiar footfalls coming down the hallway.

  But the house stayed quiet. He must still be out with his friends.

  Knowing she had better not push her luck any further, she headed for the stairs and hurried up them. It was only after she was inside her bedroom with the door securely shut, her men’s clothes stripped off and her nightgown pulled over her head, that she let her feelings give way.

  Sinking down on the bed, she wondered what she was going to do. And whether she had the strength to resist both her heart and the siren call of her body.

  Chapter 15

  Lawrence escorted Phoebe Templestone off the dance floor, her small hand resting lightly on his sleeve. Other partygoers thronged around them, the air filled with a steady hum of conversation and the occasional clink of a glass now that the music for the last set had ended.

  “What jolly good fun that was,” she declared, a tiny pair of dimples appearing in her fair cheeks as she turned to smile up at him. As he knew, her dimples were much admired this Season, having inspired more than one ode from several foolish, lovelorn swains who were all vying for her affection.

  “I adore dancing, especially the quadrille,” she continued, her carefully coiffed blond curls bobbing attractively around her face. Her blue eyes were brilliant as a cloudless summer’s day, her bow-shaped mouth sweetly pink. No one could deny, most certainly not himself, that she was beautiful—the epitome of the perfect English rose.

  So why was it that he found himself dwelling on a pair of serious, bespectacled gray eyes instead and a mouth that thinned with concentration, even as it begged to be kissed?

  “Nothing is quite as delightful as the waltz, though,” Phoebe said, intruding into his thoughts. “Papa says it’s fast, but as I’ve remarked to him on more than one occasion, the patronesses at Almacks wouldn’t allow young ladies to indulge in the practice were it not completely proper. Do you not agree, Lord Lawrence?”

  He conjured a smile. “Indeed, I do. The patronesses are all that is wise when it comes to determining how a lady ought to conduct herself in polite society. That is why I have already secured the supper dance with you, which as you may recall just happens to be a waltz.”

  She gave a girlish giggle and fluttered her fan before her face.

  The memory of a warm, full, throaty laugh played in his thoughts, teasing his senses in a way that warmed his blood. His mind drifted off again, delivering him inside his study and into a pair of lithe feminine arms, her lips moving against his with honest, unfettered need.

  “. . . think you might be there?”

  He stared at Phoebe, aware that he had absolutely no idea what it was she’d just been saying. Quickly he cast about for an excuse, but none came easily to mind. “Your pardon, Miss Templestone. I beg your forgiveness, but might you repeat the question? I am afraid I heard only a portion of it.”

  A little frown creased the space between her pale eyebrows, and for a moment he wondered if she was going to take offense. But then she must have thought better of it, the smile returning to her mouth. “I was remarking on all the entertainments coming up soon and Lady Monkton’s afternoon garden party this Wednesday. I wondered if you plan to attend.”

  Wednesday, the day of his and Rosamund’s intended tryst. Not that anything was definite as of yet. It had been three days since he dropped her off at her town house and two since he sent word to her confirming that he would be at home all that day and would she grant him the very great pleasure of joining him there at half past eleven?

  So far she had not written back.

  He was beginning to wonder if she would and whether it had been a miscalculation to leave the decision entirely in her hands.

  “Wednesday, you say?” he repeated. “Alas no, I am afraid I have a prior commitment that day.”

  She gave a small sigh. “Of course. Your work, no doubt.”

  He made no effort to correct her assumption.

  “Despite your being a gentleman,” she went on, “I know better than most the demands of a barrister’s life. Papa is forever occupied with his legal duties and obligations in serving the court. I ought to have known you would not be able to put everything aside for a pleasure-filled day out.”

  No, but for a pleasure-filled day in with a certain someone, he found he could cheerfully spare the time.

  Still, Phoebe looked so downcast he found he couldn’t simply leave it at that. “You must allow me to make it up to you, Miss Templestone. A drive in the park on Saturday perhaps? The courts are closed that day, if you will recall.”

  She brightened instantly, her dimples popping out again. “A drive sounds lovely, Lord Lawrence. I shall be most happy to accept.”

  Just then a young man, who couldn’t have been a day over twenty, appeared at their sides. He hovered anxiously, then bowed before darting a nervous look at Phoebe. “Pardon me, my lord. Miss Templestone, I believe the next dance is mine.”

  “And so it is,” she agreed. “Lord Lawrence, if you will excuse me?”

  Lawrence inclined his head. “Your servant, Miss Templestone.”

  She strolled away on the arm of her eager puppy of a dance partner.

  He watched her for but a moment more before his thoughts turned back to Rosamund and their upcoming assignation. When he’d told her he would be seriously disappointed if she turned him down, she didn’t know the half of it. He supposed he ought to feel like the worst sort of blackguard for offering her an affair. Yet he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  He wanted her that badly.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if she were some ingénue in her first blush of youth. She was a woman grown who presumably knew her own heart and mind. All he could do at this point, though, was trust she would give in to her own natural instincts and desires and come to him.

  And if she doesn’t?

  Scowling darkly, he turned in the direction of the room where his host’s liquor cabinet was kept. Quite abruptly he found himself in need of a drink.

  • • •

  Rosamund focused on the legal brief in front of her, the office quiet where she and Bertram were working.

  She’d been reading now for the past half hour and was no further along in her analysis of the facts than she had been when she sat down. The only thing she seemed to be able to focus on was tomorrow and whether to accept Lawrence’s invitation.

  Assuming one could call an indecent proposal an invitation.

  An invitation to sin.

  An invitation to revel in the most exquisite of corporeal pleasures.

  She shifted on her chair, willing the intimate areas of her body to quit aching.

  Good God, what has he done to me?

  One time in Lawrence Byron’s arms and he’d turned her wanton. And he hadn’t even had to take off her clothes to do it! His kiss and touch alone had been enough to set her senses ablaze.

  Yet bad as the days were, the nights were even worse, lying there in her bed thinking about him. As for her dreams, they were the worst of all, the Lawrence of her imagination doing the most wicked things to her body—or at least as wicked as she was capable of imagining.

  Stop it, she chastised herself. Concentrate on your work.

  But try though she might, the work was going undone and she couldn
’t seem to turn off her lurid thoughts. Not even the mortifying knowledge that her brother sat less than ten feet away seemed to have any effect on stemming the tide of her carnal fantasies.

  Lord Lawrence Byron, she decided quite abruptly, was sin incarnate. A seducer so skilled she was sure he could tempt a nun to break every one of her vows and be glad of it afterward.

  Yet Rosamund was no nun, even if she had spent most of her life living like one. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman. A highly intelligent, exceedingly well- educated bluestocking who hadn’t been courted by a man since her youth. Facts were facts—she was an old maid and would almost surely live out the rest of her days unmarried and childless. The most she would ever be able to hope for in that regard was assuming the role of doting aunt should Bertram decide to marry and have a family of his own.

  Still, by some curious twist of fate, she had suddenly found herself the focus of a man’s attentions again—and not just any man but a rich, handsome, debonair aristocrat who clearly had his pick of the most beautiful, interesting women in the city, if not the entirety of England itself.

  True, he was a rakehell of the worst stamp, but somehow that only made him more intriguing. Yet was the near-certain pleasure she would discover in his arms worth the loss of her chastity and reputation?

  Of course, chances were slim that anyone would ever find out about their affair, especially if they took care to be discreet. Lawrence was the son of a duke, while she was nothing more than the daughter of a middle-class lawyer. Except for the occasions when their paths crossed as barristers, the two of them moved in entirely separate realms—his world so distant from her own he might as well live on another planet. In that regard, she would likely be safe.

  But there was also the matter of giving herself to him without benefit of marriage. She couldn’t fault him for his honesty—he wanted her and he took no pains to hide it. As for behaving honorably . . . well, it had probably never even occurred to him to offer her anything more than an affair.

  Not that she wanted him to. It wasn’t as if she were any more in love with him than he was with her.

  Still, were she a highborn woman of good family, she was sure he would never dream of making her such an indecent proposal. He would have either asked for her hand in marriage or simply let her go.

  But she wasn’t an aristocrat and he clearly did not feel bound to resist the temptation to bed her. Nonetheless, he had left the choice up to her. Had he wanted, he could have taken her the other night, there on the floor of his study. It was no secret that she wouldn’t have stopped him.

  Yet he hadn’t.

  He was waiting for her to decide.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed against the desire still pulsing through her body. Remembering his kisses and the glimpses of heaven she’d known at his touch.

  Could she deny him?

  Could she bear to deny herself?

  Should she even bother trying?

  A minute ticked by, then two and three.

  Suddenly, without giving herself any more time to consider, she reached for a blank sheet of stationery, quill and ink. Bending her head, she scrawled a few words, folded up the sheet, then sealed it with a glob of hot red wax.

  She stood. “I’m going out for a few minutes.”

  Bertram looked up from his work. “To where?”

  “I’ve a letter to post, and the boy has already come by today.”

  “I can put it with mine.” He extended a hand. “I have a stack of correspondence myself that needs posting.”

  She shook her head. “Give me yours instead. I could do with a walk.”

  He studied her for a moment, then shrugged and leaned over to collect the bunch of letters on his desk. A small surge of relief went through her as she took them in hand, slipping the one to Lawrence onto the bottom where Bertram wouldn’t have a chance to see it.

  She gave him a quick smile, then made for the door.

  • • •

  “The post, my lord.”

  Lawrence looked up from his breakfast plate and newspaper the following morning to find Griggs, his butler, waiting, a silver salver with a quartet of letters resting on top. Lawrence acknowledged the man with a nod, took the mail in hand, then set it aside to return to his toast and eggs.

  He picked the correspondence up again ten minutes later, riffling idly through as he sipped his coffee. Two were bills, one was an invitation to a ball he had no intention of attending and the last one was a complete mystery.

  Setting his cup aside, he broke open the seal and read the few brief words inside. A broad grin spread slowly across his lips.

  Rosamund had agreed and would join him here at his town house tomorrow, thirty minutes before noon.

  Desire hummed through his body, anticipation turning him instantly hard. He gave himself over to the sensations for a minute, his mind filled with images of her lying flushed and naked in his bed.

  He groaned low in his throat, knowing the day—and night—to come were going to be long ones.

  Still, his mood had lifted, secure in the knowledge that she would soon be his.

  In the meanwhile, however, he was going to have to get himself under control, particularly since he was due in court an hour from now. And if he couldn’t manage, well, at least he had the consolation of knowing that he would be wearing robes.

  Chapter 16

  Rosamund had to force herself to step out of the cab the next day, her fingers half-frozen with nerves despite the sunny, late-morning warmth. She’d nearly changed her mind about coming, barely able to sleep last night for all her vivid, fitful dreams. Nor had she managed to choke down more than a single bite of breakfast and was too anxious even for tea. Yet here she was and right on time, Lawrence’s town house looming large before her.

  At least she hadn’t had to deal with Bertram when she left. Her brother had had an early appointment with a client who lived just outside the city and he’d told her he didn’t expect to return before evening. Really, matters could not have gone better if she’d arranged everything herself.

  Even so, she might have turned coward now and retreated had the hack not driven away less than a minute after she arrived. Which meant there was no going back.

  Not that she truly wished to call things off. Her desire for Lord Lawrence was as strong as ever—her dreams last night were testament to that. No, she supposed her reluctance all boiled down to a fear of the unknown and the knowledge that after today, nothing would ever be entirely the same again.

  Turning, she looked up at the front door with its glossy black paint. As she did, it opened, revealing not the butler as expected, but Lawrence himself.

  He smiled invitingly, his gold-green eyes bold and possessive even from a distance. She pulled in a breath, excitement pushing aside a measure of her nerves.

  Zounds, could he be any handsomer?

  She moved up the steps and inside, an answering smile on her face. He shut the door behind her and closed out the world. To her surprise, he took her into his arms despite the fact that she was dressed as a man.

  “You’re here,” he said huskily.

  “I am. But where are your servants?” Glancing around, she tried to pull free, but he held her in place.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve given the staff the afternoon off,” he said. “Except for a kitchen maid who apparently drew the short straw on the dinner preparation and a hall boy who I was informed is confined to his bed with head cold. Otherwise we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

  He leaned in for a kiss, but she stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Even so, perhaps we should wait until we’re alone.”

  For a moment, she thought he was going to argue the point. Instead he lowered his arms to his sides. “Perhaps you’re right. Given the way you’re dressed, I suppose we cannot be too careful. Come along, then.”

 
He turned toward the stairs and started up. With her heart knocking loudly in her chest, she followed.

  At the top of the landing, he turned left and led her along a corridor that was every bit as quietly sophisticated as the rest of the house. About halfway down stood a polished wooden door.

  He opened it to reveal a spacious, decidedly masculine sitting room done in shades of royal blue, rich green and chestnut brown. There were a pair of comfortable, sturdy-looking chairs, side tables, a bookcase, a liquor cabinet and a sofa that was wide enough for a grown man to sleep on. Oil paintings hung from the walls, warm Turkey carpets lay across the wooden floor, while a pair of tall blue-and-white Chinese urns flanked a massive, central fireplace. Logs had been laid for a fire, but it was unlit at present; no coal fires for His Lordship apparently.

  Golden midday sunlight streamed in through a number of large windows, sheer draperies pulled across to block the view of any curious neighbors. Beyond, through a connected door that stood half-open, she caught a glimpse of another generously sized room done in more of the same masculine colors and style.

  Lord Lawrence’s bedchamber, she presumed.

  Without her conscious awareness, her hands fisted at her sides, her fingers still cold as a winter’s day. Behind her, Lawrence closed the sitting room door, the hardware giving a faint, well-oiled click as the mechanism settled into place. A different click followed and she turned in time to see him rotate a key in the lock.

  “So there’s no chance of us being disturbed,” he said by way of explanation.

  She nodded, her breath shallow in her lungs as her earlier anxiety returned full force.

  “Would you care for a bite to eat?” He gestured toward a few cloth-covered plates set on a sideboard that she hadn’t noticed before. “I had the kitchen make us something before the staff left for the day. Sandwiches and fruit and a pitcher of lemonade. Somehow I didn’t think beer or wine would be a good idea, considering how spirits affect you.”