Part 15 (1/2)
Chapter 12.
Good evening, your grace.” Tidmouth held the door open, bowing as she went past him into the hall. He straightened and addressed himself to the duke. ”Will your grace be dining in, after all, sir?”
”Yes, thank you, Tidmouth.” Jack, a gleam in his eye, glanced at Arabella, who was studiously examining a portrait of a previous Fortescu, a sixteenth-century cavalier of somewhat severe mien. ”I believe we'll dine abovestairs, in her grace's boudoir. Her grace is somewhat fatigued after the long journey yesterday.”
Arabella opened her mouth to protest this calumny, but then she caught the wicked gleam in Jack's gray eyes and said demurely, ”Yes, indeed, I do find myself somewhat weary. You're so considerate, sir. If you'll excuse me, I'll go to my chamber and rest awhile before dinner, sir.” Her smile was all sweet innocence as she asked, ”What time do you care to dine?”
Jack bowed. ”You must say, my dear.”
”We could dine in one hour, perhaps,” she said thoughtfully. ”But, of course, should your grace wish to see me before then, I shall be entirely at your grace's disposal.” The tawny eyes were all sensual mischief as she cast him a sidelong glance.
”We will dine in one hour, then, ma'am.” He put the faintest emphasis on dine.
She smiled and flitted towards the stairs. The dogs made a move to go after her but Jack swiftly laid hold of their collars. ”Tidmouth, take the dogs to the kitchens, make sure they have dinner, and keep them there for the remainder of the evening.”
”Yes, your grace,” the steward said woodenly. He beckoned to a liveried footman, hovering at the rear of the hall. ”Gordon, take the dogs to the kitchens.”
”Yes, Mr. Tidmouth, sir.” Grinning, the footman took both collars. ”Come along, boys, dinner.”
Galvanized by the magic word, they shot off towards the back regions, dragging the footman with them.
”Send Louis to my chamber with a decanter of sherry,” Jack said, striding to the stairs. ”And her grace and I will dine alone in one hour. We can serve ourselves.”
Tidmouth merely bowed. If his master wished to carve Aylesbury ducklings for himself and pour his own wine, it was not a steward's business to comment, any more than it was his business to hear the underlying message in his mistress's speech.
Humming, Jack went up to his own vast bedchamber that looked out upon the street. He shrugged out of his coat, casting it carelessly over a chair, and unbuckled his rapier, laying it on the window seat.
Louis hurried in with the decanter and a gla.s.s on a silver tray, setting it down on the dresser. ”We're dining in are we, your grace?”
”We are,” Jack said, pouring himself sherry.
”A dressing gown, sir? Or will we dress for dinner as usual?” Louis had opened the armoire.
”We think you may lay out a dressing gown for later,” Jack responded, tossing back the contents of his gla.s.s before pulling the lace cravat from around his neck and throwing it to join the discarded coat. ”But really, Louis, is this royal we strictly necessary?”
”No, your grace. I'll try to remember.”
”Please do.” Jack's smile was benign but Louis was not fooled. It didn't do to annoy his grace of St. Jules.
Jack ran a hand over his chin, then announced as he removed his waistcoat, ”I believe you may shave me, Louis.”
”Certainly, your grace.” Louis took up the already sharpened razor.
Next door in her own chamber Arabella lay drowsily in a hip bath before the fire, her hair piled in a knot on top of her head, out of the way of the water. Sprigs of dried lavender floated around her.
Becky bustled around from armoire to bed. ”A sprig of rosemary on the pillow, my lady,” she said. ”It freshens the linen beautifully. I found a bush in the square garden this afternoon. Didn't expect to find something like that in the city . . . and will you wear the silk negligee? With the satin slippers and the lace cap?”
”No cap, no slippers,” Arabella said lazily. ”You may lay out the gown, Becky, and then leave me.”
”Very well, ma'am.” Becky offered a conspiratorial smile that Arabella tried with dignity to ignore but failed utterly. She and Becky had been together too long for secrets, and the maid, for all her air of youthful innocence, was country bred and well aware of what went on in a conjugal bed.
Becky gave one final twitch to the coverlet, one final adjustment to the lace ruff on the peignoir that lay ready on the bed, checked that the candles were burning brightly and the fire well fed, then curtsied and withdrew.
Next door, Jack heard the sudden silence in his wife's bedchamber and he knew she was now alone. Louis had finished shaving him and reverently laid out a turquoise silk banyan on the bed, fussing over the set of the lapels, the drape of the folds, the fringe of the sash.
”I can manage from now on, Louis,” the duke said, trying to hide his impatience with the valet's exacting attention.
The valet bowed and backed out of the room, closing the corridor door behind him with exaggerated softness.
Jack, in his stockinged feet, strode to the door that led to the adjoining chamber and opened it. The scent of lavender and rosemary met him first, then came the sight of his wife in her bath, her skin rosy from the warm water, her hair a damp and tangled knot on top of her head. She turned her head indolently against the side of the bath and gazed at him. He wore only britches and s.h.i.+rt, the latter opened carelessly at the throat. His hair was as usual tied back with a black velvet ribbon and the skin of his throat and neck was sun-browned after their weeks of Indian summer in the country. She said slowly, appreciatively, ”I give you good evening, your grace.”
Jack came over to the bath and stood looking down at her, his eyes hooded. ”A most delightful sight,” he murmured. ”All dewy, pink, and delicate, like a rosebud waiting to open . . . or be opened.” A lazy smile curved his fine mouth.
He knelt beside the tub, rolling his s.h.i.+rtsleeves to his elbows, making of each turn a sensual, languid movement full of a promise that made her blood run swift and sent a jolt of antic.i.p.ation through her loins.
In the same languid manner he took up a sprig of lavender and laid it in the center of her forehead, drawing an imaginary line down over her nose, her lips, into the dimple on her chin, and then down over her throat, lingering in the hollow, where the pulse now beat with erratic speed. Slowly he continued to draw the line down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s that rose above the water, their dark crowns erect.
b.u.t.terflies of delight began dancing in her belly as he carefully planted the sprig of lavender in her navel and began to roll one nipple between finger and thumb, tipping her chin with his free hand as he kissed her-his lips at first hard, then soft, melting against her mouth, his tongue flirting with hers in a tantalizing game of catch as catch can. Slowly he raised his head, looking down into her flushed countenance, her lips full and red from his kiss, her eyes all golden fire.
Lilly's image flashed across his mind's eye, her porcelain skin lightly touched with pink, the china-blue eyes, the eager red mouth, but the perfection of her complexion, the warm redness of her mouth came from powder and rouge. Her eyebrows were plucked and drawn into perfect arches, Arabella's dark eyebrows were uncompromisingly thick, strong, and straight. He licked his thumb and smoothed her brows with careful strokes, before bending to kiss the tip of her nose.
Arabella was aware of a slight s.h.i.+ft of mood. Suddenly she wondered if he'd come straight to her from his mistress's bed. She sat up in the tub, drawing her knees beneath her chin, and regarded him questioningly.
”What is it, love?” He smiled at her, but with some puzzlement.
”I felt suddenly that you weren't looking at me but at somebody else,” she said obliquely. ”It was an odd sensation . . . uncomfortable . . .”
He looked at her in silence for a long minute. And he saw the others who too often crowded in on his mind when he was with his wife. Charlotte, always, and so often Frederick. Their shadows lay over Arabella as they lay over him.
Arabella worried at her lower lip before saying, ”I really don't know you at all, Jack.”
No, he thought. Not at all. But she was an innocent among the shadows. Somehow he must learn to see her only for herself.
With sinking heart, Arabella recognized the closed look that always gave her the sense that he'd gone somewhere far away, a place into which she could not follow.
And then it vanished and his eyes were warm again, his mouth a soft sensual curve. He rested his hands on the edge of the tub and leaned into her, kissing her mouth. ”I'm in no mood for distractions, my sweet,” he murmured against her lips, his tongue demanding entry.
She yielded, her lips parting, her tongue dancing with his. He moved a hand to press her gently back beneath the water and she straightened her knees, sliding down, resting her head on the side of the bath, her hair cl.u.s.tering damply on the nape of her neck.
All her senses were now centered on the part of her body that for the moment held all his attention. His hand played a light skillful tune over her s.e.x, parting the swollen lips, gently rubbing and nipping until she could hold the conflagration at bay no longer. She heard her own soft cry. It seemed a long time before she came back to full awareness of her self in her skin. The warm water laved her acutely sensitized flesh and her eyes stayed closed as her breathing settled.
”Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Jack murmured, splas.h.i.+ng water over her in a refres.h.i.+ng shower that cooled her heated skin. She opened her eyes slowly and then her gaze became fixed upon him as he rose to his feet and stripped off his s.h.i.+rt, britches, and stockings. Naked and powerfully aroused, he stood over her.
”Oh, I'm awake,” she whispered.