Читать книгу Secrets of a Gentleman Escort - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 10

Chapter Three

She wanted the wedding night, the honeymoon; the pleasure of lovers learning one another for the first time, savouring one another in both body and mind. It was one of the more difficult scenarios to enact. The trick was to create an intimacy that went beyond the physical without exposing oneself to feelings. He dealt in sex, not intimacy, by preference.

Up in his room, Nicholas opened his valise, the one piece of luggage he’d not let the footman assigned to act as his valet unpack. Nicholas surveyed the tools of his trade with a contemplative sigh, laying them out on the dressing table in his room like a surgeon preparing his scalpels and saws: the tiny glass vials of scented oils, the expensive imported sheaths from France made of thinnest lambskin, the silk ribbons, the soft feathers. Often, he used them as much for him as his clients. All were designed with one goal in mind: physical pleasure. They were his insurance that he could please even when he wasn’t all that interested in a woman. With the right woman, though, they could be extraordinary.

There was no question of delivering the physical adventure Annorah sought. The other, the sharing of a mind, would be more difficult. He was a guarded person by nature. Drawing others out had been an early acquired skill of his. It had served double duty as a means of learning others and as a means of protecting himself. When people were busy talking about themselves, they had little time to wonder about him.

Nicholas tucked the items into a bureau drawer, carefully hidden among cravats. Librarians did not carry feathers and ribbons with them. He smiled. A librarian? That was a new one. He’d pretended to be a lot of things before, whatever his clients needed. In the process, he’d become an adept chameleon. In this line of work, a person did a lot of pretending, which wasn’t all bad especially when the fantasy was better than a reality full of debt and worry and even guilt.

There was no place for those feelings here. He pushed those thoughts away and shut the clasp firmly. His mental efforts would be better spent planning his strategy. He would not need these tools this evening. She was not ready in spite of her words to the contrary.

He’d sensed her nervousness from the start, as if she couldn’t believe someone had actually answered her letter. He’d touched her immediately and often after that, bowing over her hand with a kiss, keeping a hand on her at all times as they strolled. She’d been skittish and he’d feared she might change her mind, a prospect he could not afford now that the money had been mentally allocated in his mind by the time he left London.

He understood full well the power of touch to ensure acceptance. In his experience, people were far more likely to do what he wanted if he touched them while asking. By the time they’d returned to the house and he’d garnered her pledge, she’d started to thaw.

Not that she was cold or that she wasn’t pleasantly disposed towards him. He’d seen the race of her pulse when she’d sighted him in the hall. He’d noted the blush on her cheeks in the garden when they’d discussed the iris. She knew very well the way of things. But the codes of decency had been drilled into her head over the years and, as much as she wanted to cast them off ever so briefly, it was proving to be more difficult than she’d likely anticipated. Well, he could certainly help her with that. What he really wanted to know was why? Why had she written the letter?

Nicholas moved to the bed and stretched out his long form, tucking his hands behind his head. He had two hours before dinner and he needed to use them to think. He mapped the evening in his head like a general before battle. Tonight’s arena would be the dinner table. That was easy enough. There were myriad ways to stroke the stem of a goblet, to cup its bowl, to eat one’s food and drink one’s wine that stimulated sexual interest, all the while talking, drawing her out, getting her to relax, to think of him more as a man than a machine who’d been sent to fulfil a need.

His goal tonight was twofold. For her sake, he wanted to dispel any sense of artifice about their association. For his, he wanted to figure out what had driven Annorah to write such a letter. More than that, why had such a letter even been necessary?

A request of this nature was not made idly. He thought of the pistols packed in his bags and ran through the usual reasons. Was this an act of revenge on her part? Would there be people who would resent her decision? It would not be the first time a woman had tried to avoid an unwanted marriage in this way. These arrangements were seldom straightforward.

The letter itself had been unremarkable. He’d studied it line by meagre line on the way here. There had been little to offer in the way of clues. The line about enjoying the countryside had made him laugh at the irony. The word quiet was a bit more insightful. What did it signify? Was she a recluse? Did she actually prefer the solitude of the country, unimaginable as such a concept was? Simple deduction made that an easy scenario to discard. It was hard to imagine a recluse, someone who deliberately shunned the company of others, requiring a conversationalist. Upon arrival, he’d been proven correct. He had to discard that notion even if the logic hadn’t fallen short. She might have been nervous, but she wasn’t a recluse.

Nick considered another option. Had she been forced into seclusion? Was she someone who had been abandoned to anonymity? Someone craving human contact? Perhaps that was too extreme. Sussex was hardly the ends of the earth. It was a mere five hours from London. Surely a woman with a thousand pounds to spend on five nights of pleasure could afford to come to London if she so chose.

That was the other thing that niggled. Motive. London had its own plans for women possessed of a fortune. It was called the Marriage Mart and it would certainly resolve any penchant for intimacy by providing an heiress with a husband; especially London in June. The city was teeming with men looking for money and marriage. It called to mind the line from the Austen novel his female acquaintances were so fond of: ‘A single man in possession of a good fortune must also be in want of a wife’, or something like that. In this case, a woman in possession of a fortune was an odd thing indeed without a husband.

If she was not naturally reclusive or forced to seclusion, that left option three: she was in the country by choice. Of all the scenarios, this was the most mysterious. Why would anyone choose the countryside if they didn’t have to? Why would someone choose to engage in paid intimacies with a stranger when a potential marriage awaited just five hours down the road?

There were only so many reasons a rich woman would refuse London and none of them was good, especially when the major reason would have been looks and that was clearly not the case with Annorah. He could rule that out.

Ugly would have been a problem for him. It was a selfish, petty wish, he knew, but he was used to beautiful. Most of the women who could afford him hadn’t been ugly. They’d merely been curious about what should have been theirs by right of marriage, something a conscientious husband should have provided Fortunately, Annorah Price-Ellis had turned out to be attractive with a quiet, understated beauty. She’d drawn his eye immediately, a splash of colour amid the elegant austerity of the entry hall.

She had struck him as a nature goddess when they’d strolled in the garden. He’d used the time to take in her features: the soft curve of cheek giving her face a delicate cast, the sharp mossy green of her eyes, reminiscent of a rich field of summer grass, and the wheat blonde of her hair, which argued to be the colour of wild honey when wet, a hypothesis he wouldn’t mind testing. There’d been curves, too, beneath the muslin with long legs, narrow waist and a high, full bosom. No, Annorah Price-Ellis was definitely not a hag. Which only furthered the mystery. How did a lovely, rich woman arrive at this point?

There was only one way to find out. Nicholas rang for the valet. It was time to dress for dinner and tonight he wanted to give his toilette thorough consideration. The man assigned to him was a young fellow named Peter, who had some talent for the job, if not experience. If the valet thought it was odd for a librarian to linger over his toilette, then so be it. In the end, the two of them turned him out quite finely in a dark evening suit, paisley waistcoat of rich lavenders and blues and a well-tied osbaldeston knot in his cravat that had taken only two tries.

Nicholas dismissed Peter and took a final look in the mirror, checking to see that the diamond stick pin in his cravat was exposed enough to catch the light, that his coat was smooth across the shoulders, that his hair was neatly tied back with a subtle black ribbon. Longer hair might not be the trend preferred by society in the ballrooms, but it was amazing how many women loved it in the bedrooms.

Satisfied with his appearance, Nicholas closed his eyes and drew in a breath. Let the seduction begin. No matter what ghosts the country raised against him, he could do this. He would make love to Miss Price-Ellis as if everything depended on it. Because it did.

* * *

He was waiting for her in the drawing room, having followed the gentleman’s dictate that no lady should have to remain alone in anxious anticipation for a guest’s arrival. He was casually posed, elegantly dressed, the dark evening clothes a marked contrast to the white of the marble. A pre-prandial drink, partially consumed, dangled negligently in one hand, his gaze fixed on the windows and the display of green gardens beyond. He turned at the sound of her entrance, the quiet click of her low-heeled slippers and the soft whisper of skirts giving her away.

‘You have a lovely home. I was just admiring the view.’ The hand holding the glass gestured towards the long windows to indicate the gardens, but his eyes held hers, suggesting he was appreciating another view entirely.

A delicious shot of warmth spread through her at the frank assessment. She’d spent an hour agonising over which gown to wear before summoning her maid and deciding on the lavender chiffon. Apparently the effort had been worth it. ‘Thank you. Hartshaven was designed to be appreciated. It was meant to be a showcase for beauty.’

‘It certainly is.’ His smile deepened, exposing the dimple at the left corner of his mouth.

Good lord, could he turn every comment into a veiled compliment? What could she do but forge ahead and take it all in her stride? Annorah moved to the window and motioned for him to join her. She tried to redirect the conversation on to more neutral ground, ground that would be less likely to leave her feeling flushed and so focused on the night to come that her tongue was tied. ‘My great-grandfather had the initial gardens laid out by Kent and Bridgeman.’

‘I recognise the styling.’ He stood close at her shoulder. She could smell the faint undertones of his cologne; the lemon and fougère creating the scent of a summer fantasy, perfect for a night like this. She did not think a man had ever smelled this good. She was so intent on smelling him, discreetly of course, that she nearly missed his conversation.

‘I’ve had the good fortune of visiting at Chiswick House. Burlington’s gardens are exquisite, as are yours.’

Chiswick? That grabbed her wandering attention. Annorah couldn’t resist a sideways glance at her companion. Chiswick House was the domain of the Earl of Burlington. Nicholas D’Arcy, whoever he was, ran in vaunted circles if he was calling there.

He caught her glance before she could look away and smiled. ‘Surprised?’

‘I hardly know you. I think anything would count as a surprise at this point.’ Her tone was sharper than she had intended but she was grasping for any point of defence now. Hardly knowing him was not stopping her pulse from racing, or her mind’s apparent desire to hang on his every word. When she’d begun this, she’d counted on logic to protect her from any depth of emotional response. That strategy was clearly going to fail.

‘Touché.’ He reached for her hand and tucked it through his arm, his touch igniting little jolts. ‘We’ll rectify that over dinner.’ He nodded in a direction past her shoulder. ‘I think your butler is ready to announce the meal.’

Plumsby cleared his throat, drawing her attention for the first time. She’d been so riveted on Nicholas she hadn’t noticed his arrival. ‘Dinner is served.’

‘I’ve had Plumbsy lay the meal out in the informal dining room,’ Annorah said, glad to have something of proprietary to say. She was sounding less and less like a hostess with every minute, which was not how she’d imagined this interlude. When she’d pictured it, she’d cast herself in the role of the sophisticate, taking the lead in their encounters, commanding every social nuance. It was easy to see the flaw in her reasoning against the black-tie élan of his town bronze. She hadn’t half the polish he had. Annorah hoped her dining room did.

The room did not disappoint. It looked out on to the back veranda and the staff had set it to perfection. Of course, they thought it was a business dinner to discuss the library, but they still wanted their home to look its best. And it did. The rose shades of summer twilight filtered through the panes of the French doors, bathing the cream walls in dusky hues, but it was the table in the room’s centre that drew all eyes. Two tall white tapers stood like sentinels in their silver-candlestick holders atop pristine white linen, flames flickering an invitation. A bowl of yellow roses from the garden sat between them on the round table. In complement to the yellow roses, her favorite Wedgwood pattern of blue flowers was laid out in two place settings with slim goblets and silver. Cold champagne rested in a chilled bucket.

Two footmen seated them and Plumsby removed the covers, presenting the meal, but that would be all the service she required. She’d already made it clear to Plumsby they meant to dine casually, serving themselves from the dishes on the table. Plumsby had protested, but she’d argued all the fuss for one guest was hardly worth it. Since that guest was a ‘librarian’ there to do a job, Plumsby had eventually conceded the point.

‘Shall I?’ Nicholas reached for the bottle of champagne, uncorking it in a deft movement with the merest of pops. He poured the glasses and turned his attention to the chicken, applying the same dexterity to carving that he had to champagne. Effortlessly, he filled their plates with roasted chicken and salad greens. Gentleman born or not, he was skilled in the art of the dining room, offering her the best of everything the table had to offer. It made him all the more intriguing, all the more mysterious. What sort of man kept the company of Chiswick House, dined with the manners of a well-heeled peer and found himself at a socially retiring woman’s table under these circumstances? Goodness knew with looks and manners like his he would have been welcome anywhere.

‘A toast, Annorah.’ He raised his flute. ‘To summer evenings and new friendships.’

Their glasses touched in a satisfying chime of crystal against crystal. She sipped and let the cold liquid run down her throat. She loved champagne and could certainly afford to drink it every night, but it seemed a sin to drink alone—although in retrospect it seemed a very small sin compared to the one she’d commit tonight. She groped for something to say. Perhaps she should have spent as much time thinking of conversational topics as she had selecting a dress. She’d never learn anything about him at this rate. She had to try. Annorah settled on the one topic that came to mind.

‘Are you an aficionado of gardens, then?’

‘I’m an aficionado of many beautiful things, gardens among them.’ His hand slid idly up and down the stem of his goblet. On another man she might not have noticed the gesture. With him, she could hardly pull her eyes away.

‘What else do you admire?’

He smiled. ‘I admire you, Annorah.’

She looked down at her plate, flushing. She hadn’t blushed this much in years. Perhaps her social skills were more out of shape than she’d thought. ‘You are not required to say such things. Besides, you hardly know me well enough to come to any sort of conclusion.’

‘Do you think I don’t mean it? I assure you, I do. I’ve spent the afternoon being treated to this lovely home and I beg to differ with your assessment. An estate is often a reflection of its owner. You can tell a lot about a person by the state of his or her surroundings. I sense there is a story in you, Annorah, and I would love to hear it. How is it that you’ve come to be here?’

She met his gaze with a sharp look over her champagne. ‘Is that the polite way of asking how I’ve reached the august age of thirty-two alone?’

Nicholas laughed and leaned back in his chair. ‘What a prickly creature you are! Are you always this cynical? Since we’ve sat down to dine you’ve accused me of being insincere with my flattery and when I have sincerely enquired as to your history, you believe me rude. You present me with quite the conundrum.’

Oh, lord, she had. He was right. She’d been so worried about playing the decent hostess and at the first opportunity she’d performed poorly. She studied her half-eaten meal, gathering her thoughts. ‘I must apologise. I have little experience at this.’

He leaned forwards again, this time capturing her hand where it lay on the tablecloth. ‘No apology necessary. I find conundrums refreshing.’ He winked. ‘Have some more champagne. It will help and perhaps we’ll try again.’ He was tracing sensual circles in the palm of her hand that were both relaxing and stimulating.

No man had ever touched her as he did or so often. She’d been intimately aware of him since his arrival: the casual touch of her hand on his sleeve, the feel of his hand at her back, all of it legitimate. Gentlemen touched ladies like that all the time. She’d been touched like that, but not with these results, not with a pleasant warmth spreading through her, a tingling heat filling her belly and lower. Oh, no, most certainly never like this.

‘Now, Annorah, tell me your story. I want to know how you’ve come to be the queen of all this.’ He poured more champagne with his free hand.

‘I grew up here and I never left, not for long anyway.’ She took a sip from her glass. He was right—the champagne did help. She hardly ever talked about her family. It had been a good family once, but it had fallen due to time and circumstance, leaving her with a legacy that was about to end soon, a situation she was rather loath to recollect, a potent reminder that she was about to lose all this unless she sold her soul in marriage to a man she didn’t love.

‘Why?’ He coaxed with his voice, with his touch, with the sincerity of his gaze. Even the room conspired against her, the candlelight creating intimacy in the deepening darkness.

‘Because it was home, and the people I loved were here. Hartshaven hasn’t always been an empty house.’ She had not meant to talk of herself or to reveal so much that couldn’t possibly matter, that had no bearing on the job he’d come to do. But once started, she couldn’t help herself.

The stories fed upon themselves, encouraged by Nicholas’s laughter and the occasional nod of his head. She told him of her family: her grandfather and grandmother, her parents, her cousins who had come to visit in the summers. She did not tell him of her aunt. Her aunt had no place in happy stories.

Those summers had stories of their own: days of roaming the meadows, fishing in streams and endless games of hide and seek in the gardens. The memories leapt to life as she talked. Merry ghosts of the past peopled her stories: the laughter of her cousins shrieking as they ran through the gardens; the patience of her grandfather teaching them to fish in the cold river. Everything was alive again—messy and vivid, and she was alive with it, no longer sitting at dinner with a stranger, but with a man who’d become a friend in a very short time; a friend she didn’t know much about, but a friend none the less.

‘What happened?’ Nicholas poured the last of the champagne. Dear heavens had they drunk so much already or had they been at the table that long?

‘What always happens. We grew up and time moved on.’ The merry ghosts she’d conjured receded. The candles burned low. ‘I would give anything to have it all back. What about you? How have you arrived at this point?’ The question was bold. That was the champagne talking, but it had been talking all night.

‘I think the future holds infinite promise.’ Nicholas drained his glass and set it aside with a sense of finality. He rose and held out his hand to her. ‘Come with me.’

Annorah set her glass down slowly, all her thoughts coalescing around his words and what they meant. This was it! He would lead her upstairs and bed her. She rose and took his hand somewhat woodenly. Now that the moment was upon her, the impending act suddenly seemed an empty conclusion to the fullness of their conversation and the friend was a stranger once again, the spell broken.