A very wicked christmas, p.14
A Very Wicked Christmas, page 14
~ * ~
Jane stalked down the corridor, clutching the book as if it were a weapon to knock that stupid Lord Staves on the head. Just because she had indeed been considering marriage, it didn’t mean she would allow herself to be pushed into it. How dare he?
If there was one thing she abhorred, it was forced marriages. Her mother and father had been betrothed from birth by well-meaning parents, and had never got on well. Two of her friends had been shoved into distasteful marriages for financial reasons. A cousin had been compromised by a man who wanted her only for her money. Jane did not intend to follow the same path.
On the other hand, she wasn’t such a fool as to dismiss the advantages of marrying the heir of Staves. She slowed, taking her time. She had to rein in her temper before she joined Lady Staves in the breakfast parlor. She didn’t intend to discuss this with her ladyship, or with anyone else for that matter, until she’d thought it through.
If she married Gentry…it would be mighty unpleasant at first, here under the thumb of that old tyrant, but he wouldn’t live forever. She would have the company of her dear godmother, and she would eventually become mistress of one of the greatest estates in the land. Never mind that her taste ran more to modest manor houses…
First things first: speak to Lord Gentry. If he was being forced into this, she wouldn’t marry him, regardless of the consequences. If, from his point of view, it was one convenient marriage versus another, and he wasn’t averse to marrying her, she would have to seriously consider it. He was a kind-hearted man who supported charities and was unfailingly considerate and polite—excellent characteristics in a husband.
Second, and rather more complicated: She’d been pondering marriage not for mercenary reasons—she had enough money of her own to avoid marriage altogether—but because of those dreams, those growing sensual longings. Would they be satisfied if she wedded Gentry?
He was good-looking; all the Oakenhursts were. But she’d never thought of him that way. One would have to be strongly attracted to a man to contemplate such intimacy with him. To imagine doing with him what she did with the lover in her dreams…
She grew hot all over at the memory of her dream lover. She had almost reached the breakfast room; she stopped and fanned herself.
“Overheated, in this frigid barracks of a house?”
It was that Mr. Pilgrim again. How did he manage to make so little noise? She turned, scowling at him. “Kindly cease creeping up behind me like that!” How embarrassing to be caught in the act. The act of thinking, not actually doing, but…
“I didn’t creep, my lady. Perhaps you are a little deaf.”
“I am certainly not deaf,” she protested. He grinned, and instead of receding decently, the heat flooded her again.
In spite of the beard, he had a most attractive smile.
Which was irrelevant. She took hold of herself and went into the breakfast parlor. Three ladies sat around the table, boxing fruitcakes, filling small sacks with grain and tying them with ribbons, and measuring tea leaves into little tins made just for this purpose.
“Ah, there you are, Jane,” Lady Staves said. “You know Miss Devoe, but have you met Miss Tripp, the vicar’s daughter?”
Jane smiled at Miss Devoe, Lady Staves’ starchy companion, and shook hands with Miss Tripp. She looked to be in her late twenties, neither pretty nor plain, with mouse-brown hair and a no-nonsense air. “I beg your pardon, but is there a new vicar? I hadn’t heard.”
“Only temporarily,” Lady Staves said. “Mr. Smith took a leave of absence to visit his ailing sister, and the archbishop sent his cousin, Mr. Tripp, to take his place. Most convenient, I must say, for Mr. Smith wouldn’t have risked offending my husband by performing the ceremony. I’m most grateful to Mr. Tripp.”
Miss Devoe pursed her lips disapprovingly—or rather, pursed them more than usual.
Something about Miss Tripp seemed vaguely familiar. “Have we met before, perhaps?” Jane asked. “In London?”
“That’s where Papa and I live, but I don’t have much time for ladylike pursuits. As the daughter of a widowed vicar, it falls to me to work with him amongst the poor.” Miss Tripp sighed. “It’s wearing work, and most kind of the archbishop to send Papa here for a fortnight. Christmas in the countryside—how wonderful.”
Jane wished she felt the same way. She would rather be in her cozy London home, even with Auntie G constantly urging marriage, or at any house party but this one.
“We arrived only a few days ago,” Miss Tripp went on. “Unfortunately, the vicarage is rather in disarray—problems with the drains.”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “How unfortunate.”
“Not really, as it chances,” Miss Tripp said with a twinkle. “This morning after the wedding, Lady Staves kindly invited me to stay here over Christmas.”
“Delighted to have you, my dear. The more young people the better.” Lady Staves cast her eyes over the table. “All we need now are some bunches of rosemary, which Lettice promised to cut and tie for me…” She paused uneasily, a little silver shovel in her hand. “I suppose she may be otherwise occupied, since theoretically she and Hadrian are now on their honeymoon.”
Theoretically, indeed. Jane couldn’t think of a worse location for lovers to consummate their marriage than Staves Court. Although perhaps they had already done so—Lettice wasn’t your usual blushing bride. It must be so much easier to go into marriage with some experience behind one.
Or at least a little knowledge. Apart from the obvious, she was woefully ignorant of such matters, and the dreams made her feel even more so. Were they simply phantoms of her imagination, or was carnal knowledge truly as delightful in real life?
“Perhaps I could ask Gentry to cut it.” Lady Staves scooped up some tea and poured it into a tin. “He spends a great deal of time in the gardens, so he will know.”
“I don’t believe he’s here, my lady,” said Miss Tripp. “I saw him riding away a few minutes ago.” She motioned toward the window. “Galloping, actually.”
Not a good sign, thought Jane.
“Would you mind going out to the herb garden to fetch it, Jane?” asked Lady Staves. Her brows drew together. “Although since it was to be Lettice’s contribution…”
“I wouldn’t wish to offend Lettice,” Jane said. “I’m sure she wants to help out.” A faint twitch of Miss Devoe’s nose indicated her disagreement. Miss Tripp politely showed no reaction.
“I expect you’re right, but on the other hand, one hesitates to disturb a newly-married couple,” said Lady Staves.
“I’ll do it,” said a male voice behind Jane.
She whirled, muffling a shriek. You again?
“Mr. Pilgrim, I didn’t realize you were here.” Lady Staves smiled.
He bowed, his eyes traveling around the table and settling on Miss Tripp. “I don’t believe…”
“Oh, have you not met Miss Tripp yet?” She introduced them.
“My pleasure,” Mr. Pilgrim said, and turned to his hostess. “It won’t take but a minute, my lady, to run upstairs and check on them. Either they are,” he said, hands clasping together, “or,” as his hands separated again, “they aren’t.”
Jane felt the blush roaring up her cheeks at what he’d just indicated—no different from what Lady Staves had implied, but… She glanced about. Miss Devoe was more pinched than ever, but again Miss Tripp’s face remained politely blank.
The marchioness laughed. “Naughty boy. Do please go and find out.” Pause. “Whether Lettice wishes to gather rosemary, nothing else.”
“Will do.” He winked—cheeky man—and left.
“Sorry if he offends you, Jane, but I rather like him,” Lady Staves said. “He’s helpful and considerate, and at the same time not afraid to amuse an elderly lady with a warm joke or two. He’s knowledgeable about all sorts of things. We had a delightful conversation about fashions in furniture the other night, and he was most efficient this morning, bundling us out of the house before my husband had the least notion what was going on. He even promised to prevent Staves from entering the church, if he should happen to follow us with the intention of objecting.” She blinked. “I don’t know how he could have done so without using violent means, but it was kind of him to offer.”
“Mr. Pilgrim doesn’t offend me, precisely,” Jane said. “He’s just…unusual. Who is he, by the way?”
“A scholar, as I told you, and well-respected, according to Hadrian. From the Welsh marches, a scion of the Shrewsbury family.”
Respectable enough then, if rather odd.
“His presence is actually a godsend—just the sort of man to make up the numbers when needed and bow out gracefully when not. He seems not in the least daunted by a more exclusive environment than he’s accustomed to.”
No, Jane would not have used the word daunted to describe Mr. Pilgrim. She took her place at the table. “What would you have me do?”
Lady Staves pushed some spools of ribbon and a pair of scissors across to her. “Cut some ribbon to tie up the cake boxes. You’d better take a box too, to get the length right. Not the red—that’s for the rosemary.”
And rosemary’s for remembrance, thought Jane, which was irrelevant—merely one of those quotations which spring automatically to mind—and yet she had the strangest feeling that there was something she should remember.
~ * ~
What in God’s name was Amabel Tripp doing here? And her father too, apparently, occupying the vicarage.
Colwyn didn’t for one moment believe that story about drains. The master wanted her inside Staves, and so she was. She wasn’t a succubus, but an ordinary operative, and her story of working amongst the London poor was true as far as it went. The plain, sober daughter of the vicar of a local parish could go almost anywhere without question—perfect cover for a spy. Her birth was good; she was related to several of the aristocratic houses of England. Her behavior depended on whoever she was cozening at the time.
Maybe the archbishop really had sent her father for a change of scene—a holiday of sorts from his grim London parish. Maybe she’d just come along to enjoy a country Christmas.
Yes, and maybe hedgehogs flew.
~ * ~
Lettice came down to cut the rosemary and stayed to tie the bundles, and the rest of the day passed in busy preparation for the morrow. More guests arrived—Lord Billing, an elderly peer, with his wife and daughter, and Mr. Bury, one of Hadrian’s cronies from town. Dinner wasn’t exactly comfortable, what with the comments and congratulations of Mr. Bury contrasting the darkling looks cast by Lord Staves at Hadrian, and the frankly hateful ones he directed at Lettice.
Jane tried to gauge Viscount Gentry’s mood. He was a rather grave man, unfailingly pleasant and polite, and the unfortunate butt of jests because of his slavish obedience to his father. One might think him stupid or spiritless, but quite the contrary; he was known and respected for his support of orphanages and charity schools in the poorest parts of London.
He would doubtless be a kind and worthy husband, but an interesting one? She couldn’t even manage to catch his eye. Was he avoiding her, or merely being his usual impassive self? She’d never tried to catch his eye before, so it was hard to tell.
This evasion—whether habitual or intentional—made it impossible for her to imagine herself in intimate relations with him. Why couldn’t he be more like…Mr. Bury, for example? He was a cheerful sort of man—she’d danced with him several times at recent balls—and since she was sitting next to him with nothing better to do than fret, she imagined him as a prospective husband instead.
My, my. Now, this was much better. Mr. Bury had a most pleasant masculine aroma, and the thought of kissing him proved unexpectedly enticing. His fingers were a little too long and thin for her taste, though, and she experienced no more than a twinge of interest, quickly dispelled, at the thought of those hands exploring her.
She had never thought of hands in such a vivid way before. She let her gaze roam around the table, past Lord Billing (married and too old), Lord Staves (married, too old, and altogether disgusting), Lord Hadrian (married, but that didn’t stop her from noticing his competent-looking hands), Mr. Flinders, the chaplain (too old and too earnest), Lord Gentry (fidgeting with his fork, then with his napkin, then with his cravat; was this habitual?), Mr. Pilgrim…
The scholar was in the acting of retrieving Lady Billing’s shawl, which had slipped onto the floor. He stood and placed it gently around her shoulders.
Now, that was an excellent pair of hands… Desire swarmed up inside her, and desperately she coughed, pretending to choke. She must be red as a holly berry! Mr. Flinders kindly patted her on the back. “All right now, Lady Jane?”
She snatched her napkin and passed it over her lips. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine now.” She took a gulp of wine.
What was it about Mr. Pilgrim? She didn’t even know what he really looked like, because of that beard, and yet he had the oddest effect on her.
At last they all trooped up to bed. She was unusually tired—from the journey, the upheaval in the household and the attendant unpleasant emotions, and the ultimatum from Lord Staves. She wondered how much power his lordship really had to ruin her reputation. Not a breath of scandal had ever touched her, but that might make people latch even more firmly and gleefully to a story that she’d been spotted at a brothel.
Drat and double drat. She’d been an idiot to take that wager, years ago. She’d been so driven at the time, moved to wildness by the same longings that now filled her dreams. Moved to utter folly, but she wasn’t a green girl anymore. She was now a sensible woman who understood the reason for those yearnings and intended to do something about them.
And not just in her dreams.
~ * ~
By the time dinner was over, Colwyn concluded that he had indeed done himself a disservice by sending dreams to Lady Jane whilst in London. Judging by the way she’d ogled the other fellows tonight, he’d warmed her up a little too well. If she was sufficiently desperate for sexual contact, she might do something wild. Fling herself at that fellow Bury, for example—he’d noted the appreciation in her eyes. Or, because of her straight-laced upbringing, force herself on Gentry instead, thereby clinching the deal.
What a pity he couldn’t get rid of the other fellows. He wasn’t a good man—spies generally weren’t—but in a proper courtship, one didn’t dispose of one’s rivals by violent means. Instead, he would move his plans forward a day or two, direct the course of her dreams, and render her utterly helpless when he made his move.
~ * ~
The dream crept up on Jane. She’d been lazing on a dream-lawn, enjoying a warm dream-afternoon, when suddenly her lover’s heavy, male weight lay atop her, his knee pushed her legs apart, and his hard male shaft prodded at her.
“No,” she whispered, “this isn’t right, it isn’t proper. What if someone sees us?”
He laughed and bit her ear, then pressed kisses, one, two, three, to her chin, her throat, her collarbone. He trailed a hot tongue lower. She moaned and pushed her breast upward, demanding more. He suckled her breast, and she moaned again, desperate with desire.
No! She would be ruined. “I mean it!” Her whisper became frantic; she pushed at him. “We can’t do it out here.”
Oh, did that mean they could do it elsewhere? Golden thrills rampaged through her at the thought. In her bed, tangling in the sheets, skin to hot skin…?
“Here, there, anywhere. We can do whatever we like in your dreams.” He bent to suckle her other breast and then ran his tongue down to her navel.
How had she come to be naked?
Oh, how she reveled in her nakedness, in the slick heat of their bodies moving together… When had that happened? A second ago, she’d been pushing him away. They were in her bed now, but the door was open. She peered over his shoulder. What was the door doing next to the fireplace?
What did it matter? She writhed beneath him and burst into climax, crying out, heart thudding, privates throbbing, and woke upon his final words. “It will be even better when you’re awake.” The door by the fireplace closed with a click.
She pushed up on her elbows, blinking in the dark room. There was no lover, no door, just a quiet bedchamber. She heaved a sigh and lay back again, savoring the remains of her climax.
Well. That was far more vivid than the dreams she’d had at home. Better when awake? Of course, because it would be real.
She needed a genuine lover. A husband, in fact. In the meantime, she wasn’t the least bit sleepy anymore, but she knew how to remedy that. The room was frigid; luckily she wasn’t actually naked. She pulled on warm stockings, stuck her feet into a pair of slippers, bundled herself into a thick dressing gown, and went downstairs to the kitchen.
~ * ~
From the priest’s hole directly behind Jane’s room, Colwyn heard her cry.
Hmm, it seemed she was going to be a bit of a screamer. And moaner. He enjoyed loud, boisterous coupling. Or slow, quiet lovemaking. Or fast and furious...
Ah, hell. He loved it whichever way. He’d enjoyed bringing her to orgasm through her dream, but it was a bit unsatisfying from where he lurked in the priest’s hole. However, taking care of his erection himself wasn’t much fun, so he would just have to wait.
The passage to this hiding place led within a few yards to a staircase, which followed a chimney and ended behind some shelves in the scullery, of all places. He made his way slowly down the stairs, reached the section of shelves that opened, and listened.
Silence. He pushed the shelves an inch or two. Damn, there was a light in the kitchen, much more than that provided by the glow from the banked coals in the hearth. Someone was muttering curses under his breath—oh, Viscount Gentry. He didn’t have an interesting vocabulary of obscenities—just the same few boring ones, over and over. If that was the result of being excessively obedient, Colwyn was damned glad he wasn’t.
