Debauchery and the Earl, page 7
Andre de Talley did not appear until almost teatime, having ridden from London on the horse Calton had lent him, with his modest luggage, presumably, in his saddle bags. Annoyingly, since pall mall was over, Calton could only watch from his bedchamber window, unable to see the reaction of Helena Blackwell.
Tea was served in a pleasant salon that caught the late afternoon sun through its large French windows leading onto the terrace.
“Why, Calton, what a pleasure,” Selina Reddington drawled as soon as he walked in. “Still not made it to France?”
“Are you pushing me out of the country, ma’am?” Calton inquired, bowing over her hand.
“Hardly, my lord! Come, sit by me and tell me how you know the Wennings. I expect you were also at the feet of the incomparable Grace?”
“I still am,” Calton said. He would have moved to collect a cup of tea from his hostess, using that as an excuse to ignore Selina’s invitation. However, Lady Wenning’s helpful new sister-in-law, Lady Darblay, ferried it to him with a smile, leaving him with no civil option but to smile and sit beside Selina.
Gough, he saw with irritation, had already positioned himself between the Blackwell sisters. At least Talley, who had clearly changed with haste from his riding attire and washed the dust of the road from his person, sat on Helena’s other side. Calton could not resist glancing at Josephine, who was smiling faintly and deliberately, he suspected, not looking at him while she listened to Gough.
“A penny for them,” Selina said lightly.
“My thoughts? Worthless, I assure you.” He returned his considering gaze to her. “I’m surprised to see you here, too. I would not have thought this your kind of party.”
“Too serious for me?” Selina suggested, apparently amused. “Grace was not always so serious, if you recall. We were close once.” She lowered her voice. “Though between you and me, she has grown virtuous and dull.”
“Always virtuous and never dull,” he said gently.
“Or you would have found a way through her armor?” Selina drawled.
“I wouldn’t let the vulgarity of your escort rub off on you,” he murmured. “Particularly not on the subject of your hostess. Might I pass you a scone?”
As tea progressed, he was glad to see both Blackwell sisters accompany Talley outside to the formal gardens. It began a general exodus in that direction, so Calton strolled out to observe—a new role to him.
Mr. Blackwell seemed unconcerned about his daughters being in Talley’s company, even when Josephine allowed herself to fall behind and move back toward the house leaving her sister alone with him.
Nicely done. He sauntered in her direction to tell her so, although Grace’s brother Darblay got to her a few seconds earlier. Marriage had clearly not blinded Darblay to the charms of other women, Calton thought irritably. Although on the whole, he would rather Darblay than Gough sniffing around her.
Darblay, however, did not seem to be sniffing so much as making her laugh, and Calton rather liked to see Josephine laugh. And when Darblay enthusiastically beckoned his wife to join them, Calton relaxed his vigilance and remembered that he liked all the Darblays.
“Hope,” he said suddenly, referring to the youngest sibling. “Did I not hear that Hope was married?”
“In the summer,” Lady Darblay said. “To Oatland.”
“The reclusive duke,” Calton observed. “I suppose that is why they are not here.”
Darblay grinned. “He’s not that reclusive, just pleasantly eccentric. They’re off on an extended wedding journey, so you may run into them in Europe.”
“When do you go, my lord?” Josephine asked. He probably imagined the anxiety in her voice, although she would be anxious for him to deliver the help he had promised Helena, should events here not work out as they hoped.
“After the party,” he said vaguely, though for some reason, he did not feel quite so determined about it. “When my affairs are suitably settled. Excuse me.”
*
Inevitably, after dinner, the unmarried young ladies were begged to entertain. Calton had always found this a particularly trying part of country house parties—and some Town parties, too—for there seemed to be little requirement for those displaying their accomplishments to actually possess any. He cringed for some, tried to cover his ears for most, and generally found a reason to slip away until the whole horrible cacophony had stopped.
Accordingly, he found a seat closest to the drawing room door and smiled blandly at his host when Wenning raised one sardonic eyebrow.
Rollo Darblay threw himself into the chair beside Calton, lowering himself as though trying to hide. “Fancy a game of cards?”
“I’d love one,” Calton murmured without moving, “but her ladyship would spit us both alive.”
Fortunately, the first young lady only played on the pianoforte. She played a lullaby like a march, presumably to get it over with more quickly, but at least she played the correct notes, and Calton felt his lips twitch.
“I’ve got a theory,” Darblay murmured, leaning closer during the polite applause, “that some young ladies are married solely to prevent them caterwauling in public or destroying perfectly serviceable musical instruments. It’s a kindness to society. Oh, confound it, this one’s going to sing.”
Surreptitiously, Darblay passed him two small, wrinkled pieces of linen. Calton’s breath caught on laughter when he saw Darblay casually stuff similar pieces into his own ears.
From his somewhat detached position at the back of the room, Calton watched proud and frequently tone-deaf mamas push their offspring forward to entertain. It took a while to realize that no one was pushing either of the Blackwell sisters who, presumably, knew their limitations.
It was only as the mother of the first girl began to offer the services of her daughter for a second time that Lady Darling said with a hint of desperation, “As I recall, you used to play very well, Helena. Would you not give us a last song?”
“Oh yes, we would love you to,” Grace said at once, with well-hidden relief. “Please, Miss Blackwell.”
Helena hesitated, as other voices joined in the polite pleas. She gave in gracefully, rising and smiling, though she said, “Only if Josephine will sing to cover my mistakes!”
“A duet,” Grace exclaimed. “Perfect.”
Josephine looked positively alarmed. Calton found himself holding his breath, wishing for some reason that she would refuse. As though he did not want her diminished, reduced to the status of the other indifferent performers.
Andre de Talley murmured something in her ear. Helena pulled her to her feet and dragged her toward the piano. Calton could see the older sister talking quietly and rapidly to the younger whose rigid shoulders finally relaxed, although her head bowed in apparent defeat.
Calton wanted to shout at them all, including Helena, to let her be. He wanted to haul her off to the gardens instead and watch her laugh by moonlight rather than cringe. For the first time, he was tempted to use Darblay’s earplugs, had even lifted one hand casually to his ear, when Helena began to play the pianoforte with rather more skill than most.
And then Josephine began to sing.
It was a gentle, plaintive ballad, sung in Italian, but that wasn’t what froze his hand at his ear and the breath in his body. It was Josephine’s voice, pure and clear and sweet enough to melt every bone in the room.
He lowered his hand, forcing himself to breathe, and slowly shifted his gaze to the singer. She looked straight toward the back of the room, probably at some point above his and Darblay’s heads. And he knew instinctively that she could only perform if she did not see her audience.
And she was more than good. Together, the sisters turned a sad little love song into a haunting, captivating air. Helena played with more than skill. She played with feeling. And Josephine… Emotions chased each other across her face, expressing the words of the song as eloquently as that delicious voice. Shivers ran down his spine. The hair on his neck, on his arms, prickled, and he could not look away.
Almost imperceptibly, her gaze moved, lowering slowly to Calton’s face. And his heart shattered.
Chapter Seven
Alone in Wenning’s library, with only the light of the fire and one lamp to guide him, Calton reached for the brandy once more and splashed a generous amount into his glass. He was aware he was drinking too much, but it didn’t seem to make much difference to his already befuddled brain. It certainly didn’t dull the bizarre mixture of pain and euphoria that had engulfed him when Josephine had sung. When she had sung to him.
Of course, she had not really sung to him. She had just sung, and his face had got in the way of the wall that was her first choice. But the knowledge didn’t change his feelings. He shied away from those.
The Blackwells had won delighted applause for their performance, and had even obliged with another, an amusing traditional air with a foot-tapping rhythm that had made everyone clap along and laugh. Calton suspected he had kept the same smile fixed on his face throughout. Only long service in the art of hiding his feelings had enabled him to get through the next couple of hours.
He had even given Josephine her night candle when she and Helena had retired for the evening. And then shared a late card game and a glass of brandy with several of the younger men, who had, by now, left him alone to brood with the rest of the brandy.
Music had done that to him before—dragged out to the surface the emotion he had safely buried. Grief for Francis, for his mother, fury at his father, some callow lost love he had long since forgotten. But this…it was as though Josephine had been central to the surge of emotion. It had caught everything from his past, grief, regret, joy. But mostly joy, mostly…love.
For her.
It wasn’t real, of course. It was merely a moment, inspired by her unexpectedly beautiful voice and the power of the music, and would be gone when next they met.
Really, it would.
And if it is not? What then? I go to Europe and leave her here for some snake like Gough to gobble up?
And if Gough is a snake, what am I? A rake and a bit of a scoundrel who could not be faithful to a wife if I tried. She deserves better.
So long as she gets better, and not Gough or some other…
It is not my decision. It is hers and her father’s. Nothing has happened that need make me change my plans.
And yet, he had the feeling everything had already changed, and that both appalled and excited him.
He raised the brandy to his lips and glanced up. A ghostly figure flitted past him with a book in its hand and curled up in the chair on the other side of the fire. A ghost with Josephine Blackwell’s face.
He must have stirred, for she suddenly looked right at him and her mouth fell open.
“You!”
“I was about to say the same thing.” It might not have been witty repartee but at least his words didn’t slur.
She wore only a nightgown and a thin dressing robe, her gorgeous hair tumbling free about her shoulders. “I thought the library was empty!”
“Sadly not. What is it? Could you not sleep?”
She shook her head. “No, and I couldn’t read without disturbing Helena, so I came in search of somewhere warm.”
He picked up the decanter and waved it at her. “Brandy?”
She shook her head, her smile both amused and uncertain. He wanted to wind her luxurious hair around his hand, his neck, to bury his nose and mouth there. It would feel like silk and smell like…her. Like Josephine.
“You sing beautifully. I never expected that.”
“That I might have an accomplishment?” she asked, lightly teasing.
“Not an accomplishment, a talent, a beauty. Another beauty.”
She flushed in the firelight, or at least she seemed to. “Are you drunk, my lord?”
“I should be,” he admitted, regarding his glass with disfavor. “But the god of brandy rejects my prayers.”
A frown flickered across her brow. “You were sad. While I was singing.”
“You touched my heart,” he said honestly. At least it was a welcome sign of drunkenness, although he was sober enough to wish the words unsaid.
“It is a moving song,” she allowed.
“Sung from your heart. You have hidden depths, Josephine Blackwell. Who was he?”
She blinked. “Who was who?”
“The man you loved.”
“No one. Unless you count a very passing admiration for a footman and Prince Metternich. You mistake imagination for reality.”
He didn’t think so, but he let it go. It was not his business, and he had no right to jealousy. He finished his brandy instead, knowing he should get up and leave.
She said, “I think you might be right about Talley and Helena. She was definitely pleased to see him at tea, although she said little to him. I haven’t had much chance to speak to her privately about it, though.”
He nodded, dredging up something else he had needed to say to her. “Gough. Don’t trust him. Or Selina Reddington. People like them spread gossip like poison.”
“Darling Aunt—that is my Aunt Darling—told Papa Mrs. Reddington was your mistress.” She unwound herself from the chair. “I should not have said that. I’m sorry.”
“Then why did you? Do think I’ll forget your indiscretion by morning? I won’t you know. Though for what it’s worth, Selina Reddington is not my mistress.”
“Oh.”
Did he imagine the relief in her voice? “She was once, but we parted, and that is all I will say.”
“Then why say that much?” she demanded—with some cause since it was hardly appropriate conversation for an unmarried young lady.
“Because we are friends. Because I am no saint. And because…” He broke off with a laugh. “Well, maybe that’s enough becauses.”
Now that she was sitting up straight and no longer clutched the robe closed, he could see the shape of her breasts through her nightgown. Full yet pert and unbearably alluring. Forcing himself, he brought his gaze back to her face and found her eyes wide and almost…frightened.
It was the last that gave him the impetus. He rose without a stagger. “I should leave you to your book. Good night, Miss—”
“Oh, no, you were here first.” She jumped up, grasping the robe closed once more, and the book fell to the ground.
They both bent to pick it up, but he was faster. A flattened harebell had fluttered out of it. He rose with both of them and held them out to her.
“It would not have lasted in water,” she muttered, all but snatching them. “They wilt so quickly.”
“They do,” he agreed, while a stupid, vain possibility hammered in his mind. Could the man who had inspired the emotion of her song, the man he was still sure had also inspired her love, be him?
Testing his theory, he took her free hand and bowed over it. He let his fingers trail up her palm to her wrist. Her pulse galloped. He could not stop himself from pressing his lips there, too. Her skin was so soft, scented like summer flowers and sheer Josephine.
He straightened, taking in her quick, panting breath that made her breasts rise and fall so desirably. Lust surged through him with such intensity that he knew he had to go, urgently, while he could still walk.
He would have managed it, too, had she not taken an involuntary step toward him. “Please,” she said brokenly.
“Please?” He closed his eyes against temptation, but he seemed to have lowered his head, for his face brushed against her hair and he smiled because it really did feel like silk. It smelled adorable, too, like her skin, which was warm and delicate against his lips and tasted of heat and desire. “One of us has to leave this room,” he whispered. “Quickly. Or I will kiss you. And you may need that damned pistol to make me stop.”
A gasp that was half-laughter shook her. “I couldn’t find another bullet for it.”
“What a pity,” he groaned, inhaling her breath as she moved her lips so close to his. “What a desperate, terrible pity…” And then his mouth brushed hers and sank deeply, sweetly into bliss.
*
Even before his mouth touched hers, Josephine had been incapable of walking to the door. Her insides seemed to have melted and her limbs felt like liquid lead. A sweet, heaviness sat in the pit of her stomach, radiating heat and need and pleasure. And then he kissed her.
Something like a sob escaped her lips as they opened and welcomed his. There was none of the sensual calculation of his first kiss at the hotel. This was sheer, animal instinct, hungry, raw, and utterly irresistible. Without meaning to, she pushed herself against the hard length of his body, and his powerful arms held her there, his hands running possessively up and down her back as he devoured her mouth like a starving man.
She clutched his face between her hands, drove her fingers through his hair, and kissed him back. She knew she was all emotion and no skill, but it didn’t seem to bother him, for a lustful growl vibrated from his throat into her own body. His tongue wound with hers, playing, teasing, taking, even while his hands roamed further over her hips and waist and the sides of her breasts.
She barely noticed him tug aside the robe, but she moaned as he found her breast through the thin lawn of her night rail, sweetly caressing her nipple. His open mouth left hers, dragging across her jaw to her throat, trailing kisses downward to meet his hand.
His other hand was on her rear, pulling her against his hips, which moved languidly, stroking his obvious arousal against her abdomen. His leg shifted between hers, and she gasped just as his mouth returned to hers. Her whole being seemed to be in flames, some wild, intensely physical pleasure rising, clamoring within her.
He swept her feet right off the floor. She was barely conscious of her dressing gown landing in a heap, for he strode to the sofa and sat with her in his lap. With delight as well as desperate need, she held his head to her breast while he teased it with lips and tongue and the gentle graze of his teeth. Her fingers fisted convulsively in his hair while he dragged up her nightgown, caressing the length of her leg as he did so.
