Eileen Wilks, page 1
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The Proper Lover
from All I Want for Christmas Anthology
By
Eileen Wilks
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
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The Proper Lover
Eileen Wilks
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CHAPTER ONE
SUSSEX, ENGLAND: 1807
Emily Eleanor Smythe was bent on ruin.
She lay quietly in the darkness beneath the cozy mound of covers and listened to her cousin Letty snoring softly beside her, and counted: three thousand eighty-five, three-thousand eighty-six…
Normally Emily slept in her own little room, but Christmas was only a week away and the house was packed to the eaves with Baggots and Baggot spouses and children. She'd been moved into her cousin Letty's room for the duration so that a great-aunt could have her bed.
Uncle Rupert liked gathering his family around him for the holidays. He had promised the young people a sleigh ride, weather permitting; there would be excursions to gather holly; a trip or two to the village; carol singing and present-making; and, of course, Christmas Eve services at the church. Neither mistletoe nor a Yule log would be part of the merrymaking, however. Mistletoe and Yule logs were not sufficiently respectable for a Baggot.
After tonight, Emily wouldn't be sufficiently respectable, either. That was an unfortunate but necessary part of her Plan.
Three-thousand ninety-nine… four thousand.
She drew a shuddering breath. It was time. She had heard the last footsteps in the hall four thousand seconds ago; everyone must be asleep now.
Her heart pounded as she eased back the covers and slid her legs off the bed. It was a high bed, and Emily was short. She landed with a soft thump, but Letty's snores didn't falter.
Emily bent and retrieved a large bundle from beneath the bed. Even if Letty woke, she told herself, she would only think Emily was pulling out the chamber pot. That is, she might think that if she didn't see Emily sliding in her stockinged feet, one slow step at a time, toward the door, the shawl-wrapped bundle of clothing an incriminating bulk beneath her arm.
The floor was cold. The air was cold. It was close to midnight, and the fire that had been kindled earlier in their fireplace was little more than coals now, giving off little heat and less light. Emily's arms had popped out in goose bumps by the time she reached the bedroom door. She reached for the handle.
Out in the hall, something creaked.
Her hand went to her throat, where her pulse hammered so hard it seemed her heart was trying to escape her flesh.
It was just the house, she told herself when the noise didn't come again. Houses made noises all by themselves, especially on cold winter nights—proof enough to Emily that houses weren't entirely insentient. This house didn't like her. She was convinced of that. It was a solid, respectable house, just like the family who lived in it. All of the Baggots were forthright, conventional people who knew their places and understood their worth.
Emily wasn't a Baggot. Her mother had been, but her mother had ran away with dashing Edward Smythe twenty-two years ago. Somehow Emily had ended up all Smythe, with very little respectable Baggot blood in her veins.
It would be just like this house to creak loudly while she was making her escape. And Aunt Dorothea was a light sleeper. If she woke up and saw Emily sneaking out…
Emily's imagination grabbed hold of the idea and quickly built an image of the scene. Her oldest cousin, George, had a loud, boisterous manner at the best of times. When he was angry, he got even louder. Letty would be crying; she liked the drama of tears. Abigail would be shrill and self-righteous. And her uncle would yell and yell, his face growing red and blotchy. Then Marcus would start yelling at the others to shut up and leave her alone.
But the worst—the very worst—would happen after the yelling ended. Then her aunt would speak to her. As much as Emily dreaded the loud-voiced arguments her uncle and cousins enjoyed, she feared her aunt's shriveling tongue more.
Aunt Dorothea was very much a lady. She wouldn't raise her voice. She would be cool and civil and withering, and Emily would shrink into a tiny, miserable spot that grew smaller and smaller with every word. Sometimes Emily thought she might disappear entirely if she had to listen to one more quiet lecture on her inadequacies.
When her aunt found out what she'd done tonight… She shuddered. She mustn't think about that, or she'd lose what little store of courage she possessed.
She gripped the handle of the door, but it was suddenly hard to turn it. To take that next step. Though Emily was often in trouble, she had never done anything truly bad before. Misguided, foolish, impulsive— oh, yes. She freely owned those faults. But she never set out to do the wrong thing. It simply worked out that way.
This time, though, she knew what she was doing was wrong.
Yet staying here would be worse. Being ruined would not be pleasant, but in the long run it was bound to be better than being married to Sir Edgar or to Ralph Aldyce. Emily thought of her Plan and turned the handle.
Emily and Letty were sharing the bedroom nearest the stairs, and there was a small window on the landing. Moonlight snuck up the stairwell, giving Emily enough light to avoid tripping on the worn spot in the runner in the hall. She reached the stairs and started down, moving as carefully as a soldier maneuvering behind enemy lines.
At the foot of the stairs she breathed a little easier. She untied her shawl and took out the contents—her warmest woolen dress, which was loose enough to wear without a corset and was buttoned up the front, making it easy to dress herself in the darkened hall. She pulled it on over her nightgown, did up the buttons all the way to her neck, then sat on the bottom step to tug on her half boots.
Oh, drat. She'd forgotten a hat. Well, she had the shawl. Emily hadn't dared sneak her pelisse out of the wardrobe and hide it under the bed, but the ratty old shawl wouldn't be missed. She'd just have to wear it over her head like an old countrywoman. The warmth would be necessary. Her destination was a mile and a half away.
She pulled on her mittens and was seized with a sudden urgency, a need to be out of this house. Opening the front door didn't frighten her the way opening her bedroom door had. She had never been outside alone at night, but Emily's fears centered around what she knew, not on the unknown. The unknown was a world she was seldom allowed to explore, a fascinating realm aglitter with possibilities as well as perils.
She turned the key quickly and stepped outside.
Earlier that day it had snowed lightly, frosting the ground, grass, eaves, and everything with white. Emily watched her breath turn white, too, and laughed aloud—white air, white ground, and big white moon smiling down on her through tatters of clouds. Happiness hit as suddenly as a storm, and she skipped down the steps, then did a spinning dance, arms raised.
Free. She was out of that house, out here on her own, with the moon and her own crisp white breath for company, and she was free. For now, only for now, but even this small bite of freedom was enough to make her giddy.
She started walking along the drive, angling toward the woods that lay east of the house. The moon was full, giving ample light, but clouds hid half the sky. One ragged cloud streamer drifted across the face of the moon like the trailing end of a scarf or shawl,
reminding her to pull her shawl up over her head as she hurried on. She left the smoothness of the drive for the crunch of brittle, snow-topped grass. The woods loomed just ahead, looking dark and mysterious enough to serve as the setting for any number of fairy tales. But Emily knew them well, and she knew herself, too. The path she needed was wide and well trodden, and she had an excellent sense of direction. She wouldn't get lost.
Not on her way there, at least. No, the dangerous part of her journey waited at the end of her trek. At Debenham Hall. In the last bedroom on the ground floor of the west wing, if Betsy, the upstairs maid, was correct.
As she entered the woods, the top of her head brushed against the outflung branch of a fir, which promptly dumped snow on her head. Drats. She'd forgotten to keep a grip on the shawl, and it had slid to her shoulders. Emily brushed the snow off her hair, gathered the shawl up over her head once more, and shivered.
Betsy had to be right. She didn't want to be ruined by the wrong man.
James Edward Charles Drake, Baron Redding, second son of the Earl of Mere, was bosky. On-the-go, half flown, slightly castaway. Not yet three sheets to the wind, he judged, for his hand was steady enough when he reached for the decanter he'd brought back to his room.
In the circles in which James moved, gentlemen were expected to be able to hold their liquor, a social skill James found amusingly ill-named. It wasn't the capacity of a man's bladder that was applauded, but his acting ability. As long as a gentleman was able to act sober, he could be as drunk as he pleased. As drunk as a lord, in fact.
James toasted himself for possessing this necessary skill and downed another swallow of his host's brandy.
Debenham did keep a good cellar, he conceded. A good cellar and an obliging wife, two amenities that he had expected to make this house
And the other guests, too. Watching and smiling. And snickering, a couple of them.
Damn it, James was not a prude. No one could call him a prude. Just because he didn't care to boff the man's wife while he watched did not make him a prude.
Even half drunk, however, James was pretty sure what this situation did make him. A fool. He should never have accepted Debenham's invitation. James didn't object to the man being a rake; how could he, when he was one himself? He'd attended any number of house parties where the guests played musical beds, as well as out-and-out debaucheries involving members of the muslin company.
But this house party was something quite out of the ordinary.
"Bad ton." He nodded emphatically. This caused the room to spin, but only a trifle, confirming his opinion that he wasn't—quite—drunk. "Perfectly acceptable for a man with a frisky wife to turn a blind eye. Bad ton to turn both eyes on her while she frisks. Very bad ton to ask a guest to top her under such circumstances."
Having settled the matter to his satisfaction, he leaned back, crossing his feet at the ankles. The unsteady light from the fireplace sent shadows prancing over an untidy room. The fire provided most of the light, since the one candle that still burned in the candelabrum was well-nigh guttered. No servant had drawn the drapes or tidied the room; a tailored jacket, several cravats, a greatcoat, and sundry toilette articles were dispersed casually about the room.
James's person was as untidy as his bedchamber. He lounged on the bed, his unfastened cravat dangling around his neck, his shirt hanging loose. He'd pulled his boots off himself, no doubt smudging the glossy finish and incurring Dobbs's future wrath.
He sighed. He wished his groom-cum-valet was here, and that he himself wasn't. He should have suspected something was wrong when Debenham had said he couldn't house his guests' servants. But it was common knowledge that Debenham was pretty well blown off his legs. James had assumed the man couldn't afford to feed a lot of valets and grooms in addition to his guests. It hadn't occurred to him that Debenham wanted to restrict the number of witnesses to an orgy.
The fact was, James admitted gloomily as he swirled the liquor around and around in his glass, Debenham and his lovely wife had shocked him. Embarrassment had caused him to reject the man's notion of hospitality rather bluntly and retire to his room while the party went on without him.
At some point, James expected to see the humor in this situation. Here he was, one of the ton's best-known rakes, hiding in his room like an offended maiden. Yes, that would undoubtedly tickle his sense of humor… eventually.
"I should have known," he muttered, scowling at the brandy. His father had cut Debenham in public last month. That should have warned him. The Earl of Mere might be a womanizer, an indifferent landlord, and a worse father, but he was always good ton.
Still, the house party had served its purpose. The earl had been furious when he found out James planned to attend. No doubt he would have disinherited James on the spot if he hadn't already enjoyed that pleasure. Not that the earl cared what his second son did, except for cursing his disobedience. Now that James's older brother had amply secured the succession with his own heir and a spare, James's existence was entirely superfluous.
"Su-per-flu-ous," he said aloud, rolling the word off his tongue in careful syllables. If he could still string together a word like that, he wasn't drunk enough. Yet. But when he tipped the decanter in the general direction of his glass, nothing came out.
Blasted thing was empty.
Only thing to do, he decided, was to get some more. No point in ringing for it. If the servants hadn't actually been invited to join the party—and James didn't put even that past his host and hostess—they were abed by now. He would fetch it himself.
His decision made, James rolled off the bed and onto his feet. The floor showed a tendency to roll as if he were aboard a ship, however, so he gave it a moment to settle.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.
The floor had steadied, but now he was hearing things. He frowned.
Tap-tap-tap.
He really was hearing something. A tapping, at the window. He turned his head.
By God, there was a woman there. Or a witch? A witch, floating at his window with a great black cloak pulled over her head… No, no. No need for her to float. He was housed on the ground floor, owing to a dearth of inhabitable rooms in Debenham's neglected family seat. And as he moved closer he realized the black cloak was really an enormous shawl. Beneath that shawl her face was a pale oval, the features blurred by darkness. She looked young, though.
Not a witch, then. A Cyprian.
He smiled. Debenham must have recovered from his pique and sent James one of the women he'd imported for those of his guests who didn't have a wife handy to pass around. His brandy-fumed brain found an explanation for the ugly shawl: It was cold outside.
Poor thing. He'd better let her in and warm her up.
It was a casement window, fortunately, low to the ground and easy to unlatch. He swung it open and, mindful of the the courtesies, managed a bow without toppling over. "Do come in, my dear."
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CHAPTER TWO
Emily was glad the window was set low to the ground, since her ravisher was too busy bowing to offer any assistance. She climbed over the sill without any great loss of dignity.
Soon she would lose more than her dignity. She glanced nervously at the bed that sat squarely in the center of the room, the covers all a-tumble. In spite of being country-bred, Emily had only a dim idea of what would happen to her tonight, save that it would involve an embarrassing degree of intimacy. And that bed.
She looked at the man standing in front of her. In the dim light, she couldn't see him clearly—but she saw enough to know she had found the right room. This was definitely the man she had encountered in the woods yesterday, the rake whose kiss had changed her life.
He had the look of a fallen angel, with his dark, untidy hair and his dark eyes set deeply beneath straight black brows. Compelling eyes, she had thought yesterday. Tonight they looked hazy, but that might be the poor light. His mouth was beautiful, as perfectly carved as any Greek statue's.
As for the rest of him… oh, my. With his shirt undone and his cravat loose, she saw a good deal more male flesh than she was used to seeing, and the shape of him was… firm. Delightfully firm. Something fluttered deep in her belly.
She clasped her mittened hands together. "You must be wondering why I'm here."
"Much too cold to stay out there." He moved closer—alarmingly close—and touched her cheek. "Your face is chilled."
Not as chilled as her hands and feet were. Strangely, though, when he stroked her cheek, she began to feel warmer. "This is very irregular, I know, but I do feel we should introduce ourselves. I'm Emily Smythe."
"Emily." His eyes were dreamy now, and his fingers trailed down her throat, stopping where they met the high neck of her gown. "What a lot of buttons you have, Emily. I am James Drake, Baron Redding— a courtesy title only, borrowed from my father and signifying nothing."
She nodded. "Yes, I know. I mean, I know your name. I asked someone after—after what happened." After he had flirted with her and kissed her, and her sneaksby cousin, who had followed her into the woods, saw it, and carried the tale home ahead of her.
He pushed the shawl off her head, and off her shoulders, too. The sudden intimacy of having her clothing removed here, in a bedroom, by this man, made her hands clutch at the material in a sudden flare of panic.
His eyebrows went up. "I don't think you're going to need this." He tugged.
Of course not. She made herself let go, and the shawl fell to the floor. She shivered. "Don't you think you should close the window?"
