Those Scandalous Ravenhursts Volume Two: The Shocking Lord Standon

Chapter Eight

Gareth mounted the steps to Jessica’s new front door with an anticipation that surprised him. He already knew that he enjoyed her company but the necessity for this masquerade was a tiresome interruption to his life and he should be resenting it. He paused, his hand on the knocker, examining his feelings.

He was not resentful, he was not even vaguely irritated. He was stimulated and he rather thought he was going to be amused. Was Rotherham right? Had he become bored and jaded with the round of careless pleasures and unavoidable duties?

The door opened and he let go of the cast metal with a thud.

‘Good evening, my lord.’ Hedges regarded him benevolently. Gareth decided that the staff must approve of their new, temporary, mistress. ‘Mrs Hedges has followed your instructions for dinner to the letter, my lord.’

‘Excellent.’ Gareth shed his heavy coat and handed the footman his hat, cane and gloves. He did not know whether Jessica would have the gowns to enable her to dress for dinner yet, but he had done the occasion justice with silk knee breeches, striped stockings and his newest swallowtail coat.

‘Lord Standon, madam.’ Hedges threw open the drawing-room door and Gareth walked through.

‘My lord.’ A slender lady in pale almond green silk rose from the fireside and dropped a slight curtsy. ‘A most inclement evening, is it not? I do hope you did not become chilled.’

Gareth returned the courtesy with a bow, unable to repress the smile that curved his mouth. It was Jessica, but not the Jessica who had left his house that morning, wide-eyed and in the more than capable grasp of his cousin and Sebastian’s new wife.

‘Mrs Carleton. It is indeed very raw out, but I took the precaution of wearing a heavy coat.’

The door closed softly behind him as he walked to the fireside. ‘Please, do sit.’ She extended a hand as though to show him which chair to take, pale fingers emerging from the tight ecru lace sleeves, and the tips just brushed his knuckles.

So, she had remembered one lesson from the night before. Gareth said nothing, but caught and held her gaze for a long moment as they both sat. The colour rose, charmingly, under her skin, then she laughed. ‘Oh dear, I am afraid I simply cannot control my blushes.’

‘They are charming,’ he said, meaning it. Her hair was astonishing, the soft curls opening up her face and taking at least two years from her appearance. The severity and the attempt to look older had been deliberate, he was sure; now Jessica was the most intriguing mixture of sophistication and innocence.

‘What is it?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing at him. All of a sudden she was the governess again and he reminded himself that she was neither the innocent nor the sophisticate. Jessica was a respectable, intelligent woman who was making her own place in the world and had been managing that very well until the rotten underbelly of polite society had ensnared her.

‘I was admiring your hair,’ he said, with partial honesty. ‘It is delightful—exactly the look I think we should aim at, yet it is still you.’

‘I am not certain about the colour.’ Gareth found himself watching the play of expression on her face: the frown as she worried about the colour, the look of rueful acceptance that it was suitable for their masquerade and then the amusement at her own doubts banishing the seriousness from her eyes. ‘I know it is exactly right for our purposes. I will get used to it and it will wash out in time.’

‘I like the style. You will keep that, will you not? Afterwards?’ He wondered if there was any length left in it—the back was elegantly pinned up provoking an inconvenient fantasy of unpinning it.

‘Perhaps.’ She was silent while he wondered whether a comment on the gown she was wearing might push her from frankness into reticence. She was wearing a fine lace fichu around her shoulders. Was the subtle glimpse of flesh through the lace deliberate or modesty? He decided to keep silent on the subject, although he was admiring the effect of softly draped silk on a form he was only too aware was sweetly rounded and warm.

The memory of the sensual shock as she had hurtled into his arms in the brothel came to him with almost painful intensity and he crossed his legs, trying not to think about the lovely elegance of the line from shoulder to the swell of her hip. He was quite certain that Jessica had not the slightest idea of how beautiful her body was.

And why should she? She is inexperienced and respectable, he reminded himself sternly. He was here for one reason only, and that was to equip her for the role she was to play. And it was a role, not reality.

‘Did you enjoy your shopping expedition?’

‘Very much. Your cousins are so kind. But it is not real,’ she added, echoing his thought. ‘I cannot believe that it is me, sitting in all those fashionable shops, being waited upon, making decisions, choosing between ribbons for my slippers as though I have a dozen pairs already and can toss them aside the moment they show wear.’

Gareth thought of telling her that she must keep all the clothes and accessories they bought for the deception, then caught himself in time. Jessica had accepted payment for what she was doing because she was a professional woman and knew she was worth her hire. But he guessed she might have a very different reaction to accepting fine clothes and fripperies—they were too close to the presents a true courtesan would expect.

She was restful to be with, sitting there with her clasped hands, her eyes resting on him as though she was studying him, which he supposed she was. Miss Gifford was not a woman who went headlong into something unprepared. That mixture of restraint and sense, combined with the image of the girl who, stark naked and terrified, had picked a lock and set about rescuing herself from a situation where most would have been in a dead faint of horror, piqued more than his amused interest—it stirred something inside him.

‘I assume that this evening’s meal is so that we can explore the sense of taste?’ she asked, cutting across his uncomfortable self-examination. He did not feel Jessica Gifford was so restful after all.

‘Yes. The sense and sensuality of food and how you can use it for flirtation and seduction.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Very,’ Jessica admitted. ‘Have you any idea how tiring spending large amounts of money is?’ Her smile seemed to glow and she gave a little wriggle of pleasure, as though someone had run a finger down her spine.

Gareth took a deep breath. He was enjoying this too much; that had to cease. It was not what he was here for, they had work to do.

‘Well, being hungry before meals in public must stop at once,’ he said severely. ‘Food must become a luxury, a game, a tool in your armoury of seduction. Before any meal taken when men are present, you must consume something solid and sustaining at home first.’

‘Dinner is served, madam.’ Hedges stood holding the door while Jessica closed her lips on what he suspected was about to be a withering comment on the foolishness of fashionable life.

She stood instead and placed the tips of her fingers on his proffered forearm, glancing up at him from under her lashes as she did so.

‘Very nice,’ he murmured, escorting her through the door and into the dining room. Their chairs had been placed as he had requested, with hers at the head of the table and his on her right. On the white cloth there were only the place settings, a flower arrangement, a candelabra and two dishes, one before each place.

‘I wanted to concentrate on one thing at a time,’ he explained, holding her chair for her. Jessica sat, regarding the almost empty table dubiously.

‘Oysters?’

‘Do you dislike them?’ He sat beside her. ‘If you have no objection to dining alone with me, I will pour the wine and we can ring when we require the second course.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Hedges, that will be all for the moment.’ The butler closed the door behind him. ‘That is a relief; I do not feel comfortable having this sort of lesson before an audience.’ She lifted her fork, then put it down again. ‘I’ve never eaten raw oysters, I have only had them in beefsteak-and-oyster pie.’

‘Oysters are regarded as a highly erotic food. Look at them.’ He wondered if she would understand the symbolism and watched as she studied the six open shells set out on an extravagant bed of crushed ice.

‘Erotic?’ Jessica murmured, lifting one shell delicately and advancing it closer so she could stare down into the fleshy folds moving gently in their briny liquid, cradled within the opalescent shell. He knew the exact moment she caught his meaning from the blush that coloured her cheeks. ‘Well, really! Do men think of nothing but sex?’

Gareth had been watching her over the rim of his wine glass as he took a sip of the white burgundy. At her question he choked, half-laughing, and put the glass down. ‘I’m afraid we do think about it quite a lot,’ he admitted apologetically.

Jessica knew she was blushing. She put the oyster back on the plate and lifted her own glass, hoping for a little Dutch courage. ‘You mean that in dining rooms all over the country people are sitting down to oysters and the men are looking at them and thinking they look like… And then eating them?’

Now what have I said to amuse him? she wondered as Gareth gave another gasp of laughter.

‘Yes.’ He did not appear capable of elaborating.

‘I see.’ She eyed the offending shellfish. ‘How exactly does one eat a raw oyster?’

‘You squeeze on a little lemon juice, then raise the shell to your lips and tip it in.’ Garth suited the action to his words, chewed a couple of times and then swallowed. ‘Sublime. In very polite company one eats it with your knife and fork, but that need not concern us.’

‘Hmm.’ Jessica knew she was sounding prim, although something inside her was wanting to giggle, partly because the whole idea of food as erotic seemed nonsensical and partly because she was beginning to feel as though she was in a dream, or had had far too much to drink, or both. Not that she had ever had more than one glass of wine at once in her life, but she supposed this light-headed, bubbly sensation was how intoxication felt.

She picked up her oyster, regarded it severely and tipped it to her lips. Cool, salty, fleshy and sensuous, it was like nothing she had ever tasted, and certainly not like the rather rubbery constituents of a pie. Jessica bit, swallowed, thought about it and smiled. ‘It is fabulous!’

‘Then let me give you another.’ Gareth squeezed lemon, then lifted one from his plate and advanced it to her lips. Jessica sat back, a little shocked. ‘Oh quite, absolutely scandalous behaviour, and you do not do this at polite dinner parties, not until we have reached the stage of really setting the ton to talking. But we might be seen sharing our oysters in a box at the theatre.’

Jessica opened her lips and Gareth touched the shell to them. ‘Keep your eyes on me,’ he murmured as, instinctively, her lids drooped. His eyes, as she lifted hers to them, were dark and something hot burned at the back of them. ‘Just so, we are exchanging unspoken words, messages that cannot be said out loud in company. And everyone else will know that is what we are doing.’

This time she let the flesh slide into her mouth and the memory of his tongue, tangling with hers, as hot as this was cold, filled her. ‘What is it?’ He was instantly alert to her mood. ‘What are you thinking about?’

Too startled by her own reaction to prevaricate, Jessica answered honestly, ‘You kissing me’, and was rewarded by the knowledge that she had both surprised and disconcerted him.

The heat in his eyes flared and she knew he was remembering too, but his voice was dry as he said, ‘Those are exactly the thoughts you should be conjuring up—they will add verisimilitude to your acting.’

‘Excellent.’ If he thought he was going to disconcert her, he had another think coming. And in any case, she was more than capable of disconcerting herself, without his help. ‘My turn.’

This time, as she held out the shell and the oyster slid between Gareth’s lips she ran the tip of her tongue over her own and he almost choked. ‘You are worryingly good at this,’ he said when he was recovered and they laughed and ate the remaining oysters chastely from their own plates.

Jessica rang the little bell by her plate and the next course, ‘A pea fowl, larded, removed with a ginger soufflé and asparagus, madam’, was brought in.

The guinea fowl led to a much less disconcerting discussion about taste and texture and a good-natured dispute about the amount of port in the sauce, which Jessica lost as she had never knowingly tasted port before. She thought she had scored points by batting her eyelashes prettily and imploring Gareth to carve, because he was certain to be so good at it.

The ginger soufflé melted on the tongue, leaving an unexpected heat behind it. By this time she found she was paying as much attention to taste and texture, heat and cold, spice and sweetness as she had to the feel of the items Gareth had had her touch the night before.

‘That just leaves the asparagus,’ he remarked innocently.

Jessica eyed the thick green shafts, glistening with melted butter and the giggle finally escaped. She had eaten asparagus often enough in the past, daintily with knife and fork, casually with her fingers, the butter running down her chin; now, fuelled by the atmosphere of sensual indulgence and the experience with the oysters, she had no doubt at all what asparagus was supposed to be symbolising.

‘No,’ she gasped, not worrying that the end of her nose must be turning pink as she laughed or that this was not behaviour expected of either the governess, or of the lady who wore a fashionable silken gown. ‘This is too funny to take seriously.’

Silence. She had overstepped the mark with the man who was, when it came right down to it, her employer. He was paying her to take this seriously and she was giggling. What was the matter with her? Miss Jessica Gifford never giggled.

Eva and Bel had wanted her—expected her—to wear the gown without a fichu, to let her hair down, to rouge her lips and blacken her lashes. But her instincts had told her that the first time that Gareth saw her in public he had to see someone who would shock him in truth. His reaction must convince a jaded, cynical audience.

So she had found a fichu, pinned up her ringlets, left her face scrubbed and innocent—and laughed at the game he was trying to teach her. And now he was looking at her, his face shuttered. Those grey eyes were wet-flint dark and the mobile mouth still. Jessica held her breath, wishing she could not remember what his lips had felt like against hers, wishing she had no memory of the scent and the heat of him.

His mouth moved She saw the tip of one white, sharp, canine catch at the corner of his underlip, and then Gareth smiled at her, a slow, lazy smile that caught her breath in her throat and had the stumbling words of apology tangling into silence on her tongue. Oh, my God, she thought, shocking herself, he is gorgeous.

All he said, mildly, was, ‘Sex often is very funny.’

‘Oh.’ Jessica, charmed out of her embarrassment, regarded him, curious. ‘I thought it a subject men had little sense of humour about. That…place was so cold, so joyless. Would you ever hear laughter there? Joyous laughter?’

‘Perhaps not.’ Gareth picked up his wine glass, twirling it gently between thumb and fingers. ‘But there are more aspects to the relations between men and women than that—and, yes, men, despite our fragile sense of self-worth, do enjoy being with a woman with a sense of humour and wit.’

‘I shall remember that,’ Jessica said primly, wondering whether Gareth was being ironic about the fragile sense of self-worth or whether even large, calm aristocrats had their insecurities.

‘Tell me about your family.’ He changed the subject abruptly as she rang the bell.

‘I was about to leave you to your port and nuts.’

‘You have an absorbing novel, or perhaps some stitchery to occupy yourself?’ Gareth leaned back in his chair to allow the footman access to his plate.

‘Neither, I confess.’

‘Then stay and keep me company,’ he suggested as the man placed the decanter at his side and the dish of nuts before him.

‘Is that not rather…unusual behaviour for a lady?’

‘Rather dashing—but then…’ Gareth waited until the door closed behind the footman ‘…you are rather a dashing lady, are you not, Mrs Carleton?’

‘So I understand. May I try some port?’

Gareth poured a little into her empty wine glass, then cracked a walnut and placed the meat on her side plate. Jessica sipped, wrinkling her nose. ‘Very heavy.’ He took a swallow of his, watching her over the edge of his glass. Strangely it did not make her feel uncomfortable; it was as though she had spent many an evening companionably in his company. She put her elbows on the table, nibbling the nut, her port forgotten. ‘What should I be doing tomorrow?’

‘What do you want to do? More shopping?’

‘No!’ Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘I have shopped until I can shop no more—at least for a day or two. I shall wait until everything is delivered, then Lady Dereham and Lady Sebastian will come and we will go through it all and see what further accessories I need. I cannot imagine anything can be missing, but they insist there will be all kinds of things we have forgotten.’

‘If you have no engagements, there are two things we need to see to.’

‘Really?’ Jessica frowned and absently sipped her port. The rich taste was beginning to grow on her.

‘Perfume and jewellery,’ Gareth said and it seemed to her he was watching her for her reaction.

‘Jewellery?’ she enquired coolly. There were only two sorts of women a man bought jewellery for—his wife and his mistress.

‘I rather thought you might take it like that. How would it be if I promise to take it all back at the end, every last pearl? If I promise to leave you with not so much as an amber bead?’

‘That, my lord, would be acceptable.’ At least, it would be socially acceptable. Jessica found her heart was beating erratically with a mixture of disappointment and the thought of wearing such jewellery, if only for a short time. The picture of Gareth showering gems upon her was shamefully pleasurable—and yet she had never so much as coveted a diamond in her life. Mama’s pearl set was in the bank along with her savings, Papa’s signet ring and her coral-and-silver christening rattle.

Governesses did not wear any jewellery beyond, perhaps, a chaste cross. Had a few hours with this man seduced her from her acceptance of her true station in life to such a extent that she had fallen prey to the shallowness of fashionable life?

The feeling that had give risen to the giggle was stirring again and a little voice was murmuring in her ear to stop being such a prig. She was going to earn her holiday from reality; if that meant revelling in a little shallowness, then she, Miss Jessica Gifford, was going to do so with gusto.

Chapter Nine

‘May I have diamonds?’ Jessica asked, hoping Gareth would realise she was joking. In for a penny, in for a thousand pounds, the reckless little voice urged her, while common sense told her that aquamarines, pearls and garnets would be the sensible thing for him to buy.