Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

‘Crows’ feet,’ Philpott confided bleakly.

Bel sat on the dressing-table stool and regarded herself in the mirror. Even if the ultimate horror of crows’ feet had not yet arrived, she certainly looked like a woman short of sleep. And that was hardly the way to appear to a sophisticated, experienced gentleman who was used, she had no doubt, to lovely, assured and vibrant lovers. Not to inexperienced ones who were too nervous to sleep and consequently were wan and heavy-eyed. To say nothing of utterly ignorant on the subject of pleasuring a man in bed.

The thought of pleasuring Ashe in bed, whatever it involved, had Bel closing her eyes with a breathless sigh of anticipation. Then she opened them again and stared at her pale reflection.

She tried to find consolation in the glossiness of her hair, which she had washed that morning. Philpott began to style it again and Bel was seized with a new worry. How should she dress to receive Ashe? Would he expect her to be in evening dress and for them to have a conversation first? Or would he expect her to be in bed? Or up, but en négligé? How on earth was one supposed to know these things? Bel worried, distractedly buffing her nails. There ought to be a book on the subject. Perhaps there was, and she was too ignorant to know how to find it. Poor Lord Dereham.

Ashe slid the key carefully into the lock and eased the back door open. The night was quiet, moonless, and here, at the rear of the house, almost totally dark. As he had passed the front façade on to Half Moon Street he had seen the candlelight flickering through a gap in Belinda’s bedchamber curtains. She was awake and waiting for him.

His lips curved in a smile of pleasurable anticipation, unclouded by nothing more than two glasses of claret with his dinner. He had returned to his chambers for a shave and to check there was no last-minute message cancelling their rendezvous and now he was conscious of the steady pulse of his blood, of a certain tightness low in his belly and the slight, pleasurable, frisson of nerves.

He expected it before battle, welcomed it to keep him sharp and alert. It amused him to feel it now, before the start of a new affaire. It was novel, that feeling in these circumstances, but then Belinda was different somehow. He had never been a careless or thoughtless lover, he reassured himself as he made his way unerringly through the familiar house. But this was important to get right.

He paused halfway up the stairs, frowning into the darkness. Why was that? Then he shrugged. The lady was not going to thank him for keeping her waiting while he brooded on the philosophy of relationships. As soundlessly as he had moved operating behind enemy lines Ashe drifted upstairs, turned right on to the landing and scratched lightly on the door panel.

She opened the door to him on to a room lit by a candelabrum on a side table and another by the bedside. As he stepped inside, Bel closed the door and moved wordlessly to stand by the table. It looked as though she had been sitting there reading.

The flickering light struck rich reflections off her unbound hair, as though amber had been threaded through its brown length. Ashe wanted to lift it, run his fingers through it. All in good time. Patience: she is worth it. ‘Lady Belinda.’

‘My friends call me Bel,’ she confided, her voice husky with nerves.

‘Bel.’ He tried it and smiled, pleased with the sound on his tongue. A small word, but sweet and rounded, like her. ‘Lovely. It suits you.’ She was wearing a long robe of amber silk tied with ribbons that fluttered as she moved. Under it he could see a nightgown in a deeper hue. With her hair heavy on her shoulders and her bare toes peeping out, she was the woman he remembered from that first night.

Only he did not recall her being this pale, nor her eyes looking so enormous in the oval of her face. Last night, at the dance, she had not seemed so fragile. ‘Are you all right, Bel?’ He moved to come to her and stopped, his toe stubbing against something. He looked down. Malevolent green-glass eyes glinted up from a massive furry head. His toes were against a set of savage teeth. That ridiculous bear again. ‘Good evening, Horace,’ he said, sidestepping the thing.

Bel gave a little gasp of laughter. ‘I am all right. I am just…nervous, I suppose.’

‘So am I,’ Ashe said easily, closing the distance between them. Hell, she looked as though she had not slept at all, and the hem of her gown was vibrating as though she was shivering. He had the sudden thought that if he clapped his hands she would faint out of sheer alarm. Now was not the time to stand around talking, she needed sweeping off her feet.

Ashe lifted his hands to her shoulders, feeling the slender bones and his breath hitched in his throat. She stood watching him, grey eyes wide so he saw his own reflection as he lowered his mouth to hers.

The shock jolted through him as their lips touched. What was it? The scent of her, faintly floral, wholly feminine—or the taste of her? Even at that light touch he could sense sweetness. But he had touched his lips to her skin before, held her close. Perhaps that familiarity accounted for the sense of rightness as he angled his mouth to slide questing over hers.

Bel gave a little gasp against his lips, but her hands came up to press against his upper chest as though she did not know whether to hold on or push him away. He let his tongue explore along the seam of her lips, wondering how easily she would open to him, how she would taste as he slid inside. Surely she understood what he was doing, what he wanted? He sucked gently on that deliciously pouting lower lip and felt her jolt of surprise.

It seemed she did not understand. Ashe did not try to force it, but eased the pressure, letting his tongue slide over the swell of her lower lip. Her hands crept up to curve over his shoulders and she moved a little closer. Encouraged, he let his own hands slide down to hold her against him, supple, yielding as she had been in the waltz, letting him lead.

He sucked her lower lip into his own mouth and she came up on tiptoe, pressed against him so that the urge to cup her buttocks and crush her against his swelling groin was almost painful. At last her mouth was opening to his gentle assault. Ashe slid his tongue between her lips, into the warm, moist sweetness and her own tongue moved to touch his in a shyly tentative caress. He did not think he had ever felt anything so touching as that innocently trusting gesture.

It seemed her husband was not a magnificent lover who had left his wife bereft after all. But how could a man be married to Bel and not want to lavish every art of seduction and eroticism upon her? How could she be this innocent?

She was clinging to his shoulders now and he sensed it was only that grip that was keeping her standing. Gently Ashe lifted his mouth and smiled down at her. The colour was animating her face now, a little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Already it seemed fuller, more swollen from his assiduous kisses.

‘Hello,’ he murmured, as though she had been away.

‘Hello.’ Her lashes fluttered down to hide her eyes and he opened his hands to release her. Those frivolous ribbons fluttered with the movement and he began to undo the bows, slowly, indulgently, letting the sensual slide of the silk satin through his fingers tantalise him with the thought of how her skin would feel when he caressed her.

‘I can do that,’ she said uncertainly, her hands fluttering above his as he worked with slow concentration.

‘I enjoy it. This is a very lovely garment; the colour is perfect against your skin, your hair.’ The last bow yielded and the robe fell open to reveal the low-cut neckline of the nightgown. Ashe had seen the lovely swell of her breasts before—this was no lower cut than the fashionable gown she had worn last night, but this time it was for him alone, and he could touch her. Holding his breath, he trailed the back of his fingers across the exposed skin.

Bel gasped, stepped back, but he simply stepped forward, matching her retreat, caught the edges of the robe and pushed it off her shoulders. Long, slim arms, bare now without gloves, the light glinting on her skin, turning it to ivory, and shoulders, naked except for slim ribbon straps, sloping elegantly up to the column of her neck. The pulse there was beating wildly, he could see it, was immeasurably aroused by it. Low down, where he ached for her, his echoing pulse throbbed with urgent need.

‘Belle.’ He gave it a lingering French intonation, laying his fingers gently against the betraying pulse. ‘Belle. You are so lovely, so lovely.’

‘Should I…should I get into bed?’

He had planned to kiss her almost insensible there where they stood, then scoop her up and enjoy the sight of her sprawled on the deep green satin of the bed cover. But all his instincts told him to go slowly, let her do what seemed comfortable to her. ‘If you like.’

She edged backwards, lifted the side of the covers. ‘With the candles lit?’

‘Why, yes. I want to see you.’

‘You do?’ She slid into bed and sat watching him, the covers up to her chin.

‘Definitely!’ Ashe sat down with caution on the delicate bergère armchair, took off his shoes, undid the buckles at the knee of his evening breeches and began to roll down the silk stockings. With his feet bare he stood up and shed his coat, letting it fall with a carelessness that would have wrung a moan from his valet’s lips.

As he began to unbutton his waistcoat, Bel stammered, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Undressing.’ He dropped the garment on to the coat and pulled the knot of his neckcloth free.

‘But…don’t you want to do that in the dressing room?’

Ashe stared at her. ‘No. No, I would like to undress here, where I can watch you.’

‘Oh.’ Bel shut her eyes. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘Bel.’ They stayed shut. ‘Bel, I know you have seen a naked man before—’

‘No, I have not.’

‘What?’ Ashe sat down, heedless of the crushed garments on the chair. No, do not tell me you are a virgin. Please! You heard about it. Marriages that stayed unconsummated for one reason or another. He had never made love to a virgin in his life, and he was most certainly not going to start now.

‘I have never seen a naked man because Henry always used to come to my chamber in his nightgown and then snuff out the candles,’ Bel explained prosaically, eyes still screwed firmly shut. Ashe let out a tightly held breath and felt the sweat cooling on his brow.

‘And then he would take his nightshirt off?’

‘Oh, no. He would get into bed and kiss me on the cheek and then he would…you know.’

‘With his nightshirt on?’

‘Of course.’ Bel opened her eyes cautiously as though expecting to see him standing there indecently naked and rampant. She seemed relieved to find him still in shirt and breeches.

‘And you still in your nightgown?’ She nodded. ‘And then he would make love to you?’ Another nod.

‘And then he would kiss me on the cheek again and say “Thank you dear. Goodnight”, and off he would go until Wednesday. Or Saturday.’

‘He would visit your room twice a week on set days?’ Ashe knew he was staring, but couldn’t help himself. His mouth was probably open. The man must have either had ice water in his veins or have been blind. Or both.

Bel yawned, hugely, clapping both hands over her mouth. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t sleep very well last night.’

Ashe ignored the yawn. ‘Forgive me, but may I ask…was your husband a very passionate man? I mean, did you find his lovemaking, er…?’

‘Dull. I found it very, very dull. But Henry did not seem to think I ought to be enjoying it, you see. He was always rather apologetic about doing it at all, so I assumed it was expected to be horrid.’ Ashe blinked at her frankness. Poor bloody Henry. You idiot. ‘So I had no idea that there was more to it, or that I might enjoy it. Not for a long while. But then there were things people said—when I stopped being a new bride—and things I read. I guessed that perhaps it can be more than just sticky and boring and embarrassing.’

Bel regarded him hopefully. ‘It is, isn’t it? More? I mean, I began to feel there was something I needed.’ She frowned over the word, then gave her head a little shake as though she could not think of a better one.

‘Yes. I promise it is. So much more. So much that will satisfy that need.’ She looked so fragile, sitting up in that big bed. And so nervous and so tired. ‘Bel, you have not considered simply getting married again? It would have been a more conventional way of finding affection. Safer, perhaps.’

‘Goodness, no. No, I am absolutely determined never to marry again. You do not know what a husband is really going to be like—look at Henry. I mean, he was a decent, honest, respectable man. He was kind. But he was so dull and he made me be dull—yet I never guessed how it would be until I married him.

‘And even if he is not dull, a husband rules his wife and now I know what it is like to be able to think for myself I could not bear it. And then, if by some miracle he did not try to dominate me—imagine how awful it must be to be married to the sort of man who did not care what you did and positively encouraged you to take lovers. How do you respect a man like that?’

‘And unlike a husband, you can change a lover if he does not please you? Like a library book?’ Ashe asked, only half-jesting.

‘No! You should not treat people like that.’ Bel wriggled up against the pillows, forgetting to be shy in her indignation. ‘That is why I thought it could only be a daydream, a fantasy. I never intended to take a lover, not really. I had no idea how to find one. And then you came that night and I thought you were attractive. I was tempted, when you woke up on top of me, to say nothing, but to kiss you and see what happened. I did not, of course.’ She blushed. ‘But I thought you were safe.’

‘Safe?’ Never in his life had Ashe been called safe. Dangerous flirt was the term that careful mamas had applied to him in the course of the last Season he had spent in London. Amorous devil was the description not a few society ladies had used, not without a secret smile as they said it. But safe? He rather thought he had just been insulted. ‘I was drunk, for goodness’ sake!’

‘I think that drink shows what people are really like. It makes bullies worse and cruel people violent. You were gentle and funny and polite. And you seemed to want me, but you did not take advantage of me.’

‘I did want you. I do.’ And if he did not have her soon he was going to be in agony. Every word she said made him want her more, made him ache to teach her just how sweet love making could be. There was so much to explore together.

‘So you see?’ Bel’s lips curved into a smile. ‘You are safe, and you said you are a rake, so you understand about not wanting entanglements, and I will not have to worry about toying with your affections or breaking your heart or anything like that. But you do want to make love to me—even I can tell that. I quite understand if it is only once—I do not expect I will be any good at it. But then at least I’ll know what I have been missing.’

‘Close your eyes,’ Ashe said, returning that smile. ‘I can promise to be safe. And gentle. And to show you what you have been missing. But I am not sure I can promise to be funny, not all the time.’

‘All right.’ Reassured, still smiling, Bel closed her eyes and waited, trying to follow what Ashe was doing. There was some rustling, then his footsteps padding round to the other side of the bed.

‘You close your eyes, too, Horace,’ she heard him order, and stifled a gasp of nervous laughter. The covers lifted, cooler air fanned over her body for a moment as the bed dipped with his weight, then she felt the length of him against her side. Long, hard, warm. ‘You can look now,’ Ashe said as he put an arm under her shoulders and pulled her against him.

‘Oh.’ Instead of the bare skin she was prepared for, there was the soft linen of a dress shirt. ‘I thought…’

‘And I thought you might be more comfortable like this for a little while. Now, relax, snuggle up, put your arm here and just lie with me. We do not have to hurry.’

It was not at all what she had expected, but Bel did as she was told, awkwardly putting her left arm over Ashe’s chest and letting herself be gathered in against his ribcage.

He was as big as she remembered, his chest broad as she spanned it, the shoulder her head was cushioned against as solid as only hard-won muscle could make it. Her own breathing was all over the place, Ashe’s was steady, deep and easy.

And the scent of him was the same, too, only without the tang of sweat from a hard night’s revelry or the strong smell of brandy. There was a hint of a subtle citrus that she guessed was his soap, the laundry smell of clean linen, fresh from the iron, and, underneath it, man. Ashe’s own, personal scent, his skin.

Bel rubbed her cheek against his shirt, wishing she could feel the texture of that skin. Their feet touched, bare, and Ashe hooked his right ankle over to capture her feet. It felt secure, warm, as though she was special. Her eyes drifted closed as his hand began to stroke her head. The span of his fingers could have encircled her throat, had wielded a weapon, could master a horse, and yet his touch was so gentle that she sighed with content. The thought drifted through her mind that already he had spent almost as much time in her bed as Henry ever did in one visit.

She had expected almost any emotion, any sensation other than this peaceful drift, this warmth moving gently to the rhythm of his breathing. So peaceful, so safe…

Chapter Eight

‘Good morning, my lady. You had a proper night’s sleep at last, I am glad to see.’

Bel opened her eyes on to bright sunlight and the sounds of Philpott in the next room briskly organising her wardrobe for the day.

She scrambled up into a sitting position and stared wildly round the room. Where was Ashe? Beside her the bed was neat, the far side tucked in tight as she tugged on the covers. The pillows were smooth. There was no litter of male garments across the floor, her poetry book sat chastely on the table where she had put it last night and the candles had been carefully pinched out, not left to gutter and burn away.

It had all been a dream? It must have been. No man would accept an offer to a lady’s bed and then simply cuddle her, make the bed again and silently slip away while she slept. Which meant that she had dreamt a safe ending to her fantasy. Had she even dreamed asking Ashe to be her lover?

Confused, Bel turned to run her hand over the pillow beside her and saw it. On the embroidered linen was a single blond hair. She picked it up and it curled in her fingers, the one strong filament conjuring up the image of a whole head of hair: golden, thick, curving over-long into his nape.

Ashe was here last night. I did not dream it. And he had come to bed in his shirt because she was shy, and he had let her sleep in his arms because she was tired and he had made the bed, quietly, so as not to disturb her or betray that he had been there. Behind her eyes something prickled. Bel scrubbed the back of her hand across them as her dresser came back into the room, her arms full of petticoats.

‘Are you quite well, my lady?’ Philpott frowned, anxious. ‘You look a trifle emotional.’

‘No, I am quite well. My eyes are watering, that is all. Just the after-effects of such a long sleep, I expect.’ Ashe had been gentle and kind and tolerant. But he was not going to come back, that was certain. Male pride, she knew from observing every male of her acquaintance, did not take kindly to rejection, and rejection did not come in more comprehensive form than a woman falling asleep in a man’s arms when he was intending to make love to her.

She felt fidgety, unsettled and sad. A strange combination of emotions. She was going to have to write and apologise. What on earth could she say to excuse her behaviour? But at least she could do something about the fidgets and perhaps later she would know what to say in her note. And there was that kiss to remember, always.

Bel threw back the covers and went to her little desk in her bare feet. ‘I will drive in the park this morning, Philpott. Please have this note taken round to Lady James Ravenhurst’s London residence immediately and tell the footman to wait for the reply.’

There was only one woman in London she felt she could safely be with at the moment without betraying some clue as to her inner turmoil and that was Cousin Elinor. Elinor would not notice anything amiss unless a Greek charioteer drove through Hyde Park, or St Paul’s Cathedral sprouted minarets, she was certain of it.

Miss Ravenhurst’s note gratefully accepting the offer of a drive and luncheon was returned promptly and Elinor was equally prompt when the barouche drew up outside the house. When Bel thanked her for not keeping the horses standing, she brushed it away with a shake of her head in its plain straw bonnet. ‘I did not want to dally, believe me! Mama is sure to have thought of some piece she wants me to transcribe after all and really, this is far too lovely a morning to be shut inside.’

‘You help my aunt a great deal with her researches, then? It must be fascinating,’ Bel added mendaciously, thinking that, unless Elinor was as committed as her mother, it must actually be quite ghastly.

‘It has a certain interest. Anything does if you come to know enough about it.’ Elinor folded her hands neatly in her lap, the tight buttoned gloves precisely the wrong shade of tan to go with the mouse-brown skirt and pelisse she wore. Either she was colour blind or her mother insisted she dress to repel men. Knowing Aunt Louisa, Bel strongly suspected the latter.

‘Besides,’ her cousin added, with the air of making her position quite clear, ‘I have to do something with my time. Fortunately there are no elderly aunts who require a companion and I may be thankful that neither Simon nor Anne expect me to dance attention on their offspring. I am not at all good with children and I make a dreadful aunt. So, if one must be on the shelf, this at least has the advantage of being intellectually stimulating.’

It was the longest speech Bel had ever heard Elinor make, and certainly the first time she had ever volunteered her thoughts on her own situation. ‘I do not understand why you should be on the shelf,’ she ventured, choosing her words with caution. ‘You are very pretty, well connected…’

‘I am too tall and I have red hair,’ Elinor contradicted. ‘You are lucky, Cousin Belinda, you are one of the brown-haired Ravenhursts. I am one of the redheads.’

‘Auburn,’ Bel corrected. ‘It is lovely, like conkers.’ Poor Elinor. At least, whatever other problems she had, Bel had never been made to feel plain. ‘Cousin Theophilus has much redder hair than you do.’

Elinor smiled. ‘You are very kind, but I know I have no charm and that is essential to attract gentlemen. I am too practical, I expect. And I have not met Cousin Theophilus for years: Mama says he is a loose fish and a wastrel. Where are we going to drive?’ She craned around inelegantly to see where they had got to, one hand firmly clamped on the crown of her awful hat. ‘Hyde Park?’

‘I thought so. And then shall we go to Gunter’s for ices?’ Eating ice cream in the morning was decidedly self-indulgent, but she felt she needed it.

The carriage made several turns, Bel pointing out the exotic sight of a lady with a pair of elegant long-haired hounds on a leash. Elinor twisted again in her seat to watch them, unconcerned about creasing her gown. ‘I think those are saluki hounds, from Arabia. Cousin Belinda…’ she frowned as she turned back ‘…there is a man following us in a curricle.’

‘How can you tell? The streets are jammed.’

‘I saw the curricle behind you when you picked me up, and he was there again when I looked to see where we were and now he is still behind us. He is driving a striking pair of match greys—I cannot be mistaken.’