Almost a Gentleman (25 page)

He could hear a low murmur of voices. She and Billy were speaking softly together. He supposed he should open his eyes, just to keep clearer track of what was going on around him. No, he decided. His body still felt heavy, the muscles stiff from having held Billy down through his kicks and thrashings. What he wanted was a bit more sleep, a few more delicious dream visions. Sighing, he shifted his body into a more comfortable position under the rug. In the part of the dream that he planned to revisit, she would gaze fixedly at him while he lifted her legs over his shoulders. And then, while one of his hands undid the front of his trousers, his other hand would begin a leisurely exploration of her: sliding a finger through the slit in her drawers, allowing it to wander up inside her, watching her gray eyes grow huge and dark as he charted the wet velvet labyrinth until—all in good time—he'd find her center. Slowly, slowly, all in good time.

The dream vision was mightily seductive, but he found that his attention was nonetheless diverted from it. Now that he'd gotten some rest it seemed that he didn't need to sleep any more right now. Not while she and Billy continued to whisper so distractingly.

What
were
they chattering about
?

"I expect from the look on his face that
it's you
he's been seein' in those dreams, Miss."

Phoebe's contralto voice whispered a reply that was too soft for David to hear.

"Well, he
is
the gen'lman in question, ain't he, Miss? For he does seem a good 'un, quite as I wished you."

Again, a soft, low, admonitory whisper, the words inaudible, but with a definite lilt of amusement shaping its cadence.

David sat straight up and his eyes flew open. His shoulders squared themselves; his face exhibited an icy hauteur that was quite rare for him. Well, he hated to be stuffy about it, but an eighth earl simply couldn't allow himself to be discussed in the third person, much less scrutinized so knowingly for the entertainment of his fellow travelers.

And just how
had
he looked while he was asleep? Anxiously, he peered down at the rug draped over his lap. It was heavy enough—
wasn't it
?—to have obscured any physical sign of that warm, moist, rosy dream.

The boy gave a soft, tipsy hiccup, bending his battered features into an attempt at respectful apology.

"Beggin' your pardon, guv'nor. Didn't mean to wake you. Nor to pay you no disrespect neither."

David nodded coldly as the boy drifted into sleep. What was the stuff in the flask Phoebe was holding?

She read his thoughts. "I implore your forgiveness as well, Lord Linseley. This tea's been well laced with a very old Armagnac, which goes down extremely smoothly, you know. But Billy's not used to it, and he's probably drunk more than he should."

He felt helpless against the half-smile that had returned to her face. Damn if it wasn't as provocative as anything that had transpired in his dreams.

"Well, perhaps I gave him a bit too much," she added. "To soothe him. To allow him to sleep through his discomfort—and through our conversation. For I thought you and I might want to converse."

Our conversation
. It sounded very agreeable. But he wouldn't be dissuaded from his point about Billy's disrespect.

"Of course. He needs as much sleep as he can get. Still, he did speak out of turn. He shouldn't speculate about the contents of my dreams, even assuming for the moment that I
was
dreaming. Well, how could he even know for certain that I'd fallen asleep? It's all a matter of interpretation, isn't it? I was merely resting my eyes."

"Quite right, he shouldn't speculate about it. I've already chastised him for that and I assure you he won't do it again. But as for your having fallen asleep—well,
that's
hardly open to interpretation, my lord. You don't snore
loudly;
I'd call it rather a cunning, purring, comforting sort of snore that you do. A snore that might lull a bed partner back to sleep rather than waken her. But you do, nonetheless, snore, Lord Linseley."

Silently, he called upon the spirits of the seven preceding Linseley earls to help him maintain his dignity
. "I didn't know. No one's ever informed me of it. You're quite sure?"

"It was, absolutely and incontrovertibly, a snore."

"Hmmph."

"I believe the inclination to snore develops when a man reaches his forties. At least, that's what Mr. Simms once told me."

"Indeed. Well, convey my gratitude to Mr. Simms for the useful information."

The embarrassment, he thought, was well worth the tantalizing sight of a grin hovering at the corners of her mouth. He opened the curtains to let in some more sunlight.

"And what did Billy mean by my being 'the gentleman in question'?"

"Ah. You heard that too, did you?"

She hesitated for a moment, shrugged, and then spoke quickly.

"He guessed that you were the gentleman I've been thinking about so continually and obsessively since first meeting you at Almack's. And…"

"And?"

"… the gentleman who has utterly monopolized all the physical desire I'm capable of…"

A faint blush rose in her cheeks.

"Go on."

"Well, you see, I couldn't continue to make love to Billy when he visited…"

He forced his features to stay grave, respectful.

"… with my thoughts and sensibility so entirely occupied by…"

"By?"

"By you, Lord Linseley."

He hadn't thought he'd be able to accept it but it seemed that he could. Exclusive physical possession of a woman wasn't everything, he told himself. There was something equally precious about the plain honesty she'd shown and the effort it had clearly cost her.

She turned her head, affecting interest in the bleak winter landscape outside her window. And when she spoke again, her voice was light and brittle.

"We're fortunate to have such dry weather for our journey. The road is in remarkably good shape for this time of year."

"Well, it's a very good, straight road, especially the length of it from Stamford to Lincoln. Built by the Romans, you know, I'll show it to you on a map if you like." He was babbling. He must sound quite ridiculous, he thought. He felt quite ridiculously happy. "We are indeed blessed by this weather. Though I think it will storm after we reach Lincolnshire."

"You can predict the weather?"

"A farmer tries to."

She was silent for some minutes.

"Lord Linseley, I should like to explain…"

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

"And I'm eager to hear everything you wish to tell me. But I think we should… wait to make explanations."

"Wait until… ?"

"Until after we've deepened our acquaintance somewhat. Might we postpone all explanations until… tomorrow morning, Lady Claringworth? That would give us tonight in which to begin to know each other better."

The slow smile that stole across her face was all Phoebe and not a bit Marston.

"We might indeed, Lord Linseley. And may I express how profoundly I long to know you better?"

This time, the pressure of knee against knee wasn't in the least bit clumsy or tactless.

"We can sup together," David said. "The room I use at the inn has a small parlor where I sometimes take my meals."

"Yes, I should like that."

"We'll be quite private there. We can probably even find someone to sit with Billy so that we won't be disturbed."

"It sounds very pleasant indeed."
Pleasant
. The golden flecks in her eyes danced as her low voice breathed new energy into a polite, overused adjective.

Billy stirred against her shoulder, ruffling the heavy carriage rug. She smoothed it impatiently, all the while keeping her eyes locked onto David's and her knees lightly pressing against his.

"I've never journeyed to your part of the world before."

"You're not alone in that. We're not picturesque: you won't find heart-stopping crags or poetical peaks as in the Lake District. The Lincolnshire countryside is rather flat, with some good churches rising up here and there, and the low, forested, rolling hills of the wolds to add variety to the view."

"But you love it."

"It's mine. It's a large part of myself. Yes, I suppose I do love it, though that's not how I'd express it. I simply think of powerful winds blowing deep, wide swaths through thick fields of wheat that shiver under a very large, dramatic sky. Biggest sky I know. The best, most passionate thunderstorms. Blizzards too, sometimes."

"Yes, I shouldn't be surprised. You'll describe the landscape and its points of interest to me as we pass through it, won't you?"

"Would you enjoy that?"

"I believe I should, very much indeed. Of course, in that case I should have to stop gazing at you."

"And I at you. But we don't need to look out the windows quite yet; we've barely passed Cambridge. Don't worry, Lady Claringworth, you and I will have time for everything."

"Do you know, Lord Linseley, I can almost believe that's true when I hear you say it."

The Swan, Phoebe thought, had proved to be as comfortable and hospitable an inn as Lord Linseley had promised. The bed in her room was large and firm, covered with a fluffy, well-aired eiderdown. There was a capacious armoire, clean hot water in a Staffordshire pitcher on a sturdy oak stand, and a merry fire in the grate. Billy was sleeping in the room next door, with a chambermaid to attend to him when he woke, and Lord Linseley was down the hall. When she'd told him she'd join him there for supper at eight, he'd said he'd come to her room to fetch her.

She'd thanked him for his courtliness, but she hadn't told him that he'd find her dressed as a woman. She'd wanted it to be a surprise. How odd it felt, she thought now, peering at herself in the room's large oval mirror. Usually, her changes of sex and costume took place overnight: she'd retire as Phizz and appear the next morning as Phoebe. But this evening she was doing something she'd never done before: removing her male garments and directly replacing them with a female costume.

The lamplight flickered for a moment; her image in the mirror seemed to shimmer as though poised on a mystical threshold. How could she recognize herself, she wondered, in this rush of precipitous change? Where was she?
Who
was she? Was she the owner of those clever, womanly hands pulling and smoothing until every-thing fell into harmonious order? Or was she the strange amalgam of half-forgotten gestures and facial expressions, taking female shape in the mirror as though emerging from the mists of time? The mysteries of the transformation were as confusing as they were thrilling.

She supposed that the people who kept the inn would be equally confused if they could see her—confused and most likely scandalized. Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Cockburn, proprietor and cook, had seemed like decent, friendly people. The pair of them had greeted their party effusively, welcoming Lord Linseley rather as though he were King, Lord Chancellor, and Archbishop of Canterbury all rolled into one.

She'd been gratified but a bit surprised by the warmth of the reception they'd received. After all, the Swan was just north of Stamford, not much more than halfway between London and Lincoln. She would have expected Lord Linseley to be popular within his own locality, but this wasn't his locality—not yet, not so far south. He must simply be a very pleasant and generous lodger, she supposed.

"We try to keep those rooms for him," the boy who had carried her bags had said, chatting amiably as they'd mounted the stairs. "Queer that he didn't make it home for Christmas this year, though. Well, he always does, sir. Likes to celebrate it wi' his people he does, and of course wi' the young viscount. Never known him to miss out on the joy o' the season. Must have had important business in London, but we knowed we'd be seeing him by Twelfth Night anyway."

"The viscount?"

"You haven't met the viscount, sir? But you must know about him. The earl's so proud of his son now that he's grown. Talks a blue streak about him."

A grown son. Holidays with his people. She gazed thoughtfully out the window at starry blackness behind bare trees. There was so much to learn about him, she thought. But not now. Not until after he and she had become acquainted in the way that most mattered.

And no more idle speculations until she was dressed and ready to become acquainted with him.

She surveyed herself in the mirror, as critical and meticulous in her self-scrutiny as she'd once been when she and Henry had been invited to dine at Carlton House. Turning her head slowly to the left and right, she examined the bandeau of rose colored silk she'd wrapped around it, threading it through her curls until she'd achieved the proper Grecian effect. The hair was still a bit short to look quite feminine, but she thought he'd like the curling tendrils that clustered at her nape and in front of her ears.

At least she was lucky that the silk harmonized so well with her satin sash. She adjusted the fabric at the dress's low neckline, trembling a bit as the heel of her hand brushed against the blue-white flesh of her breast. She'd always had to be careful about décolletage, for although her breasts were small the aureoles around her nipples were surprisingly dark and large.

In her days as Lady Claringworth she'd expended untold anxiety on achieving the correct swelling at the neckline without looking too extremely risque. But this evening her anxiety was rather differently directed. Would he like her breasts? she wondered. Or would he find them laughably small, even trivial? Would he think they sagged? Well,
that
was a bit of an exaggeration, she supposed. They didn't quite
sag
, did they? Not yet, anyway. They were simply not quite… what they'd once been.

The more she fretted about it, though, the more her flesh ached and swelled, the nipples, so recently freed from their muslin bands, hardening against the stiffness of her corset. Finally she could only laugh at herself.
Give up the fussing, Phoebe, he'll simply have to take you as you are: small-breasted, a bit saggy, and ravenous for his touch
.

She wasn't surprised by her body's unruly behavior: she'd been tumbling in a vortex of delicious sensation since she and he had pressed their knees together in the carriage. The stirrings in her breasts, thighs, and moist, aching quim were wonderful but somehow to be expected. What was quite new and astonishing, though, was that all of her body seemed equally charged with sensation. Knees, neck, and armpits; ankles and insteps; even the delicate skin at the inside of her elbows: every inch of her seemed equally volatile. Stepping into her drawers, fastening her corset and settling her breasts into it, she'd felt as though she was handling gunpowder.
Just don't let me explode
, she thought,
at his first touch
.

Or even before he touched her. Because if she were to be completely honest she'd have to admit that she'd begun feeling so randy even before they'd settled their legs together in the carriage. She giggled, remembering how she'd stared at the stirring in his lap this morning while he'd been dozing. The growing bulge had been visible even beneath the heavy rug he'd draped over himself. Shamelessly, she'd endeavored to imagine the exact nature of the flesh that was rising up in such a lively fashion. No wonder Billy had laughed at her, to the extent that his poor bruised mouth had allowed him to laugh.

Well, she'd seen exactly two naked penises in her life—hardly a large sampling, but sufficient to have proved to her quite how individual they could be. There were so many opportunities for variation, after all. Size. Shape. Color. Texture. (Don't forget
taste
and
smell
, she reminded herself.) And of course, angle of erection. She felt herself consumed with giddy, impatient curiosity: her imagination was like a luxuriant forest of wild mushrooms sprouting after a thunderstorm.

The best, most passionate thunderstorms.

Oh yes.

Stop it
, she scolded herself,
or you'll never finish dressing
.

She scanned the mirror for flaws to correct, but it seemed that she'd done what she could. Except for the shawl that hung in the armoire, she was finished dressing. Hardly a perfect toilette, she thought, but on the whole it wasn't too bad.

The dress lay in serene folds below her bosom, its puffed sleeves making her arms look delicate and rounded. A small garnet cross—a gift from Jonathan when she'd first gone to London—nestled in the hollow of her neck. Too bad the piercings in her earlobes had closed over; she would have liked to wear the tiny garnet earrings he'd given her a year later when she'd married. Henry had joked about the earrings' plainness; well, they were hardly imposing in comparison to the pirate's chest of wedding gifts his London set had contributed. But in time Phoebe had come to loathe most of her jewelry: the dazzling wedding gifts, the heavy ancestral pieces, and especially the fabulously expensive offerings the sneering footman would deliver, with appalling promptness, after Henry had acted in some particularly abusive fashion. By the end of her marriage,

Jonathan's garnets were the only jewels she'd actually enjoyed wearing, and she wished she could have their warm sparkle at her ears tonight.

Far worse than her naked ears, though, were her legs, scandalously bare beneath her petticoat. Sadly, though, there was nothing to be done about it: somehow, she'd only brought one garter along with her.

She glanced ruefully at the pink-tinted stockings on the bed, and at the single pale gray garter lying on top of them. It was a lovely piece of lingerie, trimmed with tiny gray seed pearls and buttoned by a slightly larger pearl. Absurdly pretty and extravagant and all the more so for being hidden—from the eyes of everyone except the person who'd be privileged to slide it down its wearer's leg. It was just the thing to make a woman feel completely and elegantly dressed. But it was entirely useless without its mate.

She wished she could blame the missing garter on Mr. Simms. But he'd never been comfortable with women's clothes—especially not women's underclothes. Phoebe hadn't felt that it was fair to require him to become so, and had always packed the women's costumes she chose for her little vacations. Unfortunately, she'd been so exhausted and distracted this morning that she must simply have left the garter out of her bags.

Of course, it would be impossible to allow Lord Linseley to see her with one stocking smartly clinging to her right leg and the other sagging on her left. And so, as much as she hated the idea, her only choice was to go without. And to stop fussing about it, she told herself. But it infuriated her: she'd wanted to be perfectly, exquisitely clothed in anticipation of the moment when the clothes would be coming off again.

There was a polite knock on her door. Was it so late already? How much time
had
she wasted on all that fuss and fantasy?

No, it wasn't late. The clock on the mantel said seven twenty-five.

"Lord Linseley?" she called.

"It's not Lord Linseley, sir," came a voice through the door. "It's just Mrs. Cockburn, hoping you've found everything comfortable and convenient. Is there anything else you need, Mr. Marston?"

Mr. Marston
. How astonishing. For in the complexities of femi-nine dressing Phoebe had all but forgotten the existence of Phizz Marston.

Yes, quite, quite comfortable
, she imagined herself calling back through the door.
No, I don't need a thing. Everything is perfectly as it should be, thank you for asking, Mrs. Cockburn
, she'd say in Phizz's cold, polite voice.