Leslie Lafoy (31 page)

“Not at all, madam,” Mrs. Gladder assured her. “No one has earned a good night’s sleep more than you have.”

“Then I’ll thank you for my timely rescue, urge you to get some sleep yourself, and promise to be of assistance first thing in the morning.”

“Pleasant dreams, Lady Caroline.”

Yes, she’d get to the pleasant dreams, she promised herself as she headed for her room. Eventually.

OLD PEOPLE WERE SUPPOSED TO TIRE EASILY, HE SILENTLY
groused, making his way down the hall toward his room. Not stay up until the new day started. Of course Lady Aubrey hadn’t spent the day in the fields with the harvest crews and she wasn’t going to rise at dawn to sally forth for another one. No, the most strenuous thing she’d done all day was leisurely cut her meat at dinner.

Caroline, he silently declared as he passed her room, could run circles around Aubrey’s mother. On virtually no sleep at all. And not only look positively beautiful while doing it, but drive him mad with wanting whenever she crossed his path. Not that she crossed it nearly often enough to please him. Once the harvest was in—with luck,
late in the week—he’d have the time to figure out what her usual paths were and make sure he placed himself on them.

He slipped into his room and closed the door, unbuttoning his coat as he crossed to the foot of the bed and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He blinked and turned his head. And grinned. Caroline, sitting in his bed, her golden hair tumbling over her shoulders, waiting for him and wearing nothing but a welcoming smile and a bit of sheet. There was a God and He was good. “Well, hello,” he drawled, stripping off his jacket and tossing it aside. “I thought we were going to cry quits and put the insanity behind us.”

She shrugged. “Well, yes, that would be the rational thing to do.”

“I gather that you’ve decided that you don’t want to be rational?”

“Not when it comes to you,” she answered, as he sat on the edge of the mattress and yanked off his boots with what he hoped looked like confident nonchalance. “Being wicked and wanton is infinitely more enjoyable.”

Oh, yes. He stood up, turned to face her, pulled out his shirttail, and opened his cuffs. “There’s a considerable difference between being wanton and wicked, you know.”

“Really,” she drawled, letting the sheet fall away and shifting onto her hands and knees. “Do enlighten me.”

Oh, as though she didn’t have a deep and intuitive understanding of the difference already. Blindly working the studs out of his shirtfront as she ever so deliberately crawled across the mattress toward him, he realized that she was turning the parlor table on him. His heart hammering and his loins hardening, he resigned himself to the tragedy of being ruthlessly and deliciously seduced.

“ ‘Wanton’ rather implies a willingness to be compliant,” he began, wishing the damned shirt studs would just melt. “To happily follow where led along the path of carnal pleasures. Which certainly isn’t a bad thing, you understand. Wicked, on the other hand, implies a delightful bit of independence and assertive creativity along the way.”

“I had no idea,” she said as she stopped, sat back on her heels, and looked up at him. “Do you have a preference?”

“I can appreciate both,” he answered, his hands still as he watched her slowly moisten her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. “At the moment, though, I’m drawn—”

His breath caught as she boldly held his gaze while reaching out and undoing the top button on his trousers. And then the second. He swallowed hard and broadened his stance in a futile attempt to get the room to stop swaying around him.

“You’re drawn to what, Drayton?” she asked softly, undoing the third and last button.

You
. “Wicked.”

She released his gaze, hers trailing slowly downward as she skimmed her hands over the bare skin of his hips and pushed his trousers aside. “I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“I’m sure you—Oh, Jesus,” he moaned as she lowered her head and took him into her mouth. The room swayed harder and he desperately broadened his stance again. Her murmur of appreciation vibrated through every fiber of his being. His knees quaking, he threaded his hands through her hair, closed his eyes and arched his back, surrendering himself to the exquisite torture, to the perfect rhythm of her assault.

Pleasure after pleasure shot through his body, each bolt stronger, each deepening his need and pulling him closer and closer to the brink. And then it was suddenly too close, too compelling. “Caroline,” he pleaded, gasping, tightening his hands in her hair, trying to still her. “I can’t—”

She took him deeper, past the tattered edge of control, and into the blind and mindless oblivion of soul-shuddering completion.

The strength ebbing from his body on sated waves, he marshaled what was left of it to open his eyes and step back from her. She looked up at him and slowly, wickedly, knowingly smiled. His senses staggered, his heart reeled. And desire gently swirled up from the depths of satisfaction.

“Caroline,” he whispered, gathering her in his arms and easing them down on the bed. “Sweet God, I can’t get enough of you.”

“I’m sure you can if you really try.”

No he couldn’t, but if that was her fantasy, he wasn’t going to ruin it for her. No, he was going to enjoy the hell out of it, out of her, for as long as he could convince her to stay. And then he’d figure out some way to get her back here again tomorrow night.

  Sixteen  

CAROLINE ABSENTLY BUTTONED HER BODICE AND STI
-fled a yawn as she read another passage in the book lying open on her dressing table. Frowning, she read it again. Yes, right there, in black-and-white and according to
Godey’s,
a person was supposed to be fully aware of another person’s history and social ranking
before
an introduction. How one was supposed to know all that, they didn’t say. But they were adamant that the order, course, and conversational content of all proper introductions were dependent on the respective importance of everyone involved. The consequences of committing a mistake in the process,
Godey’s
claimed, was too hideous to describe in print.

What a godsend that the responsibility for doing the introductions according to form would fall to Lord Aubrey—being the highest-ranking person who knew both them and the guests. His mother had no doubt given him
his
copy of
Godey’s
while he’d still been in nappies.
The poor man,
she thought as she flipped back to the section on the rules governing parlor and dining room seating and conversation.
It’s no wonder that he’s a stick
.

She was reading yet another passage on the importance
of rank in the peerage when there was a familiar, quiet knock on the door. “Come in, Dora,” she called, gratefully abandoning her attempt at social edification.

Her maid barely crossed the threshold before stopping to give her a quick, bobbing curtsy. “The carriages are coming, Lady Caroline. They should be here within the half hour.”

“Thank you, Dora. Are Mrs. Gladder and Winfield aware of that?”

“Yes, madam. They’re collecting all the servants to change uniforms and then assemble on the drive for baggage duty.”

Of course. The household staff was nothing if not impressively well organized. Thank God. If they had been even marginally undisciplined, Ryland Castle wouldn’t be ready to receive guests. “Has anyone thought to send word into the fields?”

Dora nodded. “Mr. Haywood said it was properly the work of a toady and took off some time ago to retrieve Lord Ryland. I haven’t seen them, but they should both be back here already and dressing.”

As soon as she could, she’d check to make sure Drayton was indeed going to be ready in time. If anyone thought she was going down into the foyer and face the expectant masses without him . . . “And with that,” she said on a sigh that was part resignation and part relief, “I suppose we’re as ready as we can possibly be. With a few minutes to spare for a deep breath or two.”

Again Dora nodded. “Miss Durbin said to tell you that she has just a few minor details to see to in the servants’ quarters, but that she expects no one to catch her at it. She’ll join you in the parlor for tea after she’s freshened herself.”

Caroline nodded, vaguely recalling having read something in
Godey’s
about the protocol of commoners in a social gathering of peers. Was it that it wasn’t to be done at all? Or was it acceptable as long as the unanointed remembered their inferiority and fawned appropriately? God, it was all so complicated. And so utterly artificial. “We should all sleep like the dead tonight,” she said, wishing they were to that point already. “Lord knows we’ve earned a full night’s rest. Thank you so much for all you’ve done, Dora.”

“I’ve done no more than my fair share, madam. None of us have. We can’t have people saying bad things about our lord and lady. Or Ryland Castle.”

Discipline
and
devotion. Caroline managed a smile. “I can only hope that I live up to my part.”

“You’ll do fine, Lady Caroline,” her maid assured her brightly. “You’re three times the lady that Lady Ryland was. And ten times kinder.”

“Thank you, Dora,” she whispered, feeling suddenly and completely overwhelmed by all the levels of expectation.

“If you don’t need me for anything . . . ?”

You could push me out a window. Or maybe shoot me.
Caroline smiled, hoping that it passed for serenely confident. “Not at all.”

“Then I’ll be off to get a clean apron and cuffs so I’m not an embarrassment to you.”

The door closed and Caroline expelled a long, slow breath. Marshaling her resolve, she crossed the room and passed through the connecting sitting areas. As always, the private door into Drayton’s room stood open.

She entered to find him standing in front of his armoire, wearing only a crisp linen shirt and a bath sheet
wrapped around his hips. He held up two suits and grinned. “I was just on my way to ask . . . Black or purple?”

“It’s a deep plum,” she pointed out, dropping down onto the foot of his bed.

He shoved the black suit back into the cabinet, saying, “I’ll take that as your preference.”

Since either would be perfectly fine, she simply smiled and watched him quickly dress. It wasn’t in any way as satisfying as watching him disrobe, but she enjoyed the play of his muscles as they were hidden by fabric and promised herself a reversal of the process as soon as she could manage it.

How late did houseguests usually stay up?
Godey’s
had made it clear that a good hostess was expected to be the last to retire in the evening, seeing to her guests’ every need and whim until they couldn’t possibly come up with another. Barring extreme illness, of course. Only then could a hostess plead off her duties. Caroline lifted her hand and brushed her fingertips along the length of her throat. Why, yes, she decided, smiling, she could feel a cold coming on. It would probably strike in full soon after the ladies had retired to the parlor after dinner. Perhaps a half hour or so.

Then again, she realized, finding a way to escape the ordeal wouldn’t necessarily result in more pleasurable pursuits unless Drayton could find an excuse to do the same. And both of them sneaking off, albeit separately, would set tongues wagging.
Godey’s
never missed a chance to mention the importance of living a virtuous life and maintaining a spotless public and private reputation. One mistake in judgment, real or simply perceived, would set the course of a woman’s life spiraling into the darkest depths
of prostitution. Not that the editors were ever tasteless enough to use such straightforward language; they were so very good at inference that it wasn’t necessary. The family’s public shame over her fall, though . . .

Drayton fastened his cuffs and considered Caroline’s heavy sigh. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

She shook her head and gave him a faint smile. “How is the harvest going?”

“Very well,” he supplied, pulling on his shoes and thinking that the harvest was the least of her worries. “And I’d much rather be swinging a scythe than playing host to a horde of people I don’t know.”