Lord Perfect (31 page)

She smiled the same smile Calypso must have used on
Odysseus, to keep the hero ensnared for so many years.

'That is what I like about you, Mr. Dashwood," she
said. "You are so decisive. It saves me all the bother of
thinking for myself."

'That is what I like about you, Mrs. Dashwood," he
said. "You are so sarcastic. It saves me the bother of trying to
be tactful and charming."

She stood. And swayed.

"You're drunk," he said. "I knew I should
have stopped at the last bottle."

"I am a DeLucey," she said. "I can hold
my liquor."

'That's debatable," he said. "But I can hold
you, at any rate." He rounded the table and gathered her up in
his arms. She wrapped her arms about his neck and rested her head on
his shoulder.

As though she belonged there.

"Very well, but only for a moment, while I collect
myself," she said. "Our rooms are on the first floor,
remember. If you carry me up the stairs, you could do yourself an
injury"

"I can carry you up a flight of stairs," he
said, "and have plenty of strength remaining for any other
little tasks you need performed."

"Hmmm," she said. "Let me think of some
tasks."

He carried her out of the room—and nearly trod on
Thomas, hovering in the corridor.

"Oh, there you are," said Benedict. "Mrs.
Dashwood is a trifle foxed, and I was worried she might fall into or
onto somebody." Recalling the way she'd so gracefully propelled
herself into Constable Humber's surprised but not unwilling arms,
Benedict chuckled.

She nuzzled his neck. "The room," she said in
an undertone. "You promised to put me to bed."

Ah, yes. To bed. Naked.

"The room," Benedict said. "Where's the
blasted room?"

IT WAS NOT as large as the inn at
Reading, and the bed held only two mattresses rather than three, but
it was warm and dry and
private
.
That was all Benedict cared about.

He set Bathsheba down, glanced about, and, seeing
nothing out of order—except for the floor's tendency to roll
under his feet—told Thomas to go to bed. She closed the door
after the footman, and locked it.

She advanced on Benedict.

"I want you," she said.

"I told you so," he said. "But you must
natter on about temporary insanity and—"

"Stop talking," she said. She grasped the
lapels of his coat. "I have tasks for you to perform."

She slid her hand down to the front of his trousers. His
rod, already in readiness, sprang to rigid attention.

She smiled the siren's smile up at him.

He grasped her waist and lifted her up and brought her
wicked mouth level with his own. He kissed her, not delicately or
seductively, but hotly. She grasped his shoulders and thrust her
tongue against his, and the taste of her raced through him, more
potent than any intoxicant.

She wriggled upward, her breasts rubbing his chest, and
wrapped her legs about his waist. He staggered backward until he came
against something solid. He braced himself there while his hands
worked through layers of dress and petticoats and clasped her bottom,
clad in the thin knitted silk of her drawers.

Still they kissed, deep, demanding kisses that turned
him hot then cold then hot again. No enchantress's brew could be so
potent as her passion. She made him mad and reckless and glad to be
so.

She worked his neckcloth loose, and undid the shirt
buttons and slid her hand inside over his skin, and laid it over his
heart, his desperately pumping heart.

She slid her hand lower, over his belly, to the
waistband of his trousers, and he was helpless, holding her up, while
she pulled the trouser buttons from their buttonholes and brought her
hand down over his drawers to his swollen, throbbing cock.

He groaned against her mouth and she broke the kiss.

"Now," she said. "I can't wait. Now. Let
me down."

He wanted
now
,
too, and he let her down, let her torture him with a slow easing down
over his length.

She pushed him back, toward the bed, and he went,
laughing and hot and addled, and fell onto it. She yanked up her
skirts, untied her drawers, and let them fall to the floor. She
stepped out of them and over them and climbed up onto him.

She tugged his trousers and drawers down to his knees.

He lifted his head and gazed down at
himself. It was most undignified. His
membrum
virile
stood up proudly, unconcerned
with dignity. "My boots," he said, laughing. "May I
not at least—"

"Keep still," she said, and straddled him.
"Leave this to me."

He never left anything to women—even this—but
she was different and he couldn't think and didn't want to think.

Then her soft hand was curling round his rod, sliding up
and down, and he thought he would die and knew he'd never last. "You
will kill me, Bathsheba," he said.

"You are killing me," she said. She pushed
herself onto his aching cock, surrounding him with hot, moist flesh…
and muscles, wicked muscles, pressing against him.

He cried out something, not words but some mad, animal
sound. She lifted herself, then pushed down again. She moved slowly
at first, sending waves of voluptuous pleasure coursing through him.
By degrees the rhythm built, faster, more ferocious.

He watched her beautiful face while she made his body
hers. He saw her hunger, the mirror of his own, and her joy, unlike
anything he'd ever known before. Harder and faster she rode him, and
the joy was in his veins and pumping through his heart. She rode him,
wild now, and he was a runaway, racing with her he knew not where and
cared not where. They raced to the edge of the world and beyond, and
soared for a while, free and joy-filled, then floated down and into
sleep.

When he woke in the morning, she was gone.

So, he soon discovered, were his purse and his clothes.

Chapter 14

Throgmorton, Sunday
7
October

BATHSHEBA COULD GUESS WHAT THE BUTLER was thinking.

The name Wingate would not be unfamiliar to him.

The elderly Earl of Mandeville, lord of these domains
and head of the DeLucey family, was on speaking terms— although
just barely—with the Earl of Fosbury, Jack's father.

A reasonable person could hardly hold the good DeLuceys
responsible for what the dreadful ones did. However, Lord Fosbury had
never been reasonable where his favorite son—whom he'd indulged
to a shocking degree, and who in repayment had broken his heart—was
concerned. In his opinion, Lord Mandeville should have prevented the
marriage and arranged for Bathsheba to be taken somewhere far beyond
Jack's reach.

In Lord Mandeville's opinion, Lord Fosbury was incapable
of controlling his son.

Relations between the two families, therefore, were
frosty.

Nonetheless, they were on speaking
terms, which meant the butler dare not turn away any lady named
Wingate
…

even though she had arrived on horseback, with neither
maid nor groom in attendance.

Bathsheba might have made up a lie about an accident or
some such, but she was aware that members of the upper orders did not
explain themselves to anybody, especially servants.

She merely regarded the butler with the same
bored-to-death expression she'd seen on Rathbourne's face at times.
She had learnt from her governess how to make that face. Rathbourne,
however, had raised it to a form of high art.

Thinking of him caused her a twinge, which she
ruthlessly crushed.

"Lord Mandeville is not at home," the butler
said.

"Lord Northwick, then," she said. Northwick
was the earl's eldest son.

"Lord Northwick is not at home," the butler
said.

"I see," she said. "Must I name each of
the family members by turn, and do you mean to keep me standing upon
the step throughout the exercise?"

That made him blink. He begged her pardon. He ushered
her inside.

"My business is urgent," she said crisply.
"Are the family all at church, or is there a responsible adult
at home to whom I might speak?"

"I shall ascertain whether anyone is at home,
madam," he said.

He led her into a large antechamber and left.

She had paced it for a few minutes when she heard
footsteps. She halted and donned Rathbourne's expression once again.

A young man hurried into the room. He was but a few
inches taller than she and much younger—in his early twenties,
she guessed. He was good-looking and well dressed, although it was
clear he'd put on those fine clothes in great haste. He must have
risen very recently. He—or his servant—had neglected to
brush his thick brown hair. His eyes were the same intense blue as
Olivia's.

"Mrs. Wingate?" he said. "I am Peter
DeLucey. I saw you ride up the drive. I do apologize for keeping you.
Urgent business, Keble said. I hope…" He trailed off, his
gaze going from her to something behind her right shoulder.

She glanced that way. Then she turned
more fully and studied it: a full-length portrait of a naval officer
in the style of wig popular early in the previous century. He could
have been her father. In a black wig, he might have been
her
.