Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (35 page)

“Are ye goin’ to sit there playin’ patty fingers all day? Or are ye goin’ wormin’, like ye said?”

“We’re not going worming today, Hux.”

The old man removed his pipe and twirled it at Edward. “Good, ’cause I wondered if I needed to teach ye a thing er two about courtin’ a lady. Draggin’ ’em through mud doesn’t work.” His bushy brows twitched over his rheumy eyes. “If yer not goin’ wormin’, what are ye doin’?”

“Getting married. Today.”

Twenty-one

Whatever you can do or dream,

begin it.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Sitting at Edward’s desk, Lydia twirled the quill between her fingers as she peeled back time to that summer of “firsts.” Every girl remembers her first kiss, her first love. Twelve summers ago, Rosalba Carriera, an old Venetian artist visiting the Duke of Somerset, was the first to take her talent seriously and teach her about art. That was the “first” she savored most until today.

Today she would marry the man she loved, but the torture was whether or not to admit those feelings to a man who didn’t want them. Oh, he wanted
her
, all right, but not all the parts she wanted to give, and therein rested her dilemma. Bits of old wisdom played in her head: Mrs. Carriera’s thick Italian accent, textured by time, tutoring her in the discipline and beauty of drawing and painting.

Art, like love, grows as much from what you put in as from what you keep out.

Should she add love, the most nettling emotion to her evening with Edward?

Now at his desk, she composed a quick missive to her mother, or tried to. The half-formed letter wouldn’t end. Instead, Lydia kept connecting art and love with sex and marriage, but without a completely willing partner in all aspects of wedded bliss, she was destined to be incomplete…a painting not quite finished. She needed him to stay.

Late-day sun reflected the time ticking closer to the magical hour. Lydia dipped the quill in ink to finish what was meant to be a quick note.

“Hello, miss. Surprised to see you here.” Mr. Bacon strode into the study with a packet stashed under his arm. “The kitchen’s all abuzz. You’re to wed. Tonight.”

“Mr. Bacon.” She glanced up, distracted, as she added her signature to the letter. “Yes, tonight.”

He must’ve entered through the kitchen, since no footman had taken his coat or hat. Sanford Shipping’s man of business was as comfortable moving abovestairs as below, moving with stealth and collecting information from both areas.

“What’re you doing in here?” He set the leather packet on the desk and removed his black frock coat, tossing it on the back of the chair.

“Writing a letter to my mum…ran out of paper at my desk upstairs,” she said, waiting for the ink to dry. “If a woman’s to enter the state of matrimony, her mother ought to know the day. I owe her that.”

“One could argue much is owed you.” He settled himself in the chair and crossed one leg, setting his ankle over his knee. He balanced his cap on his thigh in a most informal fashion.

“We all take care of our mums in one way or another.” She folded the missive, but when she looked up, he stared at her with his bright blue eyes, a penetrating observer. “I’m assuming you have a mum somewhere in the world?”

A leading question, since Mr. Bacon was a mystery to her. The man always looked more pirate than businessman to her, but he had genteel moments.

“We all come from somewhere.” He twirled one of his pitch-colored beard braids. “You seem calm for a woman about to attend her own wedding.”

“I’ve got Lady E. and two maids upstairs to worry for me.” She smiled and held the sealing wax over a candle, not focusing on Mr. Bacon. “They’re all aflutter over what I’m to wear. I had to escape the feminine excess.”

Believing the conversation done, she concentrated on the task of closing the letter and stamping Edward’s seal to the back. But Sanford Shipping’s man of business rumbled from across the desk once more.

“Don’t let them change you. Edward needs you just as you are.”

Lydia took a good look at the man across the desk, the man by all accounts Edward would surely call one of his dearest friends. Jet-black hair had begun to sprout from his pate, less than an inch, but clearly he was not naturally bald. His bright blue eyes stayed guarded but alert in every social transaction she’d ever witnessed him partake of.

Why had she never probed into the mystery of Mr. Jonas Bacon?

“That sounds like a version of a compliment. I think,” she said, smoothing her dark brown skirts as she rose from the chair.

He stood up as well, a rough-and-tumble version of a gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless. A thickly muscled man, he set cap in hand and stood tall. She gave a polite nod, about to retreat into mental preparations for the biggest promise of her life, but Sanford Shipping’s man of business wasn’t finished.

“He told you about the scars.” Both his meaty hands clutched the cap as if he would wring it dry. “But I don’t think he told you everything.”

“Barbary pirates attacked the ship in search of treasure, right?” Lydia stayed on her side of the desk. “Is there more?”

“We were not prepared for the attack, outgunned and outnumbered three to one,” he said, taking a breath to recount the facts. “They herded us below deck, but we could see from the hold.”

“Edward?” Her hand went to her mouth, despite what she already knew.

“No, the captain…” He braced his curled fist on the desktop and leaned closer. “You know how Edward dresses. They didn’t even take him for a third mate, that and his age. He was below, like all the rest of us.”

“They took the captain, thinking he’d hidden something from them. The man was old. That was to be his last voyage, and then he’d settle down in some Cornwall cottage.” He shifted his stance. “Do you see what happened? Edward sacrificed himself for the captain…yelled he was the one they wanted…that he had a treasure map.”

“Oh.” She breathed the word. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it, miss.” He glanced away from her, but a sneer twisted his lips within his heavy beard. “I’d been running like a rat from my past, and here was this stripling nobleman almost a decade younger than me, willing to take on the world to save an old man.”

Her hand slipped from her mouth to her chest. “That’s how you met? On that ship?”

“Yes, I saved Edward’s life, and we’ve been friends since the day.”

“How did you save him? I thought you were locked away and outnumbered?”

Mr. Bacon settled his hip on the desk. “Getting in and out of places is a skill of mine.” His oak-solid voice finished the story, at least what he would tell. “The pirates were half in their cups by then, easy pickings, but damage had been done to Edward.”

“I see.” She took a deep breath, but a hollow ache for Edward settled in her chest. “Thank you for telling me.”

From the doorway, Rogers coughed into his white-gloved hand. “Miss, her ladyship’s asking about you. She wishes you’d finish your letter and quit dawdling.” He winced and turned a shade of scarlet. “Pardon me, but she bade me say those exact words. Said I couldn’t leave you until I escorted you to the red hallway.”

Lydia and Mr. Bacon exchanged smiles.

“I’m on my way.”

Jonas gave her a curt nod. “Many ways he’s given me my life back.”

His blue stare was strained and tense, but his message was solid.

Give
my
friend
his
life
back.

***

“Of all the days to wander off.”

The countess held court on the settee, fussing over her own skirts and venting opinions. Her ladyship’s work was complete. But Tilly and Simpson labored on with the countess directing the bride’s assembly.

Lydia had been poked and prodded, cinched and pinched. She was dangerously close to being
peacocked
as Edward would say. Her sable-colored tresses had been swept high off her forehead.

Tilly completed the picture by pinning jeweled stars at strategic points within the dark curls. The countess did everything in her power to visually transform Lydia into a noblewoman, everything short of powdered hair. Not that her ladyship didn’t try.

When Simpson held the talc-covered puff, Lydia raised a staying hand. “No powder.”

“Really, Lydia. You can wear powder if you want,” the countess fussed from the settee. “Even if he puts
that
in the vows, it’s not like it matters today. You’re not honor bound to obey him until after the wedding. And believe me, most women give those words a liberal interpretation.”

Lydia rose from the dressing table. “I think this is quite acceptable.”

“Oh no, miss,” Tilly gushed, breaking one of her ladyship’s cardinal rules of silence until spoken to. “You’re a vision.”

“Thanks, Tilly.” Her blue-silk court dress not only showed a good deal of bosom, but shoulders as well. “His lordship’s bound to see lots of me up here.”

She wanted to wrap a shawl around her shoulders, but the countess banished that practical item. The dress was severely plain, except for tiers of extravagant white and silver lace draping from her elbows. A twine of silver and white embroidery threaded a simple design up the center of the bodice. She took a tentative step, and the countess echoed in her head:
head
up, shoulders back, face forward…always face forward.

“There’s lots more underskirts,” she said, looking down in alarm.

The countess rose from the settee. “You’ll get used to that.” She stepped into the hallway, where she checked her own appearance and waited for Lydia. “Aren’t you coming? The vicar awaits us in the Dutch Salon.”

The volume of fabric and a sudden sense of power made her hesitate. The idea playing in her head, delicious and powerful like champagne, was pure imp’s mischief. Lydia stroked her skirts.

“In a minute. You go ahead.” Then she looked at Tilly. “I need your help.”

Give a man his life back? She’d certainly try.

***

“I can’t be sure if you’re happy to have wed me or to get a child on me.” Breathing heavily, she pulled away from Edward’s voracious kisses.

“Both.” He pressed her back against the wall. His lips worked their way along her hairline down to her earlobes bare of jewelry.

He worshipped those plump bits of flesh, spreading goose bumps all over her with soft bites and attention. That was the first part of her he undressed when they were alone in the vermillion hallway. Earbobs glittered somewhere in the sea of red. Bubbling over with euphoria, her head tipped back. She laughed when his mouth skimmed her neck, tickling her. Lydia needed him to lose control, craved it as much as she craved feeling him inside her.

But others mingled belowstairs within earshot. The visual image of Edward finishing his hardly touched dinner played in her mind. Her new husband had barely got them away from the others when he began feasting on her. He had growled away poor Tilly when the maid offered to undress the bride. Instead, he wrapped Lydia’s arm possessively through his and took her from the dining room’s civilization. The beast would take the damsel to his lair and do the undressing.

Faint celebratory voices floated from belowstairs, champagne poured for servants and guests alike. Now, inches from his door, she wanted to explode. Under Edward’s potent attention, the evening’s joy morphed into a slow opiate, seeping into her limbs. Kisses and roving hands stirred the brew that thrummed her veins. But, the precipice of being caught in this passionate state excited her.

Lydia’s arm stretched out, as much to hold her up as to find the doorknob. All the better to get them to the right place to reveal her surprise. Sculpted lips pressed hers, insistent, teasing…demanding. His hands framed her face, and long fingers slipped into her hair, kneading and pressing. A jeweled hairpiece fell to the floor.

“Your mouth,” he growled. “Open for me.”

She opened her eyes. Edward’s eyes burned hot and black. Annoyed even. Her brain registered satisfaction to have upset his sense of order. Obedient to his command, she tilted her head back, needing the solid wood. Her lips parted, giving him that sliver of control over her. He groaned, eyes shuttering, and lost himself in her mouth. Yielding was its own kind of power. The beast, barely tamed a split second ago, ravaged her, wanting more.

Her knees buckled. Fingertips dug into smooth walnut paneling, bracing her from falling into a puddle. Her mouth barely moved, receiving Edward’s unbanked fiery passion. His kisses, deep and passionate, sought and explored. His hands slid over her silk dress, circling her hips. Volumes of silk sang whispered music when he caressed her there.

Breathing heavy, Edward stepped back. His predacious eyes, pitch black with sensual fire, narrowed. “I want you more than I’ve wanted anything or anyone in my life.”

Anger and desire twined together in those words. She smiled. His lordship didn’t like intense wanting.

Lydia leaned on the wall, arms spread out like some maiden in Greek stories left as a sacrifice for men and monsters. At the bottom of her vision, twin white curves, plump and high, pressed her low neckline, straining the fabric with every breath. Everything was too tight. Edward’s smoldering gaze dropped to those soft, round parts. His nostrils flared over the offered sacrifice.

“But I know well enough”—breath surged from his chest in heavy doses—“not to take you in the hallway.”

He grabbed Lydia’s hand. They sped into his room, locking the door firmly behind. Then for good measure, he locked the adjoining door. There’d be no escaping this night.

Lydia leaned against his bedpost, thrusting her bosom and rocking back and forth like some kind of tart. Her brazen motion wasn’t lost on him. Edward’s head snapped to attention where she waited, but control, for the moment, was his. He stood in the middle of the well-lit room and removed his brown velvet jacket, letting it drop to the floor.

“This is a first,” he said, loosening the cloth at his neck. “I’m more talkative than you.”

“I want to watch.”

His fingers froze on the knot. All of him tensed, showing muscle and sinew under his breeches in relief. A moment passed. Edward fought for restraint, and she loved witnessing the battle. One corner of his mouth kicked up, and he finished working the tie.