My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (5 page)

Her gaze narrowed as she leaned against him. Her head tilted seductively and her mouth hovering inches away, lips plump and oh so deliciously tempting. “Oh, Simon. You are daft if you think you can drive me away. I will wait for you as long as it takes. I’m not going anywhere. I can and will wait forever.”

When he didn’t move, she spoke again. “I’m not going anywhere, my love.”

“How can you be sure? Nelson’s Tea, this townhouse,” he said, breaking away from her and spreading his arms wide, “is all I can give you. Once it is gone—”

“We will always be together,” she said without hesitation, “no matter what befalls Nelson’s Tea.”

She stepped back then turned away, leaving him to wonder if she meant to leave him in his hour of distress. Would she?

Destructive showers of bullets fly;

The scuppers flow with streams of blood;

Harsh thunders rend the vaulted sky;

Fierce lightnings blaze along the flood.

Undaunted NELSON foremost stands—

The cause of his Country’s and his King’s

When, lo! to aid the Gallic bands,

From Hell malignant Envy springs.

~“Nauticus”, The Battle of Trafalgar, October 21, 1805, The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV November 1805

With a heavy
but stubborn heart, Gillian walked to the dining room doorway with every intention of proving Simon wrong. If he thought she meant to leave him, he was a bigger fool than Fouché believed. She had no intention of walking out of this room, this townhouse, his life. Not now. Not ever. Simon was all she had left. He
was
her life. And she would do everything in her power to keep him from shutting himself away from everyone — including her.

It was mid-morning. Only an hour had passed since she’d come down to break her fast, and yet it seemed as if years had come and gone.

How cruel that a few succinct words, or one letter, could completely or irrevocably change one’s perception of the world.

In the four years she’d lived in the townhouse, held risqué parties for the upper crust, dallied amongst the
ton
, and ferreted out information that she gladly passed on to Simon and their cohorts, she’d never once thought of giving up her clandestine existence. She was the Baroness Chauncey, a worldly woman often escorted by the foulest of creatures. Inside these townhouse walls, however, she was still the girl Simon had found at Drury Lane, the one eagerly seeking to escape an abusive father and his equally violent and insistent debt collectors.

Now, as her gaze assessed the dining room entrance, the same threshold Admiral Nelson had strode through the first day he’d come to initiate Nelson’s Tea in 1801, she was determined Simon understood how far she would go to prove her love. Without questioning her own actions further, she grabbed the double-door handles, closed them, and inserted the key she kept on her chatelaine, sequestering them together.

The telltale click sounded loudly in her ears. Her heartbeat raced past the rhythm of the ticking clock on the mantle.

Tick. Tick. Tock.

No going back.

Her mind set, she inhaled deeply, straightened her shoulders, then turned back around to face the man she adored. He stood at the window, exactly where she’d left him, a lonelier figure she’d never spied. His face had grown pale, his eyes an emotionless mask.

Butterflies fluttered beneath her breast. She clenched her fingers and worried her lower lip. Throwing one last misgiving aside, she walked toward him, forgetting everything but the isolated world she’d created. She placed one foot before the other, her heart hammering in her chest, burning to show Simon just how much he was needed — loved. That no future could be bleak when shared with another.

“Simon,” she said, emotion welling inside her.

He turned away from the window.

She stepped closer, struggling to maintain her poise under his blank scrutiny. Her gaze slid appreciatively over his entire length, from Hessians to black breeches, black waistcoat to cravat and back again until they hovered over the very organ begging to be unsheathed from his breeches. No matter what it took, she meant to have him, expose him, embroil his emotions, bring him back to life.

“What are you doing?” he asked as she approached. The ferocity of his question didn’t frighten her. Simon would never hurt her.

“I’m not going anywhere.” She eased her fingers over his arms, absorbing his heat. “And neither are you.”

“Gillian.” His stare burned through her.

Horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped past the townhouse windows. The clock chimed the hour.

Ding. Ding.

“You—”

“Shhh.” She was actually trembling as she put the tip of her finger over his mouth. “Don’t speak, my lord.”

His probing eyes widened and a spark ignited in their dark brown depths.

In one fluid motion, Gillian pulled his arms around her waist. “Hold me,” she whispered. “Use me.”

“Are you daft? No.” Just the same, he spread his hands wide over her hips then pulled her tightly against him. Her body tingled, head to foot as tiny rivulets of delight spiraled through her nerve-endings at the contact. “You don’t know what you’re doing, where this will lead.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing. Kiss me. Kiss me at long last, my lord rogue.”

His grip tightened as he leaned his head on hers.

She released a throaty sigh. “Yes.”

He moved her swiftly away from the window, pressing her back to the wall. She couldn’t wrench away from him now if she tried.

She didn’t want to.

He captured her face between his hands. “Don’t toy with me. Now isn’t the time.”

She arched against him, nipping at his upper lip. “I beg to differ. This is exactly what you need, Simon.”

“I’ll have no part of your mind games.”

“Life is a game,” she purred.

His brown eyes smoldered, turning to molten honey. Instead of answering, he groaned with a maddening hint of arrogance and bent down to ravish her mouth. His hands were brutally thorough as he inched them up the back of her legs, grabbed her thighs, and lifted and carried her back with him. She was too eager to purge his mind of the sorrow taking hold of his soul to complain that he sat in the first chair he backed into. She knew how a man and woman coupled, and this strange position was one of them. Courtesans eager to pad their funds had been willing to train her in the arts of pleasing men. Though she’d never finalized the act itself, she’d used other methods to extract information from her political targets.

Simon wasn’t a job. He was the man she worshiped. Nothing could stop her from plunging into the intoxicating sea swelling around them. She was determined to consummate their love, come what may. It was exhilarating to be in Simon’s arms, to feel his heated touch, his body flush against her as they spiraled out of control.

“You possess me body and soul, Gillian.”

“Then consume
me
.”

Simon growled low in the back of his throat. He pulled her down to his mouth and devoured her lips, making each kiss sing through her veins. She writhed above him, tightening her thighs around his waist, and kissed him back hungrily. Balanced on his lap, she reveled in the feel of his punishing, urgent exploration and the strange wild swirl igniting in her stomach. It was divine ecstasy to be in Simon’s arms. Bound to him as she was, she became lost to the rising fire coiling in her womanhood, a heat so all-consuming she knew neither her name nor where she was, only that she wanted to be infinitely closer to Simon even more than she wanted her next breath.

He must have felt the same overriding reckless abandon, because he moved her back to open his breeches then hiked her pink skirts up to her hips. The barest touch of his hands on her skin branded her, making her awareness of him grow. Need registered all over his face as he freed his cock and pressed his rigid heat against her. Eager to know him, to be filled with him, she reached down to stroke his length, trapping his satiny heat between her stomach and her hand. He instantly reacted, drawing in a ragged breath, growling with pleasure. In turn, wicked desire flooded through her as Simon placed his hands under her arms and lifted her over the searing, probing, invading, all-encompassing part of him she craved. But when Simon thrust his hips and entered her, she couldn’t hold back her unexpected shriek of pain. She gripped the back of the chair.

He stiffened. “What the devil?”

Her body clenched around his shaft. All the while, her eyes held his brown gaze, brimming and bursting with anguish.

“This is not what I’d imagined,” he said, turning pale.

She fought to catch her breath. “Wh-what had you imagined?”

Feeling somewhat guilty for refusing to tell Simon the exact state of her virginity and allowing him to believe she’d used her sex for the betterment of Nelson’s Tea, she shifted on his lap and winced. He closed his eyes. Had
she
hurt
him
? The idea was absurd and yet, the throbbing between her legs indicated something was wrong. But as she moved to dismount him, the friction generated along his shaft sent an unexpected thrill shooting through her. His eyelids flickered. His mouth twitched, and he licked his lips. Struck by the power she had over him, she moved again, wanting to see him moisten his lips once more. His mouth parted. A moan escaped. She leaned forward and sucked his lower lip between her teeth. He kissed her back, making love to her mouth with his tongue, all the while deepening his penetration, sending them both over the edge.

This time the moan she heard was hers. Flesh stroked flesh. Instinctively, she arched, taking him in deeper. He traced a sensuous path of kisses across the rise of breasts straining to be free from her corset. She grasped the tendons along the back of his neck and brought him closer.

“You deserve. So. Much. More,” he said against her, tracing a path of kisses to her expectant mouth.

Nothing could part them now. Together they sped on a race of whirling ecstasy, riding wave after wave of the sensual tide ebbing and flowing between them. Gillian reveled in the pure, explosive joy flooding her senses, the whirlwind Simon produced as he filled her, kissed her, and she rode him. She held on for dear life, staring deeply into Simon’s intoxicating eyes as a floodtide of emotion surged over her and tremors of delight and complete abandon continued to ripple through her senses. She cried out again, this time in awe of the pleasure Simon gave her as he drove into her, stiffened, moaned, and joined her back to earth.

Spent, gasping for breath, she collapsed onto Simon and laid her head on his shoulder, never wanting to be parted from him ever again.

“If I’d known how glorious this would be,” she whispered, “I’d have become your mistress years ago.”

She turned her head and rested it in the crook of his neck. He reached up and moved a stray hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ear, then chuckled softly. “I would never have allowed it.”

She smacked his hand away and leaned back with surprising astonishment. “You would have denied yourself
this
?”

“Even this.”

“And now?”

He leaned forward to trace her lips with the tip of his finger. “Nothing can take you from me.”

He was wrong. There were many things beyond the doors clamoring to part them. She suppressed a shiver, hesitating to celebrate this one small victory, knowing it wouldn’t last. Reality hovered near, eager to snatch away their happiness. The only certainty she understood was the present moment.

“Not even the admiral’s death?” she asked, floating back to earth.

“Not even that.”

Wordless, she stared at him. Had she succeeded in making Simon understand it was the two of them against the world and not the other way around? Here, as she was with him now, the idea that he’d allow anything to come between them was ludicrous at best. And yet she was genuinely astonished and pleased at the same time.

Gillian cupped her hands around his face and drew him close to her breast. “You are sure. I have your word.”

“You have my word as a gentleman.”

“It is not merely the gentleman I want, but the wicked man who feels with his heart, the man willing to make promises that cannot be broken.”

He pushed back to look into her eyes then brushed his lips against hers. “This man loves you enough to promise anything.”

“Anything?” She smiled wickedly.

“Just what did you have in mind?”

Heir of Immortal Glory now,

Protector of the brave be thou,

In the hour of victory!

Teach thou the valiant, good and great,

Thy high exploits to emulate,

And fearless smile like thee on fate,

In the hour of victory!

~Epicedium, On the Death of Lord Nelson, S.B. The Gentleman’s Magazine 1805.13

Simon drummed his
fingers on the window pane, keeping rhythm with his own heartbeat. It had taken two days for everyone to respond to his summons for a special meeting at Number Eleven Bolton Street. The lull offered him enough privacy to gather his thoughts and develop strategy on how Nelson’s Tea should proceed henceforth.

To her credit, Gillian had overseen the townhouse preparations. She’d instructed the servants on the merits of opening her home to those attached to the admiral and his family. As a result, linens had been refreshed, candles lit, fireplaces stoked to a warm glow, and meals prepared for their sixteen guests.

Nothing had been left to chance.

“Simon, we are ready,” Garrick said, a little unsteady on his feet.

The lines etched into Garrick’s face provided ample evidence to the exhausting miles he’d traveled over such a short period of time. He leaned heavily on his cane as he left Simon’s side, moving across the room to sit with Percy and Henry. Henry offered Garrick a brandy. Garrick accepted it and stretched out his legs, holding his tumbler aloft in a salute to their six trusted companions, Clemmons, Stanley, Winters, Edwards, Moore, and Randall who took respite by the sideboard where they could observe the room with quiet speculation.

Simon’s gaze traveled over the rest of the room where Jack Chapman was locked in conversation with Maxwell Hamlet, a genius he wanted to keep on the team. Lord Henry Melville’s assistant Richard Douglas, Melville, England’s former Treasurer of the Navy, and Samuel Whitbread, a district attorney associated with the House of Lords, sat before a tall stack of files to determine whether or not Nelson’s Tea had the funds to continue without the Admiralty Board’s help. Next to Whitbread sat James Russell, a Brighton physician who’d saved their lives more times than Simon had fingers. To Russell’s right sat Albert Holt, vicar of St. Dionis Backchurch, a small, rich parish in Langbourne Ward. His assistance had provided intelligence among notable parishioners but also within theological ranks inside the House of Commons and the House of Lords.

Good men all, and yet Simon was conflicted. Who could he trust? Which of these men would agree to follow
him
now that Admiral Nelson was dead? He wasn’t like Nelson, never had been. He didn’t have the admiral’s charm or keen wisdom, nor did he have a plethora of men clamoring to follow him into danger.

Holt caught Simon silently observing him and flashed a pious grin. The expression reminded Simon of his father’s frozen smile. He had the nagging suspicion the man was judging
him
, not the other way around. Senses prickled, his doubts faded as the vicar broke eye contact, resuming his conversation with Stanley Milford and Thomas Forsyth.

Simon’s decision to convene the meeting now endangered the men who’d placed their lives in his care. A fact he didn’t take lightly. Had they been seen entering the townhouse? Chances were high, but it couldn’t be helped. These weren’t ordinary days. Nor was this a normal activation. Without Nelson to guide them, the tide and level of espionage the group was qualified to administer now fell on deaf ears at the Admiralty Board level. No one knew this better than Simon and Melville. The break in Nelson’s Tea’s leadership hierarchy would be viewed by some as an excuse to financially cut Nelson’s Tea off at the knees.

At Melville’s nod, Simon left the window and walked to the large mahogany table to check the numbers beneath the man’s finger. “Are these accurate?”

Melville nodded. “They are exactly the figures we discussed.”

“I wonder if further action…”

Goodayle opened the dining room doors. An outstanding butler, he was a far better spy who kept Simon abreast of gossip spoken below stairs.

“Baroness Chauncey,” Goodayle announced.

Gillian gave Goodayle a polite nod then moved into the room.

Chairs scraped the floor as one by one, the men, as if awakening from sedation, stood to offer her a respectful bow. Gillian greeted each man with reserved gentility as she mingled warmheartedly with the group she had helped assemble, clasping a hand here, allowing a kiss to linger on her fingers there.

Her presence added spark to the somber air. Dressed in a demur silver-gray gown with black lace fanning her neck then trailing down her ribboned bodice to the floor, she blended in with the damask draperies cloaking the room in secrecy. This was the first time he’d seen her since he’d left their bed chamber earlier in the morning. And after a night of lovemaking, she behaved as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, her eyes glimmering brilliantly like a shining beacon in a dark, disturbing world.

He saw beneath her disguise. Like him, she suffered unconscionable guilt and remorse over Nelson’s death. It was a connection everyone in the room shared. For a moment the world stopped turning and time stood still as the mantle clock chimed.

Ding. Ding.

Percy stepped in her path. “Ah, baroness, you have been sorely missed.”

She didn’t speak. From across the room, her love branded Simon with unshakable certainty. He returned her demure nod, bowing his head before raising his gaze back to hers — slowly — reverently caressing her body, careful he wasn’t observed. Their eyes clung for what seemed like eternity before her demeanor changed and her attention settled on Percy. She spoke to him briefly.

Percy turned to look at Simon and nodded. At his cue, Simon commenced the speech he had silently rehearsed for days. “Gentlemen, it is a pleasure to have you all here where you belong — and at the same time. Now that the baroness has arrived, we can—”

“Get on with it.”

At Garrick’s rude intrusion, Simon’s guarded unease mounted. He still hadn’t quite forgiven the man for being caught in an embrace with the woman he loved.

Henry put a stabilizing hand on Garrick’s right shoulder.
“Please do not take offense, my lord. We are all eager to hear what you have to say.”

He envied the control Henry had over Garrick and gave him an understanding nod. Garrick’s rude behavior was linked to
Capitan
Delgado’s maltreatment. Something he took into account daily as he glanced at Gillian. She must have been thinking along the same lines, because she shifted position and crossed the room toward Garrick. Simon hoped her presence would temper the struggling pirate and help make this event feel more pleasant than it was meant to be, than it could be.

“I concur. Let’s get this over with,” Holt demanded.

Simon’s optimism for a level-headed meeting of minds dissolved. He frowned at the grumbling vicar. “I don’t want this meeting anymore than you do.”

“Sometimes we cannot have what we most desire.”

“Allow me to take care of this, old man.” Percy, immaculately dressed in an outlandish Robin’s Egg blue coat and breeches, approached Holt with his telltale swagger.

Simon suppressed a chuckle. This
tête-à-tête
would prove entertaining, providing Percy didn’t start a war and the vicar held his tongue.

Percy presented his quizzing glass and bowed with fanciful flourish, the way he always did when he was up to no good. Except this time, as they all watched expectantly, the resourceful duke worked his lethal charm on one of their own.

“Odd’s fish!” he said, almost hissing as he knocked Holt’s breastbone. “Did you forget to go to confessional this morning, dear boy? Or have you been dipping into St. Dionis’ sacramental wine again?”

Holt shook his head with negative zeal.

“No? Strange,” Percy said, tapping a menacing beat on his palm with the spectacle. “Then how do you explain the fact that you’ve quite forgotten your place?” He turned to Gillian. “I must say, I’m flummoxed. The gall! What say you, dearest baroness? Have we assembled in your good home in our hour of mourning just to listen to one of Holt’s long-winded tyrannical sermons when our beloved admiral is dead? I beg you. Tell me I am wrong.”

Color drained from Gillian’s face. “I dare say, you are not.”

Holt lifted his hands to cover his face. “I meant no disrespect—”

“Did you not?” Percy swatted Holt’s hands away and gave the man his full attention, inching closer.

“O-Of course not,” Holt stuttered.

Silence permeated the room as Holt’s eyes enlarged and sweat beaded on the vicar’s brow.

“Anyone else?” Percy asked.

Capable of coldblooded violence, no one else in the room was stupid enough to cross Percy. Nobody was intimidated by his peerage, odd appearance or mannerisms, but by what he was capable of. Like a bird of prey, Percy’s distracting wig, clothing, and theatrical paint worked all too well, luring his quarry in so the devious man beneath could strike, extracting information or condemning the enemy to death. A tactic Simon envied but still made him more than a little bit nervous.

After several tense moments passed, Percy said, “Ah, there it is.” His ridiculous black beauty mark contrasted flamboyantly against his powdered skin, dancing when he smiled. “I thought not.”

Percy turned and gallantly took Gillian’s hand, raising it to his lips.

“Ah, dear baroness, it does indeed appear you are just the woman this assembly needed. A calm presence in the storm.”

Gillian released a heavy sigh. “I pray that is so.”

“Which is as it should be. Now, how is it we are all pitifully exhausted, m’dear, and yet you stroll in managing to look as fresh as the day is born, eh?”

Percy’s gaze shifted sideways to Simon. He bowed his head, cocking his brow in mock salute. Did he know what inspired Gillian’s inner glow?

Lucifer take it!

Simon cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, since we are now all in attendance, and,” giving Percy his due, he continued, “pleasantries have been exchanged, may we begin?”

What would Nelson think if he saw them now, in the midst of heartache, clinging to civility? What would the admiral expect Simon to relay to his men?

“Press on for England.”

Yes. Press on. For his country, his men, the woman he loved.

Percy ushered Gillian closer to the head of the table. She wore her hair parted down the middle and piled high on her head, a fashion that only succeeded in emphasizing her heart-shaped face to full effect beneath the glittering candelabra illuminating the room. Silver feathers caressed her dark tresses with light strokes his fingers ached to retrace.

Damn you, Nelson is dead! You cannot have what you want.

He cleared his throat. “Though we would all give our lives to have Lord Nelson standing before us now, lip curled and his emphatic, penetrating stare trained on us, regrettably that cannot be so.”

“In one dramatic stroke, we have been deprived of his genius,” Henry added with a growl.

Simon gave Henry a slight nod. “No truer statement has ever been made.”

The captain probably felt the blow of Nelson’s death more than anyone present, given the fact Nelson had groomed Henry to exhibit the polished manners of a perfect gentleman. He’d offered general frankness and open-hearted candor at a time when Henry needed support in the Admiralty to salvage his naval career.

Whitbread, in true attorney fashion, rolled onto the balls of his feet. “What will we do now?”

“We are gathered here today to find out. Lord Nelson once confided it was his goal to attack the enemy in close, diverse combat. Nelson’s Tea is what became of that strident desire.” Simon paced a few steps, hands clasped behind his back. “We can and
will
continue Nelson’s strategy — without him.

“Without him?” Thoroughly ridiculed by Percy, Holt refocused his rage. “But you cannot expect to—”

“I expect every man will do his duty,” Simon said firmly, repeating Nelson’s mantra. “If Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar has taught us one valuable lesson it is this unorthodox methods must be used to face down Fouché and Barere’s dangerous activities. We cannot rest now. If anything, our enemies will find a way to strike while we are at our most vulnerable.”

Holt brushed past Milford and Forsyth, who stood to bar his path. “How can we be expected to put our lives on the line without the Admiralty’s protection?”

“Have you forgotten Nelson’s favorite proverb?
He that would go to sea for pleasure, would go to hell for a pastime.
We will forge on the way we’ve been taught.”

“Together.” Gillian met his gaze and Simon knew immediately she not only referred to the men gathered in the room, but to the two of them.

Holt snarled. “Easy for you to say!”

Percy stiffened and frowned. “Perhaps you could benefit from a lesson in humility, dear vicar.”

A muscle twitched in Gillian’s jaw. She moved away from Percy, a mixture of worry and fear registering on her face. What disturbed her? If he could, Simon would stop the meeting in order to find out. More importantly, what was wrong with Holt? Was he overwrought? Deliberately ignoring his authority?