Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square (2 page)

“’T
is high time you got home, my lady,” Esme’s maid scolded as Esme hurried into her bedroom nearly fifteen minutes after the dressing gong had been rung. “I was on the verge of sending one of the footmen out to fetch you. Och, and look at those boots. What new mischief have you been about this afternoon? Tromping in the mud again, I see.”

The older woman’s face creased into a scowl that put Esme in mind of a wizened prune.

“Oh, don’t carry on so, Grumbly,” Esme said with a coaxing smile, using the old nickname she’d given Mrs. Grumblethorpe when Esme had still been in leading strings. “I went for a walk, then stopped at the stables afterward to check on Aeolus. His wing is still healing and he needs food and exercise twice a day.”

Aeolus was a hawk Esme had found in the woods a couple of months earlier, shot with an arrow. She’d nursed him through the worst and hoped the bird might be able to fly again with enough time and care.

Grumblethorpe tsked and turned Esme around, her fingers moving quickly to unfasten the buttons on Esme’s mud-stained dress. “You and your animals. Always worrying over some poor, misbegotten creature. Rabbits and birds, hedgehogs and box turtles. You’re forever dragging something back, to say nothing of all the cats and dogs you’ve brought with you into the house.”

Esme let her maid’s words roll harmlessly away. Despite Grumblethorpe’s noises of disapproval, Esme knew she liked the family pets. She just didn’t approve of having so many of them in her mistress’s bedroom at once. Still, it was an old battle and one the lady’s maid had given up waging long ago.

Good thing too, since four of Esme’s six cats—who had all started life in either the Braebourne stables or as strays she’d rescued—were snoozing in various locations around her room. They included a big orange male, Tobias, who was curled up in a cozy spot in the middle of her bed; Queen Elizabeth—a sweet-natured tabby, who was lounging in her usual window seat; Mozart—a luxuriously coated white longhair who luckily loved being brushed; and Naiad, a one-eyed black female, whom Esme had rescued from drowning as a kitten. Her other two cats, Persephone and Ruff, were out and about, seeing to their own cat business.

As for the dogs, Burr lay stretched out on the hearthrug in front of the fireplace. He snored gently, clearly tired after their recent adventures. And joining him in the land of dreams was dear old Henry, a brindle spaniel who was curled up inside a nearby dog bed lined with plush pillows that helped cushion his aging joints. Handel and Haydn, a pair of impish Scottish terriers, were absent. She suspected they were on the third floor playing with her increasingly large brood of nieces and nephews. The dogs loved the children.

Still making a few noises that were true to her name, Grumblethorpe stripped Esme down to her shift and bare feet. She carried away the soiled garments, leaving Esme to wash up with the fresh water and towels that had been laid out.

As Esme dipped her hands into the basin of water, her thoughts turned again to the mysterious naked man at the lake and the drawing of him that now resided in her sketchbook.

A warm flush rose on her skin, together with a tiny
secret smile. He truly had been . . . magnificent. Better than any of the Greek statues she’d ever seen.

But her interest in him had been strictly artistic, she assured herself. She was an artist and he had been her chosen subject. If he happened to be pleasingly shaped, and if she happened to have taken extra care in her rendering of certain intriguing body parts, well, she had only been doing justice to the artwork, nothing more.

Even so, she was grateful he hadn’t realized that she’d drawn him. Some people didn’t like having their likenesses sketched—although considering that he’d been swimming naked, he didn’t strike her as the bashful type.

Thank heavens, though, for Burr. For a few seconds, when she’d been turning to leave, she’d feared that her accidental Adonis had spotted her. But Burr had dashed out and diverted his attention so that he hadn’t known she was there.

Picking up the bar of honey-scented soap, she lathered her hands and began to wash. As she did, she speculated again on who he might be. Certainly no one who lived in the neighborhood; she would have remembered a man like him. So why did she have the strangest feeling she’d seen him somewhere before? For the life of her, she couldn’t place him.

Oh well, it would come to her eventually—or not. She wasn’t going to concern herself. After all, it wasn’t as if their paths were likely ever to cross again.

Just then, Grumblethorpe came back into the room with Esme’s evening gown and silk slippers in hand. Realizing she had no further time to ruminate, Esme began to bathe in earnest.

In far less time than one might have imagined, Esme stood clean, elegantly coiffed and attired in an evening gown of demure white silk—presentable for company once again.

She’d hoped with the Season over, she might be able to put all the entertaining behind her for the year. But then Claire had decided to host one of her autumn
country parties, inviting the usual gathering of friends and family, in addition to a few new acquaintances from London.

Esme sighed inwardly, wishing she could spend a quiet evening with just the family, then retire early with a good book.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders, fixed a smile on her lips and headed downstairs.

•   •   •

“Might I have the pleasure of procuring a beverage for you, Lady Esme?”

Esme glanced up from where she sat on the end of the long drawing room sofa and into the eager gray eyes of Lord Eversley.

Only minutes before, the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies after dinner, strolling in on a wave of companionable talk and the faint lingering aromas of cigar smoke and port wine.

Esme had been half listening to the other women’s discussion of the latest fashions when Lord Eversley approached and made her a very elegant bow.

He’d been seated next to her at dinner; she’d found his conversation both pleasant and interesting. He was an attractive man, personable, well-mannered and intelligent. He was also heir to an earldom and a fortune that was impressive even by her own family’s standards.

In short, he was everything any sane young woman could want in a husband.

So why wasn’t she falling under his spell?

She couldn’t even claim the excuse of disliking him; she liked him quite well. He was nice. He had a good sense of humor, and as a friend, she had no quarrel with his company.

But marriage?

Instinctively she knew there should be something more—a spark, a flicker of passion, to say nothing of love. And that, above all else, was the problem. Perfect as he was, he simply wasn’t the man for her.

Yet out of all her suitors during this year’s London Season, Eversley had been the most attentive. She’d done her best not to encourage him. She had even tried a time or two to actively
discourage
him. But if he had one fault, it was his bone-deep streak of stubbornness. Which, she supposed, accounted for his decision to accept Claire’s invitation to come to Braebourne for a fortnight of shooting and entertainment.

As for her sister-in-law Claire and her sister, Mallory, and their rather badly disguised attempt to further a relationship between her and Eversley . . .

She ought to be cross with them; really she should.

But she knew they only meant well. She could hear them now, whispering as coconspirators.
But she so clearly likes him. We all like him; even Ned approves. The only thing those two need is a gentle nudge, a bit of time on their own, and the wedding bells will be ringing.

And that was the trouble.

Claire and Mallory were happily married—as were all her siblings now except her brother Lawrence, who just laughed and shook his head whenever anyone brought up the subject of matrimony. All any of them wanted was for her to be happily married too.

Which was sweet in one way and exasperating in another. If only the lot of them would believe her when she said that she wasn’t interested in a husband.

Not right now at least, and not for a good long while, if she had any say in the matter.

Luckily, her oldest brother, Edward—despite his approval of Eversley—was in no hurry to get her off his hands. He’d assured her before the Season had even begun that she was to take her time and marry only when, and if, she wished. He was quite content to let her remain at home for as many years as she liked.

Someday, she knew, the time would come when she would need to marry. Until then, she would have to find ways to avoid the overtures of interested young men,
especially the thoroughly eligible and clearly determined Lord Eversley.

She smiled and nodded toward her nearly empty teacup. “Thank you, Lord Eversley, for your kind offer, but I am very well refreshed at present.”

“Ah,” he said, linking his hands behind his back while he took a moment to regroup. Suddenly his eyes brightened. “A walk, then, perhaps? The gardens here at Braebourne are quite splendid, even by lantern light.”

There it was, alone in the gardens. She wasn’t falling for that trick.

“Indeed the gardens are lovely. But again, I must refuse. Another time perhaps? I have walked a great deal today, you understand, and my feet are far too weary for another outing tonight.”

Her feet were never weary—everyone in the family knew she could beat paths through the fields like a seasoned foot soldier—but Lord Eversley didn’t need to be apprised of that fact. Hopefully none of her family was listening and would decide to give her away.

Yet apparently someone else
was
listening.

Lettice Waxhaven—another of the London guests, who happened to have made her debut along with Esme this past spring—leaned forward, a fierce gleam in her pale blue eyes. “Yes, where were you this afternoon, Lady Esme? We were all of us wondering what could be so fascinating that you would vanish for the entirety of the afternoon.”

Esme hid her dislike for the other young woman behind a tight smile. Why her mother and Lettice’s mother had to be old childhood friends who had been unexpectedly reacquainted this Season, she didn’t for the life of her know. But owing to the renewal of that friendship, Esme found herself far too often in Lettice’s company.

“I was just out,” Esme said. “Walking and sketching.”

“Really? Pray tell, what is it you sketch?” Lettice
asked as if she were actually interested—which Esme knew she was not.

But quite without warning, she was caught up in unbidden memories of the lake and the drawing she had done of the naked sleeping man. She blinked, grateful for the room’s warmth, since it disguised the flush stealing over her neck and cheeks.

“Nature,” she answered with a seemingly careless shrug. “Plants and animals. Anything that takes my fancy at the time.”

And, oh my, had the glorious stranger taken her fancy.

“Lady Esme is quite the accomplished artist,” Lord Eversley said with enthusiasm. “I had the great good fortune to view a few of her watercolors when we were last in Town.” He smiled at her with clear admiration. “She is a marvel.”

Lettice’s mouth tightened, her eyes narrowing. It was no secret—at least not to Esme—that Lettice had long ago set her cap at Lord Eversley and that so far he had failed to take notice of her. Esme would have felt sorry for her were she a nicer person.

After a moment, Lettice rearranged her features into a sweet smile, as if realizing she’d let a glimpse of her real personality show instead of the usual falsely pleasant mask she wore. “Oh, I should so like to see your sketches. Perhaps you might show them to us?”

“Yes, Lady Esme,” Eversley agreed. “I too would greatly enjoy a chance to view your newest work.”

“That is most kind,” Esme said, hedging. “But I suspect you would find my efforts disappointing.”

“Impossible,” Eversley disagreed. “You are too good an artist to ever draw anything that could be termed disappointing.”

“You give me far too much credit, Lord Eversley. What I drew today amounts to nothing of importance. Just a few random studies; that’s all.”

A nude study of an unforgettable male.

Sleek limbs corded with muscle.

A powerful hair-roughened chest.

Narrow hips.

Taut buttocks.

And his face . . .

Planes and angles that begged for an artist’s attention, rugged yet refined, bold and brilliant.

Captivating.

“Truly, they’re mostly rubbish, and I have no wish to offend anyone’s eyes with the viewing,” she said, hoping Eversley would take the hint and let that be the end of it.

Instead, he persisted. “You are far too modest, Lady Esme. Why do you not let me be the judge?”

“Who is modest?” her brother Lawrence said, turning his head to join the conversation. A few of the others looked around as well.

“Lady Esme,” Eversley explained. “Miss Waxhaven and I are trying to persuade her to show off the sketches she did today, but she is too shy.”

Leo, Lawrence’s twin, laughed from where he sat next to his wife, Thalia. “Our Esme? Shy about her art? That doesn’t sound likely.”

“Yes, she’s usually raring to share,” Lord Drake Byron agreed.

“That’s because even her bad drawings are better than anything the rest of us can do,” Mallory said before she shot a glance over at Grace. “Except for Grace, of course. No offense, Grace, since you are a brilliant artist too.”

Her sister-in-law smiled. “None taken.” Grace looked at Esme. “Do let us see, dear. I know we would all enjoy a glimpse or two of your latest efforts. I particularly love the landscapes you do.”

Cheers of agreement and encouragement rose from those gathered in the room.

Esme’s chest tightened. “No, I couldn’t. Not tonight. Besides, my sketchbook is upstairs. It’s far too much bother to retrieve it right now.”

“It’s no bother,” Edward said. “We’ll have one of the
servants fetch it.” He glanced over at the butler. “Croft, please ask one of the maids to collect Lady Esme’s sketchbook and have it brought here to the drawing room.”

“Right away, Your Grace.” The butler bowed and exited the room.