Love Lessons at Midnight (4 page)

“W-would you kiss my lips?” she asked hesitantly, scooting closer but keeping one leg over the edge of the mattress. She wanted to trust, but it was nearly impossible. Her right hand remained resting lightly on his chest.

He sat up and took her hand in his, once again pressing
his lips to her palm, then kissing his way softly up her arm. Like butterfly wings. The thought hammered in his brain. Soft. Slow. She made a low hum of pleasure as he reached her throat, brushing it once more with his mouth. He framed her face with his hands and tilted his head to place a chaste kiss on her lips, being careful not to press too hard. Then he withdrew, still holding her face, feeling the heavy silk of her hair spilling over his fingers.

“Did you like that?” he asked.

“
Oui
…but…”

“I was too rough.” His heart constricted. When she gave a tiny, mischievous chuckle, he was so startled that he dropped his hands from her head, tangling them in her hair. “What amuses you?” he asked, trying not to sound as frustrated as he felt.

“Oh, please forgive me,
mon ami.
I did not mean to anger you, but it is only that you were not…rough at all. I mean…well, I have been told that a man’s lips should move over a woman’s, brushing, teasing. Please…I do not mean to be bold, but…”

“Very well,” Rob replied, taking her face in his hands once again. He could feel the blush heating her cheeks. This time he did as she instructed, turning his head back and forth to caress her mouth…brushing, teasing, still careful. He was rewarded when her hands stole up his arms and held his shoulders.
Remember the butterfly wings.
After a moment, he raised his head and asked, “Am I doing this correctly?”

“It is most excellent. Now you could kiss me again, please, but open your mouth…perhaps just a little bit, so you can touch my lips with your tongue. I have heard that such a thing feels very…agreeable.” The courtesans called it Frenchkissing, when two tongues dueled, openmouthed. Grace had explained that it was far more than “agreeable.” Somehow she had never thought it sounded appealing…until now.

“Let us find out if such kissing is indeed agreeable,” he whispered raggedly. He sought her mouth and brushed against it, opening his enough to let his tongue rim her lips. She moaned quite distinctly this time, clutching his shoulders until her nails dug into the muscles as she leaned into his kiss.

Oh, good heavens above, Grace had been right! The tingle that began on her lips spread all over her body. She pressed her mouth to his, harder, then opened her lips. Would he understand what she wanted?

What could he do but enter the sweet chamber into which he had been invited? He let the tip of his tongue dart tentatively inside. Her teeth were smooth and even, the taste of her as pure as spring water. When she did not pull away but opened wider, he dared to touch his tongue to the tip of hers before withdrawing, breathless. “Is this agreeable?”

“Oui!
But I think we need a better word than ‘agreeable.’ Your tongue…when it touched mine…”

“You mean like this?” He knelt on the mattress and lowered his head over hers, taking care to keep enough distance between their bodies so as not to alarm her with his erection. He kissed her again, slanting his mouth, opening it for another foray between the barely parted seam of her lips. He teased at them and she parted them quickly, making him bolder this time when he slipped inside.
Butterfly wings! Butterfly wings!
He let his tongue dart and dance against hers until she returned the caress in his hungry mouth.

They kissed for a breathless moment, then two. Both were eager, experimenting with tastes and textures never experienced. She felt as if lightning had struck her, setting her on fire. Oh, such a sweet burning! Such a dangerous addiction! His staff, rock hard and desperate, brushed her thigh at the height of their kissing frenzy. He had her hair tangled in his hands, holding fistfuls of it as he bracketed her head, kissing her as she had never been kissed before.

This is going too fast, too far!
If she did not stop him soon, everything would be ruined. She was suddenly afraid. He was starting to lose control. She knew what she must do. Steeling her willpower, she pulled away, testing to see if she could break through the haze of his passion. For one panicked moment, she feared it would not work.

Rob felt Gabrielle’s hands pressing against his chest, her head turning away from his impassioned kisses. He released her, panting and breathless, trembling. “I…I am sorry. Please forgive—”

“
Non!
Do not be sorry. There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered fiercely, feeling an ache of emptiness that unbalanced her. “But if I am to teach you how to control your pleasure so that you may bring equal pleasure to a woman, then we must stop…for tonight.”

Rob sighed and sat back on his heels in the middle of the big bed. “You…you are not frightened by me? I did not repulse you?” He felt his ardor wilting as quickly as his erection.

What would ever make him think he could repulse a woman! She vowed to find out. “
Oui,
I am a bit frightened by my own feelings, but you could never repulse me,
mon commandant.
In fact, you are a pupil most…
exceptionnel.
You have quite mastered kissing, I think.”

He digested that, for this once wishing they did not have to be cloaked in darkness. He wanted to read her expression. Her voice sounded earnest, almost girlish at the last. “You enjoyed my kisses—truly?”

“Vrainment. Oui,
truly, I did. Only consider this until you return to me tomorrow night. We do not want our passion—I mean, your passion—to carry us too far, too quickly. We must go slowly, softly at first—like—”

Rob sighed. “Like butterfly wings, I know.”

After slipping through the hidden door into the retiring closet, Amber leaned against the wall, composing herself.
The mirror in the corner showed a bright flush on her cheeks, tangled hair, and huge, wild eyes. She took a deep breath, trying not to listen to the sounds of the earl dressing beyond the door.

I must get away from here…from him!
When she heard the door to his room open and close, Amber reached for the bellpull. Almost instantly Bonnie stepped inside, curtsying nervously, her eyes downcast as she waited for instructions.

“You may tell Sergeant-Major Boxer to put away his brace of Manton pistols and retire for the night. I will not require his services.”

When Bonnie left, Amber collapsed against the wall. She had thought she might need protection from the earl. Her laugh was soft and bitter. She never imagined that she would need protection from “Gabrielle.”

I
n the jumble of policing jurisdictions in London, Bow Street was the busiest. On any given day, dozens, even hundreds of people passed through its chambers, some willingly, many under physical restraint. Sullen young pickpockets, crafty old bawds, and drunken toffs, offenders of low and high degree, awaited deliverance to the courts. Mingling with them were an equally diverse group of law-abiding citizens seeking redress. Staid bankers and plump boardinghouse matrons eyed non-propertied slum dwellers with disdain, often shoving ahead of them in the ill-formed lines that crowded the railing. The runners were adept at listening to one supplicant while tuning out the babble of sound surrounding them.

That morning, a slattern from the Billingsgate fish market reeking of “blue ruin” gin related how she had been robbed by the emaciated boy she held in one red, meaty fist. She twisted his shirt collar so tightly he made strangling noises. Close by a man in a clean but cheaply cut wool jacket wrung his hands, trying to avoid contact with her while waiting his turn. A drunken Corinthian whose doeskin inexpressibles were stained with claret brayed in a nasal voice, demanding he be placed at the head of the shortest line.

Alan Cresswel had been a runner for over two decades, a long time in a hard and dangerous job. Tall and rangy, he had once possessed considerable speed, an asset while learning his trade. Now his wind was all but gone. However, over the years the clever fellow with the pockmarked face had
made a reputation for himself around Westminster. He honed survival instincts and learned how to turn a tidy profit, often with clients who were not law abiding. As long as they could pay, Cressy was happy to work for them.

“Come along, what is it now?” he asked over the din, inspecting his next petitioner’s appearance as he waited impatiently for a reply. The younger man shoved a shock of greasy straight tan hair from his high forehead. His clothing, while that of a gentleman, was certainly not made by a London tailor. He was of medium height, thin with a slight thickening around his waist that hinted at dissipation. His sallow complexion and the puffiness beneath his close-set eyes proclaimed it. A large nose with broken red veins moving across it like poorly spun spiderwebs was set in a long, angular face.

Out at heels chawbacons.
Cresswel sighed. “Well, out with it,” he said, irritated by the smirk on the young fellow’s face.

“If you are the chap known as Cressy, you can attend me in a quiet alehouse. What I have to say is not for common ears.” He glanced disdainfully around the room.

Cresswel shifted slightly, looking up at the man. “Why should I desert me post for you?” he asked. When the complainant pulled a fat purse from his waistcoat and hefted it in his hand, the runner nodded. “Maybe I do ’ave a bit o’ thirst,” he said.

They made their way through the crowd and left the offices. As they walked, the stranger said, “I am Mr. Hull, late of Northumberland.”

Cresswel had already deduced that from the accent. Among his repertoire of skills, he possessed an ear for patterns of speech. “What’s this business ‘not for common ears‘?”

“I need some help with a runaway gel. Might be a deal of the ready in it for you.”

“She be gentry?”

Hull snorted, peeling back his lips to reveal crooked teeth going to rot. “She’s the wife of a bloody marquess, but she ain’t a lady now. His Lordship sent me to fetch her.”

Now Cresswel became truly interested. A bloody marquess. Yes, lots of the ready, he would wager on it. “The Hare and Hound’s just round the corner. We can talk real private.”

The interior of the public house was dark and smelled of spilled ale and rotting wood, but it was quiet. The owner knew Cresswel and quickly ushered them into a small room. After serving them pints of foamy liquid, the barkeep closed the door and departed. Hull pulled the pouch from his waistcoat and tossed it on the table. The runner picked it up, nodding. “Now, where’s this here woman live?”

“A fortnight past, I chanced to be at White’s on St. James Street,” Hull said, self-importantly.

“I know where all the gents’ clubs is located, ’less they put wheels on ’em this mornin’,” Cresswel interjected impatiently. “But I’d give odds she ain’t in any of ’em.”

The smirk on Hull’s face vanished at the cheeky reply. “I learned where she resides when a member described her,” he snapped. “He was foxed, talking loudly to his companion. The chit’s in some crib called the House of Dreams.”

Cresswel’s jaw dropped. “Crib, my arse! It’s all the crack! Most expensive bordello in London, it is. Every lord and cit with enough blunt be pantin’ to get inside. And lots of ’em don’t make it. That’s where your run-off marchioness is?”

Hull nodded. “This baron saw her in the hallway of a private area where he was not supposed to be. He had just relieved himself in a pot of greenery. Chit didn’t see him, but he saw her. Then the madam’s guards caught up with him and tossed his arse out the front door. He kept remarking to his friend on the odd color of her hair. Dark cherry red. Said she was a real beauty. Not too many like that, I’d warrant. He even mentioned a scar the marquess gave her—a
little nick on her left cheekbone. Obviously I shall require help to get her out of the place.”

Cresswel digested the information. “That ain’t going to be a brace of snaps. The gels what work for Lady Fantasia is guarded closer than Prinny.”

“Lady Fantasia?” Hull echoed, scratching his head. “I recall that baron saying something about her—no one ever sees her face, some such rot.”

“No rot.” Cresswel scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know about stealin’ a whore from that woman. ’Er guards is all veterans. Fought ole Boney. A mean lot, they are.”

Hull’s eyes narrowed and he hunched forward over the table. “You ain’t met the marquess. Nobody is meaner than that one.”

George Berry’s grocery emporium boasted the finest teas and coffees from the far reaches of the British Empire, not to mention the very best spirits to be had in the city. The wealthy, Quality and Cits alike, traveled to St. James Street to make their selections. Rich, strong coffee was one of Amber’s indulgences ever since she had been introduced to the beverage while traveling in Tuscany. Feeling a need to get away from the House of Dreams, she decided to spend the morning amid the fragrances that reminded her of her first taste of freedom.

While Boxer waited patiently outside, she and Jenette walked up and down the aisles, examining the merchandise. When Amber took a deep breath, her friend said with a chuckle, “I do believe you would apply coffee beans in place of fine French perfume if given the choice.”

Opening a tin of beans from Java, Amber sniffed. “What a novel idea. Yes, perhaps I should start a new fashion that will become all the kick, as the toffs say.”

As they ambled along with a clerk following obsequiously
behind them to carry the “widow’s” purchases, Amber suddenly froze. Jenette stared at her. “What is amiss,
cherie
?” she asked, reaching into her reticule for the Forsyth percussion-lock pocket pistol she carried.

Amber held up her hand to silence her friend, then whispered, “Nothing.” From the far end of the aisle she could hear Robert St. John’s voice, cordially greeting a lady. Their voices drew nearer.
I’m well disguised. He has never seen my face.
Yet her heart hammered almost as hard as it had the night past when Gabrielle instructed him, naked in her bed. In an attempt to blot out that unsettling image, Amber seized a box of tea and perused its wooden stamp as if examining a Faberge egg.

Jenette kept her hand on her pistol inside the reticule, listening to the man’s voice. Where had she heard it before? But of course, the handsome earl whose impassioned speech had so moved Amber! As he turned the corner of the aisle with the lady, Jenette read the tension in her friend’s body. Not wanting to appear as if she were gaping, the Frenchwoman also picked up a tin and examined it, but could not resist saying, “He does cut a dashing figure in those tightly fitted breeches and the kerseymere tailcoat. I wonder how well he rides.”

Her suggestive tone was not lost on Amber. “I am quite certain I would not know,” she said, unable to take her eyes off the way his broad shoulders and long legs flattered the tailor’s art. He moved down the aisle with pantherish grace, attending the slender blonde who was speaking.

“Mr. Berry blends my teas to precise instruction,” his companion said in a soft, whispery voice. “Oh, Elgin, do be careful!” A little boy no more than two years of age leaned away from the nursemaid carrying him. One chubby fist swiped at a stack of small tins, knocking them to the floor. “Phoebe, you were to watch that he did not touch anything!” she scolded the servant. “Now look what has happened. I feel a
complete cake,” she said, looking at the earl as several clerks came scurrying.

“′Tis natural for a child to possess curiosity, Lady Oberly, and you are not a cake,” he replied, grinning at the child whose face clouded when he was restrained by the young nursemaid struggling to hold him.

“I try not to indulge him too much,” she said over Elgin’s wail. “But we do love outings such as this…until some, er, difficulty occurs. I suppose you will tell me ′tis natural for disasters to follow all little boys.” The lady gave the earl a mischievous smile.

Watching the exchange set Amber’s teeth on edge. They were flirting! This was the woman he intended to court when her mourning period was finished. Paying no notice to the two women at the opposite end of the aisle, the earl raised his hands, palms up, and replied, “I grew up with two older cousins. We created disasters that would put this small, er, difficulty in the shade.”

When Elgin continued to cry, his mother instructed the maid to take him to their carriage. The clerks made swift work of restacking the merchandise as Jenette whispered to Amber, “That is the one who writes menus while the earl speaks.”

“Now we know for whom she composes them,” Amber replied more tartly than she intended.

“Perhaps we should leave,” Jenette suggested, but Amber shook her head. Some perverse instinct held her rooted to the floor, eavesdropping as the handsome couple continued chatting.

“It was so fortunate that I chanced to meet you here, Lord Barrington. I would have your opinion on a new blend of tea that I shall introduce at my dinner party on Friday next.”

“You are out of mourning now?” he inquired as they strolled past Amber and Jenette.

“Yes. I do miss the baron, but he has been gone for a year.
′Tis time that I rejoin society. Please say you will favor me by attending,” she cajoled.

“I should be delighted. Now, where is this marvelous new tea blend?”

As they disappeared around the next aisle, Jenette asked dryly, “Why do I disbelieve she chanced to meet him here? She has set out to have him.
Quel dommage
! She might succeed.” The Frenchwoman observed Amber’s reaction.

“She is of his class, beautiful, and has proven herself capable of bearing the earl an heir,” Amber replied, trying to keep her tone neutral.

“There is nothing such as a babe in arms to win a man’s heart—providing, of course, that the arms belong to a servant,” Jenette said scornfully.

“′Tis the English custom to use nursemaids. At least she brought the child with her.”

“The better to appeal to your earl.”

“He is not
my
earl. I wish you would leave off saying that,” Amber snapped, still clutching the tea in her hand.

“Take care you do not get the splinter through your gloves,” Jenette said with a knowing smirk. “You have, perhaps, a small tendresse for this earl,
oui
?” Her shrewd gaze bored in on her friend’s averted eyes.

“Do not be ridiculous. I merely applaud his concern for children.” Although she had never before kept a secret from Jenette, Amber had not told her he was a patron. It was too painfully…personal. If not for Grace, Amber never would have gathered the courage to become involved.

Ignoring Jenette’s gibe, she placed the small wooden box on the shelf and stalked ahead. So, that vacuous blonde was the woman he intended to court…the woman he wanted to please in bed once he had made her his countess.

“I do not like her,” Jenette said, as if reading Amber’s mind.

“I do not like her, either,” Amber admitted, vowing to have Lady Oberly investigated.

The young clerk gave them her name—Verity Chivins, Baroness Oberly. Before the earl visited Gabrielle that night, Amber wanted to speak with him, perhaps learn what he knew—or thought he knew—about his baroness. “You will be late for your appointment with Madame Velange if we do not hurry,” she said to Jenette.

“There is ample time,” the Frenchwoman replied, sauntering down the aisle, selecting special treats and tossing them into the basket the clerk held.

Amber gritted her teeth. The earl had been dressed for riding and it had just begun to rain when they approached the grocery. She had an idea, but it would only work if she could leave Jenette at the modiste for her fitting and then have her driver head toward Portman Square. “If we do not hurry we shall be soaked before we reach the carriage. ′Tis starting to rain much harder,” she said, looking out the bow window at the front of the building.

With a careless shrug, Jenette capitulated. “As you wish,
ma coeur.
”

When Amber paid for her purchases, she was delighted to see the baroness still had Barrington dancing attendance on her at the tea blending table. He paid no heed to her or Jenette. It was not unusual for men to ignore a woman veiled and dressed in black, but Jenette’s beauty usually turned heads. The earl appeared well smitten with Baroness Oberly.

Once Jenette had been handed down and entered the French modiste’s shop, Amber instructed Boxer to return to St. James Street instead of heading directly home. Knowing the direction of Barrington’s city house, she intended to find him as “accidentally” as had the baroness. What could be more natural than to offer a ride in a closed carriage when it was raining?

If he accepts, then what shall you do?
She knew she was playing with fire. This was unwise, but something compelled her to speak with him away from the place where he would meet
Gabrielle tonight. Perhaps she would not run across him on London’s busy streets. What if he had not gone directly home but to his men’s club, or tailor, or…wherever? Just when she was about to tap on the roof and instruct the driver to return home, she saw him mounted on a splendid black stallion.