Текст книги "I Married the Duke "

Автор книги: Katharine Ashe

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Sweat beaded on his brow.

“Fletcher brought you and your brother here to live, did he not?”

“This was my bedchamber.”

She looked behind her. It was nothing more than a cube furnished with only a small bed, a side table, and a single wooden chair. It was Spartan, and the furnishings were old, no different from the dormitory at the foundling home.

“What did he do, Luc?” she said, seeing so clearly the brick wall of the dormitory that she had been told to face each time the directress of the foundling home took a cane to her back, as if every crack, crevice, and discoloration of that brick were before her now. “Did he beat you in this chamber?”

“Nothing so pedestrian,” he said with a harsh laugh.

She grabbed his hand. His fingers clamped around hers.

“He starved us,” he said. “For days, sometimes weeks, he withheld food. He told us it was a discipline to be able to withstand extreme hunger. That men like us, who would eventually be wealthy and powerful, must learn great discipline while we were still young. He locked me into this room each night with the promise of breakfast in the morning, but only if I did not complain to his manservant or housekeeper. He promised the same to my brother—”

“Oh, Luc.”

“—but he locked himself in my brother’s room too.”

Her stomach turned and she went cold all over. “Oh, dear God.”

“He said that God would punish us if we told anyone. But I never believed him. God had made my father, after all. He had shown me what a good man could be.” A tear slid down his cheek.

She wrapped her arm around him and held him. He bent to her, sank his face against her shoulder and trembled fiercely in her embrace.

When he pulled away, his cheek was damp. She reached up to wipe the tears, but he did not allow her. He removed her hand, and his own hand shook only slightly as he swiped away the moisture.

“Did you know you would find me in danger?” she said.

He did not respond.

“What have you done?” she whispered.

“What I had to do to ensure that you would not find yourself alone with them. Admittedly, I did not quite count on being greeted at the door with a pistol, nor on becoming a quivering mess.”

She snapped her gaze up. “You should not have done this.”

“I could not have done otherwise.”

“But you—”

“Arabella, enough.”

“But after all I have done—today, and before—and what you must believe . . . Why would you do this for me?”

“I would die for you.” With a hard breath, he moved around her and across the room. “But not tonight. I am no longer a boy and this is just a house like any other.” He pushed the windowpane open, braced a foot on the sill, and stretched his arm upward through the iron bars. “That oaf made me give over my sword and pistol. Even the knife in my boot. But he could not take every weapon at my disposal.” He closed his eye and pushed on the bar against his shoulder.

“Luc.” She went toward him. “Luc, you mustn’t. You will harm—”

The bar snapped out with a scrape and a clang and fell away.

He cut her a quick, satisfied grin. “What I might have done then with the strength of a man.” He heaved his shoulder into the next bar. “But then I might have simply killed him,” he said, the veins on his neck straining as he pushed, “and ended up shipped off to Australia.” The bar broke loose and jutted out for a moment before it disappeared. “That would have been inconvenient.”

He climbed off the sill and rubbed his hands together.

“What did you do?”

“You needn’t look so flabbergasted. A man learns a few tricks after a decade spent on the sea.”

“But—”

“Poorly designed hardware.” He gestured to the iron grill, his hand trembling slightly. “I knew it then, but I was not tall enough to reach the pins or strong enough to force them loose.” He swept his gaze over her, still brittle, but he was trying to mask his fear—for her or for his pride, or perhaps both. “The drawback, of course, is that now I am rather too big to depend on the stability of the drain pipe that runs along the wall just outside.”

“I’m not.” She leaned out the window. The park was quiet and wooded, with plenty of places to hide as she ran if she managed the descent successfully. The pipe looked sturdy. She turned to him. “I will not go without you.”

“You will have to.”

“I cannot leave you here with those people.”

“Arabella, this is not a discussion. Climb out of that window and onto that drainpipe and run for help. The fence around the park has a gate on its northern end. You will find it by following the river downstream to a tight copse of trees. On the other side of that copse are the fence and the gate. Go now.”

“But what about Joseph and my coachman? My carriage—”

“Before I arrived, the oaf paid a visit to your carriage. I found the coachman hiding in the shrubbery and terrified, and Joseph injured.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “How injured?”

“Shot. I sent them home.”

“They shot him? But—”

“Arabella, the Bishop of Barris has tried to kill me twice, with poison stolen from my ship and with a knife wound administered to me on the beach in Saint-Nazaire.”

“But those men—”

“Were hired assassins. Fletcher wishes me out of the way so that he can control Combe’s wealth through my aunt’s child. While I imagine he would have preferred disposing of me in France, I will not put it past him to attempt to do so here.” He moved toward her. “Now, you—”

The key rattled in the lock.

Luc swept his arm to the draperies and pulled them over the missing bars. He went to the middle of the room as the door opened.

Their captor, the housekeeper behind him, jerked the pistol toward Arabella. “I don’t want her. She’ll have to go.”

Arabella froze. “Go?”

“Go home,” he said as though she were an imbecile.

Luc circled his arm around her waist loosely. “She goes nowhere without me.”

“No more of your talking, milord. She goes.”

Luc dipped his hand into her cloak pocket and swept the pistol forward and her body behind him in one quick movement.

“Now,” he said, “calculate if you will the likelihood of your pistol firing and you managing to hit me anywhere vital, and the speed with which I can fire at you, which I assure you I can do quite swiftly and quite accurately. Are you calculating? Good. Now set down your weapon.”

Astoundingly, the man did as Luc commanded. The housekeeper’s face was stark.

“Back away from the door,” Luc said.

They obeyed.

“Duchess,” he said, and went toward the doorway and through. “Take up that pistol and pass it to me.”

She did. He dropped the bishop’s pistol in his pocket and stepped forward, motioning her to go past behind him. She hurried toward the stairs.

It happened in an instant: the housekeeper flung her fist forward, a gray cloud burst over them, and she and the oaf threw their hands over their eyes. Luc staggered back, coughing, his palm covering his face.

“Arabella,” he gasped. “Run.”

She ran. But she was not quick enough. Her captor grabbed her shoulder, spun her around and knocked her head with the side of his fist.

Pain. Her stomach lurched. She scrabbled for a hold but her hands only found his thick body. She struck him. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them together, then hauled her back up the steps. Luc lunged toward them. The man released her and slammed his fist into Luc’s jaw. She jumped forward then jerked back; the housekeeper’s fingers clamped around her hair. She saw Luc reel and the oaf pointed the pistol at him.

“No!” she shouted. “I will do whatever you want. Lock me up. Do whatever you wish to me. Just don’t harm him. I beg of you!”

The man shoved her back into the bedchamber. The door slammed shut and the lock clicked.

She wasted no time in further begging. Throwing off her cloak, she went to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and climbed onto the sill.

The ground was remarkably far below. She grabbed hold of the pipe, found a nail for a foothold, and prayed.

She fell more than climbed. Her feet hit the ground hard and she tumbled over, then pushed to her knees and, torn and bleeding from her descent, set off at a run around the side of the house.

Figures moved in the distance near the river, and she flattened her back against the house.

From afar she saw the bishop’s man shove Luc with the pistol. Luc struggled, but with his arms tied behind his back again he seemed unbalanced. His captor lifted an arm, hit him in the head with the butt of the pistol, and Luc staggered. He kept his footing, but the man pushed him to the edge of the riverbank where a small rowboat was tied up. As Luc’s head came up slowly, painfully it seemed, the man just stood there, no longer even pointing the pistol at his captive.

Luc looked off to the side. The man threw back his head and laughed, the sound lost to her against the rumbling of the river and her own roaring heartbeats and labored breaths. His captor stepped forward and struck him again and Luc stumbled back. Then, with a mighty shove, the man pushed him into the river.

She clamped her lips over her cry and gripped the wall behind her. If he saw her, all was lost.

Her heart was screaming. Luc’s hands were tied. She had only minutes.

The man watched the water for a moment, then turned and lumbered toward the house. As soon as he was around the corner of the building, she broke into a run.

Chapter 18

The Bull and the Boar

Wet and stiff, the knots would not respond to his fingers, and he was sinking fast. And running out of air.

He shook his arm thickly through the water. The penknife from Arabella’s cloak pocket slipped from inside his cuff into his palm.

He cut his wrists and fingers then finally rope, and his hands burst free. He swept his arms around. His shoulder slammed into a rock. He was moving with the current. He knew this river. But he could see no light, no sun from above directing him. His lungs screamed for air. Her voice shouting his name came to him through the blackness and noise. A dream. An illusion. Desperate men heard mermaids in the sea’s depths. Arabella was his siren. She had always been, calling to him over the gurgle and rush of the river, the confusion in his head.

He broke free to the surface. He gulped in air. Midnight enveloped him. Complete darkness.

Her voice called him again. His dream. But closer now.

Real.

He marked the sweet, strident sound. He turned his body toward it, against the current, and swam.

SHE SAW HIM struggle, go under, and disappear.

The oar was slippery in her hands, her head dizzy, the water all around seething, silver sunlight slanting off its surface. She could not see him.

“Luc! Oh, God, Luc, where are you?” she shouted. “Luc!”

She leaned forward, pushing the oar into the water, but she was flying past the place where he had gone under, speeding forward. The boat smacked against a rock and jerked to the side. She grabbed at air. The oar hit another rock and flew out of her hands. She lunged for it. The boat tipped.

She fell in. With flailing arms and flying skirts and an enormous splash she sank into the river. Water poured into her mouth. She choked, struggling to hold her head above, coughing and paddling, her legs caught in her skirts. She sank. She would drown. Her nightmare coming true. Before she told him. Taking his child. The river sucked at her, dragging her beneath.

Strong arms came around her, lifting, scooping, pushing away the water. She gasped in air, coughed and sputtered and breathed.

His arms were around her, holding her above water, pulling her toward the riverbank.

He hauled her onto the bank.

His hands came around her face, wiping the streaming hair from her eyes. She coughed and then she was in his lap and he was holding her and hot tears covered her cheeks.

“Duchess,” he said harshly, then “Duchess” again, over and over, his lips upon her brow and cheeks. She sought his mouth with hers. He kissed her, fusing them, his hands cradling her head, holding her to him.

Her fingers tangled in his shirt. He was warm, solid, strong, and whole. She had gone without him for too long. Now she wanted to pour herself into him.

He pulled away abruptly and grabbed her shoulders. “On which bank of the river are we now? The house side?”

She shook her head.

His hands tightened on her. “Which bank? Speak!”

“The opposite bank.” She lifted her hand to his face. His eye was closed and swollen red, his brow tight. An angry welt crossed his temple. “Downriver a hundred yards at least. Beyond the copse.”

He pulled her up as he rose. His hands were cut in a dozen places. His head was bent. “Do you see the fence?”

She nodded. “What—”

“Do you see the fence?”

“Yes! But I don’t under—”

“I cannot see, Arabella. You must lead us to the gate. Quickly now. They will discover your absence.”

He couldn’t see?

“Yes. Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his and drew him quickly away from the river and toward the copse, her skirts dragging and his steps faltering. He stumbled many times, but she held onto him tightly and gave him what little strength she had and her sight.

HIS KNOCK ECHOED for at least a minute before Arabella heard the bolts being thrown, and then the great door slowly opened. She shivered, frozen, her gown clinging.

The young woman before them stared open-mouthed.

“I am the Count of Rallis and this is my wife,” Luc said between teeth clenched against chattering. “We should like an audience with the headmistress at once.”

The woman ushered them in.

Within minutes Arabella was seated before a fire in a comfortable sitting room of amber hues. She clutched a blanket around her.

“I had not thought I could be c-colder than that night on your ship,” she stuttered. “Do you suppose they will give us b-brandy?”

He said nothing. He stood beside her, his hand clenched on the back of her chair.

The door opened and a woman came in and directly to them, the hem of her plain dark gown nearly to the floor.

“Good day, my lord. My lady.” She curtsied. She was not young; her brown hair was streaked with silver and her voice was mature.

Luc bowed, his hand never leaving the chair back. He did not open his eye. “My wife and I have come upon a spot of trouble and wonder if you might assist us in returning to London.”

“We should be honored to assist you, my lord. My lady, if you will”—she gestured to the door where another woman stood now—“Miss Magee will show you to my personal chambers where she can assist you in changing into dry clothing.” She turned to Luc. “My lord, I fear that the only men in residence in our school at present are the drawing master, who is a considerably smaller man than you, and our coachman, who is rather more your size.”

“I shan’t mind changing my wedding finery for another sort of groom’s garments,” he said.

The headmistress’s brows rose.

“Today we were to be wed,” Arabella explained. “A second time.”

But the woman seemed to be studying his face. He had not yet opened his swollen eye, and the scar showed livid against his cold skin.

“My lord, despite your civility you are clearly unwell,” she said. “I shouldn’t mind helping you both today, but I don’t fancy finding myself burdened with a lord in a burning fever while trying to hold the curiosity of seventy-six innocent girls at bay. Let us get you both dry with haste, and then you can tell me all about your thwarted wedding.”

Arabella laughed.

Luc did not quite grin, but his shoulders seemed to relax. “Madam, at the risk of broaching the delicate subject of a lady’s age, I don’t suppose you were the headmistress at this school twenty years ago?”

“I was, in fact. Newly headmistress. The challenges of the position weighed upon me greatly in those days, and I used to take walks about the park to settle my thoughts. Once, in fact, I invited another refugee into this chamber, a boy who wandered onto our property several times,” she said, watching him carefully. “In the twenty years since, I have sometimes wondered how that boy fared.”

Arabella did not understand, but she wanted desperately to touch him and tell him she was near.

He turned his face toward the fire, or perhaps toward her. “He fared as well as any boy could hope.”

SHE CHANGED INTO dry clothing and was told the drawing master was assisting Luc to dress. She waited at the door, and when he came out she took his arm, and whispered directions to him as they walked. His steps were careful; she allowed him to set the pace. But even in her exhaustion she felt the bunching frustration in his muscles and saw the anger in his tight jaw.

He declined tea. Night was falling and he thought it best to return to London without delay.

When they were inside the school’s carriage, she reached for his hand.

“Luc—”

He drew his hand away. Arabella swallowed back her grief and allowed him his silence and his distance.

“YE SAY IT burned till ye went in the strict, then the pain went aff?”

“Yes, the river water seemed to wash away the initial hellacious agony. But you have asked me this before. Two dozen times in the past three days.”

“I’m a man o’ science. I must be thorough.”

“You are a quack and I am astounded I have been allowing you to see to my physical welfare for twenty years.”

Gavin’s callused fingertips pressed against Luc’s brow, pulling his eyelid wide.

Luc knocked away his hand. “I can do that myself. I’ve still got hands.”

“Aye, all cut up but ye winna allou me to bandage them.”

“I look enough like a fool with this bandage across my eye.”

A splash of warm liquid hit Luc’s eye. Drops. He blinked. All the sensations were still there—cold, heat, pain—though considerably less pain than at first. Only the pictures were gone. The light.

“Yer a trying patient, lad.”

“I don’t care to be fussed over.”

“Ye dinna care to need anybody. Makes ye as mad as a bull no’ to be the one protecting everybody else.” He replaced the bandage. “ ’Tis a guid thing all my patients aren’t like ye, lad.”

Luc settled the kerchief over his scar again. “You haven’t got any other patients. Not paying patients, anyway.”

“As sore as a boar, ye are.” He slapped Luc on the shoulder.

Luc sat forward and rubbed his temples. His eye still wanted to see and it made his head ache like the devil. It hadn’t been nearly as bad with the first, but this eye was still whole. Only useless. “Well, make up your mind. Am I a bull or a boar?” he grumbled.

“Both. But I’d be worse if it were me.” The clasp of Gavin’s case clicked shut. “I’ve no’ got a bonnie lass to read to me an’ to caress ma scars when they ache, nou do I?”

There’d been no caressing of scars—or of anything—in the three days since he’d been blinded by the housekeeper’s dust. Gavin thought it must have been pepper. Luc only knew it’d felt like fire.

And now his whole world had changed. It had become black, and confined to the chambers in Lycombe House that he had already come to know well enough that he could mostly avoid bumping into furniture. He feared to fall. He feared her seeing him fall. Even more so he hated that if she fell he would not know it, and that he would not be able to help her rise because he could not go to her.

He feared that if she disappeared he would not be able to search for her.

She had thanked him for dragging her from the river. Thanked him. And he had barely spoken a word to her since, because he simply could not. He could not bear the shame of weakness. He could not bear to be, after so many years, helpless again.

“Tell me again, Gavin,” he said. “Tell me this could be temporary.”

The Scot grasped his shoulder. “Ye already know it, lad. Nou ye’ve got to wait.”

MILES SHAVED AND dressed him, fussing like Gavin but much the same as before.

In other matters—matters that Luc managed himself—he was clumsy. He spilled food from his plate and had to bear the footman cleaning it without a word. After that he began to take meals in his private chambers. He walked with his hand on the wall, slowly, carefully, like an old man with the gout. He had navigated oceans and now his landscape narrowed to the route between his bedchamber and the library.

He should leave his infant cousin’s house and take a house elsewhere. Lycombe House was not his; he did not have the right to live in it. But he could not go to his club and query friends for suitable residences to let. Even if he asked his man of business to hire a house for him, he would be obliged to learn it inch by inch. He could take Arabella to his house in the North where he had never lived, but there would be many more chambers to learn, and she would be isolated with him only.

He could not ride, read, play cards, or write correspondence. He could not drive a carriage. He could not sail even a yawl. He could not see his wife’s eyes.

Tony and Cam called. They talked and drank and tried to make him laugh until he wearied of idleness and sent them away like the surly boar Gavin had called him. He could drink himself into oblivion every day if he wished; the footmen were wonderfully prompt about refilling his glass before he asked. He supposed they preferred him insensible to surly. But after the first night of drunkenness to dull his remaining senses, when she announced that she was leaving the door open between their bedchambers so she could hear him if he needed help, he ordered all the brandy in the house locked up.

He needed her more than she understood. He needed her with a desperation that ate at him and made him sick now. He had nothing to give her. She had never wanted the title; she wanted a prince so she could find her parents. He had wealth, but she never coveted that either, not his little governess who had made a good name for herself on the edge of society entirely by her own merits.

But with his money, he might be able to find the one thing she did want. He could find her real family.

“My lord?” The butler’s voice came from the left—the library doorway. Luc sat by the window. He welcomed the pale warmth of the winter sun he could not see.

“Yes, Simpson?”

“Mr. Parsons has come from Combe. He has brought several persons with him. I have told him that you are not at home to callers. But he insists that you see—that is, that you allow these persons an audience.”

“Send them in.” As a trustee of the estate, he could hardly turn away the land steward. And soon enough the Surly Lord would acquire a reputation in town as a boar and a recluse. He might as well enjoy the company of callers now while they still came, and Parsons’s attention while Fletcher allowed it. Luc had no doubt the bishop would use his blindness as an excuse to rob him of what small power he had over the estate and his cousin’s future. Trapped, helpless, he wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

“My lord,” the steward said. “Good day.”

“What brings you to town, Parsons?”

“I have information to share with you, my lord.” The man sounded downright meek. It was the blindness. Everybody was tiptoeing around him now, using lowered voices and gentle words as if he were an invalid. Which he was.

“First, my lord, may I tell you of the profound horror and grief of everyone at Combe over the consequences of your unfortunate acci—”

“Yes, that’s fine, Parsons. Thank you.” Accident. Christos and Ravenna had come to him apologizing for their parts in Arabella’s visit to Fletcher’s house. He assured them she would have done it without their encouragement. No one else knew the truth. Christos had tried to tell him about the story they invented to explain both their disappearances from the wedding and his loss of sight, but he didn’t want to hear. It was done. He was blind. Society could believe what it wished. That was an end to it.

Fletcher knew, of course. He had not come to Lycombe House since. Probably busy burning all those files Arabella had seen.

“My lord, three of the tenant farmers from Combe are with me: Goode, Lambkin, and Post.”

Luc nodded and hoped he was looking in their direction. “What news from the land, gentlemen?”

“Milord, we’ve come to you with a petition.”

Subtly, he adjusted the angle of his head to face the voice. “A petition? That sounds downright revolutionary of you, Goode.” He guessed it was Goode who spoke. Arabella would know. He wished she were here with him to read these men, as he could no longer read anything. He should have called her. He needed her.

“Not at all, milord. It’s only that, you see . . . we’re afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“With the new little duke, God bless him, we’re– Well, we hoped with you as duke matters would be settled. But our wives and our boys are afraid now and we’ve got to do something for it.”

“Of what precisely are your families afraid, Goode?”

“Of who, milord.”

Luc drew a slow breath and nodded.

“We need your help, milord.” This came from another of the men. Lambkin? “We’re that desperate.”

“I do know a thing or two of desperation, Lambkin.”

They responded with silence to that.

“Tell me.”

“The bishop—that is, her ladyship’s brother—he came around last year telling us we had to give him our quarterlies. He told us to tell Mr. Parsons that the duke wanted it all to go to charity. Well, when we told him them rents weren’t anybody’s but ours and the duke’s and we’d only give them over to Mr. Parsons, he got all friendly and said he’d like to take our boys for a school he’d made for country folk. It’s a charity place, so the boys can learn their letters and arithmetic and be clerks in town someday. He said he needed some good farm boys to get the place going and he’d like ours as much as anybody’s.”

“He told you that, did he?” Luc said. “What did you think of it?”

“We didn’t trust him, milord. Never mind that he’s supposed to be a man of God.”

“Why not? Did you, perhaps, see the bishop’s generous offer a threat in response to your refusal to give him your rents?”

“Yes, milord.”

Silence. One of the men shifted his feet.

“You see, milord,” Lambkin finally said, “my youngest son—my Toby—he stayed after church one day when the bishop was preaching at the parish, to help with cleaning up as he does. He’s a good lad.” His voice crackled. “That day Toby came running home with a tale that made my missus weep for a fortnight.”

“I see.”

“Milord.” It was Goode again. “We’re asking you to help our boys. It’s them or Combe.”

AFTER THEY DEPARTED, Luc made his way—slowly, awkwardly—back to his bedchamber and penned a brief letter. He had no idea if it was legible, but he could not dictate it to another. He would be obliged to ask Miles to read the response. That was enough.

On the front he printed Fletcher’s name, and he gave it to the footman whom Arabella had assigned to sit outside his door—Claude, the same footman Luc had ordered to follow her about Combe. He told him to deliver it by hand and wait for a response.

The footman did not move away.

“What is the trouble, Claude?”

“Well, Cap’n . . . maybe you could tell me where you want it to go?”

“You cannot read the name and direction.”

“Nope, Cap’n.”

“Hm. I never realized quite how poor my penmanship was before.”

The footman smothered a guffaw.

He made Claude memorize the message and then threw the letter into the fire. The sailor had been midshipman for seven years on the Victory. He was quick-witted and loyal, the very reason he had brought him to Combe with Joseph to look after Arabella. He simply had to trust him now. He had no other choice.

THAT NIGHT, LUC did not retire to the library. With steps he had counted a hundred times that afternoon in practice, he went to the door between his chamber and Arabella’s and opened it.

He heard her quick intake of breath. Surprise, or alarm?

“Mary, you may go now,” she said, her voice composed. She was on the right side of the chamber, perhaps at the dressing table. He tried to imagine the space but felt disoriented. He had come into this chamber only once, the evening she told him about the ring and the prince and her dream—the dream that she had given up for the families of Combe.

The bed was straight ahead, three yards away perhaps. He remembered that much. He’d thought about it quite a lot.

The maid’s quick footsteps passed between them. The door clicked shut.

“Are you unwell?” Skirts rustled softly, swiftly. Then she was before him, her scent of summer roses and wild lavender inside his head and all around him. “May I help you?”

“I haven’t come for help,” he said awkwardly. He had prepared a speech, and a rather good speech at that. She liked his teasing—when it didn’t infuriate her—and he wanted to charm her now. But nothing came to his tongue. “I had a speech prepared,” he mumbled. “I—”

The brush of her fingertips across his jaw was the caress of heaven. He steadied himself against his need. She curved her hand around his neck and drew his mouth down to hers.

She kissed him tentatively at first, then more surely, then with hunger and urgency quite like he was feeling. He ran his hands down her sides and tugged her close, wanting her against him, such a slight little thing, but strong. And eager. She tried to burrow closer, her hands sliding beneath his waistcoat.

He swept her up in his arms and stepped forward. She broke her mouth free.

“Left! Go left!”

He halted.

She laughed, sweetly, lightly, and the knot of anger around his heart unwound.

After a brief misdirection to her ear that started her giggling again, he found her mouth and kissed her hard. She drew away.

“Left, one step. Then forward two. Then left one,” she whispered a little breathlessly, and nuzzled his jaw. She wound her arms about his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair. “You will learn the route if you do it often enough, you know,” she added almost shyly.

“Often, hm?”

“Or . . . perhaps you wish to make this excursion just this once.” Her voice was smaller.

He stepped to the left, then forward twice, then to the left, and laid her gently down on the mattress. Slowly, he bent to her, finding her with his hands then his lips—her brow, her cheek, her mouth. “Just this once in this half hour, at least,” he said, and kissed her again. She wound her arms around his neck and gave him her sweet mouth and tongue and her soft breasts pressed to his chest.

“But, little governess,” he said, tasting her, drinking in her eager beauty in the supple dampness of her mouth. His fingers sank into her satin hair. “I suspect I will need more lessons before the night is through.”