Barbara Metzger (30 page)

Rockford hated to see her giving up on London, and on him, he feared. Where was the backbone he admired? Where was that courage that let her face down a duke? He could not let his brave Alissa scurry back to her mousehole, chastened and afraid. “No. I will not have you giving up yet. The
ton’s
opinion is as bendable as a reed, and I have yet to call on my resources. Tomorrow afternoon we will visit the regent. Prinny is not universally admired, but his influence is not to be discounted. My associates at the foreign office will stand firm too. And Aunt Reggie promised to call on Lady Bessborough and Princess Lieven, who were absent from Almack’s tonight. We’ll have royalty on our side, a cabinet minister or two, and a duke, if Hysmith does not back down. One punch-sodden baronet cannot stand against us.”

Alissa was wavering, Rockford could tell. He pushed his advantage: “Besides, I promised Hugo a visit to the Kew Botanical Gardens. I have a friend who is a member and can get us passes. The boys have yet to see the Menagerie or the Tower of London or a balloon ascension or the maze at Richmond or—”

“All right,” she said with a laugh. “You have convinced me. We will stay, but only for a few days more.”

With such a great deal of ground to cover, Rockford had to start now. He bent to kiss his wife’s satiny cheek—he did not trust himself further—and said he’d be off. “To my clubs, Alissa. Not to another party or ball.” Not to Princess Helga, he tried to tell her without coming out and saying it, which would have broken all of his own private injunctions against petticoat governance. “Reputations are made at White’s and Boodle’s, not ladies’ drawing rooms. You’ll see. Sleep well, my dear. Tomorrow will be a busy day for both of us.”

Tomorrow he would show her what an influential earl could do, what a good father he could be. Tomorrow night, he vowed, he would show her what she’d be missing if she left.

*

The clubs were full of talk, naturally, after the incident at Almack’s. Interestingly, the Duke of Hysmith was before Rockford in defending Eleanor’s actions and his former sister-in-law’s character. She had been a true and loving wife to his brother William, his grace stated, and was a devoted mother to his nephews.

Rockford raised his brow, but gladly bought his grace a drink. Then he proceeded to blacken Sir George’s name, implying that no gently bred female was safe from his foul grasp, no lady’s name protected from his filth. Why, the bad-breathed baronet might pick on Lord Winstanley’s daughter next, for her habit of disappearing at the various balls, or Sir Vivian’s wife, who was used to riding unaccompanied in the park. If some dastard was intent on ruining a woman’s reputation, the earl warned, no one was above reproach. Since neither of his examples was, in fact, innocent of misdeed, the message was well received. A gentlemen’s agreement was silently reached. Silence would be maintained.

So Rockford’s wife’s good name would be restored, among the men, anyway. Lady Eleanor was once more considered an eccentric—nothing was going to change anyone’s mind about that, not even Rockford’s or the duke’s minds—but nothing worse.

As for Miss Aminta Bourke, why, one look at the chit ought to prove her innocence. If it did not, Rockford vowed to darken the daylights of any man offering her an improper proposal. Not only was he not in a hurry to see the girl married off, but he intended to make a prospective bridegroom wait six months at least, to guarantee that Miss Bourke was sure of her choice. Fathers with marriageable daughters nodded their approval. Fathers with needy sons to settle were disappointed.

It was a good night’s work, Rockford thought as he made his way home a few hours and a few clubs later. It was not the work he would have chosen, of course, but it was a start. By tomorrow night Ganyon would be found and dispensed with, and Lady Rockford would be firmly established in her rightful place, in the
ton
and in Lord Rockford’s bed. Hallelujah!

*

The next day’s rainy weather was not going to stop Rockford or the boys. He trudged along the botanical garden’s damp paths with his heir, listening with pride to young Rothmore’s learned conversation with the head groundskeeper. The other boys followed with the tutor, getting a quick lesson in horticulture, besides wet and muddy. Aminta had come along too, claiming a need to identify various species for when she became a governess.

“You are not going into service, dash it!”

Amy cringed at Lord Rockford’s shout and stepped closer to Mr. Canover, but she raised her chin and looked at him with those clear green eyes, reminding the earl all too much of his stubborn wife. “I am not going to attend any more balls whose only purpose is to match a girl’s dowry to some dunderhead who cannot earn his own living, when the other guests are not shredding someone’s reputation. I am not on the marriage mart, my lord. And that is final.”

Lud, Rockford felt old. Aminta was seventeen.

What did she know about final? Rockford left his wife’s sister with the tutor and the younger boys to watch his heir exclaim over some never-seen species or other. He brushed the drizzle off his beaver hat and tried to show a bit of enthusiasm for the greenery that all looked alike to his eyes.

When the rain came harder, and when William stuffed a flower in his pocket, they left, in a hurry. Rockford left a generous donation, in case the plant was some rare, exotic bloom. Devil take it, first they were exiled from Almack’s, now they were in danger of being banned from the botanical gardens!

The Tower Menagerie had to be a safer bet—except for the giraffes William wanted to pet, and the lions in barred cages all too climbable for his simian son. Mr. Canover seemed unperturbed, but Rockford was in a sweat by the time they left the dank enclosure to go back out in the rain.

The boys would not believe the balloon ascension was canceled until they saw for themselves. Kendall picked up a fallen rope and struck up a conversation with one of the workers, who was kind enough to demonstrate the gas valves and the struts, and let the boys climb in the gondola.

By then they were thoroughly wet and filthy, and Rockford was too, from lifting the smaller boys in and out. He bought them all hot spiced cider, then had an idea so perfect, it ought to be in a gilt frame. “You, my lad,” he said to Hugo, “are about to start learning the duties of an earl, which include paying morning calls in the early afternoon.” He sent the younger boys and Aminta home in a hired hackney with Mr. Canover and his brother, while he followed Hugo up into his own carriage. “Lady Thurgood’s house, Jake,” he ordered. “Russell Square.”

Elizabeth, Lady Thurgood, was one of the most fashionable hostesses in town. She was not as strict in her notions of propriety as the Almack’s set, which made invitations to her parties even more coveted. Where she led, others would follow. The beautiful baroness had exquisite taste, a wealthy husband, and a generous nature. She had also been Hugo’s mother’s best friend, bridesmaid at Rockford’s first wedding.

Lady Thurgood adored Hugo, as Rockford had hoped she would. She wept over the embarrassed boy, then embarrassed him worse by folding him against her breasts. Worst of all, she sent for her eight-year-old daughter to come meet the earl’s son. The little girl had freckles and spectacles and carroty braids, but she batted her pale eyelashes at Hugo like a courtesan. Lud, Rockford thought, they must be born knowing how to flirt.

Lady Thurgood sent the youngsters to her conservatory, once she learned of Viscount Rothmore’s interest in botany. Then she asked Rockford what she could do to help. He left with an invitation for Alissa and himself to share the Thurgood theater box that evening. Hugo left with a better understanding of what it meant to be a gentleman of privilege—and prospects.

Rockford was not finished. He took Hugo to Covent Garden to buy flowers for the ladies, including Lady Thurgood and her little girl, another important lesson for the boy.

Finally they went home, in time for Rockford to change his clothes for a visit to Carleton House to present his wife to Prince George.

The regent was at his most charming, his most gracious, and his most accommodating. After all, Rockford was one of the profligate prince’s most forgiving lenders. To show his support, Prinny insisted on taking Rockford’s new countess for a turn in the park in his coach, now, at the fashionable hour. Let everyone see that Lady Rockford was a favorite of the Crown; then let them try to exclude her from their midst.

Rockford decided to ride alongside the prince’s open carriage, in case his hedonistic highness became too accommodating.

So the polite world saw the scandal-plagued countess courted by royalty, while her obviously besotted husband glowered jealously at her side. That night they saw her embraced by Lady Thurgood, and her box visited by two Almack’s patronesses, six high-ranking members of Parliament, and countless gentlemen…while her husband glowered jealously at her side.

Who was that lying Sir George Ganyon chap anyway, and why was he invited anywhere? He never would be again, that was for certain. Why, everyone could see this was a love match, a bit unconventional, perhaps, but not beyond the pale. Lady Rockford would do well in her new role.

And Lady Rockford would do well in her husband’s arms that night, the earl vowed to himself.

*

“Oh, my,” Alissa said, halfway between a purr and a sigh. “I see you really did read that book.”

Rockford stopped what he was doing, eliciting a mewl of complaint, and laughed. “No, I am writing a book of my own, dedicated to you.” His fingers went back to inscribing desire from her head to her toes, with exclamation points at the sensitive spot behind her knees, the ticklish area under her ribs, the tips of her breasts, and the tops of her thighs. He explored every crease, every fold, every texture, like a cartographer mapping new worlds. His long, heated kisses were complete volumes, and Alissa was lost in the literature of his lovemaking.

“But aren’t you going to…you know?” she asked.

Rockford laughed again, a rumble that vibrated against her bare skin. “You can bet the Rothmore rubies that I am going to…you know. But not yet, Countess. Tonight is for you, first.”

First? She was already on fire, the kindling laid by his request to join her this evening, then fanned by his undressing her, taking her hair out of its nighttime braid and spreading the long length of it across the pillow. The blaze took hold when he lay beside her, flesh against flesh. He was all muscle and strength, yet tender and gentle, understanding just where to touch her to send the flames higher, first with his knowing fingers, then with his kisses and his tongue. He kept moving, though, shifting his interest, changing the rhythms, exploring and worshiping a different part of her body before allowing the fire to consume her.

The whole while he kept murmuring sweet words of love, words that were more arousing, even, than his kisses. Alissa almost believed them. Goodness, she thought she might believe anything the man said to her now, and she desperately wanted to believe he wanted her. Half the words might be true. Maybe a quarter of them. Oh, let him mean one or two endearments, she prayed while he stirred a conflagration in her blood. If she had not fallen completely and hopelessly in love with Rockford when he and Hugo carried in armfuls of flowers, grinning together like schoolboys, she did now. She was irredeemably in love and desperate to tell her translator husband in a language she thought he would understand.

“Now, Robert. Come to me now.”

“Not yet, my love.” He took her higher and higher, until she almost feared falling off the ladder he was building for her to climb, rung by rung by rung. Then came the moment when nothing existed except him, his hand, his mouth, his warm, damp skin against hers, all one sensation, all one fire. One all-consuming pyre.

“Oh, Robert.” There was nothing else to say as she slowly drifted down from the heights. “Oh, Robert.”

He held her and softly kissed her cheek, then pulled away, brushing at the dampness that he found there. “What’s this, my love? Tears? Did I skip a page?” he teased, knowing full well she had found pleasure.

“They are tears of happiness, Robert. It had been so long, I thought I would never feel this way again. And I don’t think I ever felt so…so…”

“Not even with…?” He dared to hope, hating the idea of William Henning in his bed.

She shook her head, no. “That was different. This was…” She had no words to describe it, but Rockford understood.

He’d never felt such intense urgency before either. He’d never had to hold himself back, at such effort, never with either of his wives, never with any of his mistresses. But seeing Alissa lost in passion, feeling her shudders, knowing he was the world’s greatest lover, at that moment, with this one woman he desired above all others…why, that was almost ecstasy enough.

Almost.

Rockford was going to expire soon if he could not find his own release in Alissa’s welcoming warmth. Either that or he would impregnate her sheets.

He kissed her again, then said, “If chapter one brings forth tears, I cannot wait to see the result of chapter two.”

This time her body responded instantly to his touch and she arched against him, moaning his name.

“Yes, my love,” he said between gasps, rising above her. “Now.” Their bodies, slick with perspiration, slid against each other. “Now. I need to be inside you now or surely I am going to die.”