Gareth: Lord of Rakes (27 page)

“Brenner, how long did Fairly live after he lost this property?”

“Several years, your lordship.”

“So
how
did he live? If he’d sold his most valuable private property, and Felicity claims the entailed estates weren’t profitable, where was his money coming from? The London merchants will extend credit to a title, but only so far. If you can’t throw a man into the hulks, you tend to watch how much you lend him.”

“I’ll look into that,” Brenner said. “The viscount was only the third to hold the title, so I don’t think there was much of an estate fortune, no substantial jewels, not much of an art collection, no extensive stables. I don’t know what he was living on, but I will find out. One thing is apparent: he was not a professional gambler. After that game with Riverton, he wasn’t seen at the tables much at all.”

“Interesting.” Frustrating, more like. Bloody damned frustrating. A silence lengthened as Gareth stared out at the rain and brushed his finger over the feather.

“Brenner, for the next several days, I want your men living in Holbrook’s pockets. I don’t care if he knows he’s being watched, or if he sets men to watching our men. He is not to make a move—in disguise or as God made him—that we don’t know about. Is that clear?”

“Very clear, your lordship.”

“And the same goes for the Worthingtons. Astrid is not to go looking for Jehoshaphat’s kittens unless two footmen haven’t found them first.”

“Jehoshaphat’s kittens?”

“The feline strumpet living in the stables. The ladies are not to sneeze without being offered two handkerchiefs. They are not to set foot out of any door without two pairs of strong arms to protect them. If the fellows are competent with pistols or knives, arm them.”

“I’ll see to it, your lordship.”

“Good, now to breakfast with you. One other question.”

Brenner paused in a near-dash for the door. “My lord?”

“That saint you mentioned is a new one. St. Jude? In the celestial clerking office you Papists have organized for the receipt of prayers, what is St. Jude’s specialty?”

“St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes, my lord. I assigned you to his care early in our association.”

Michael Brenner smiled, and Gareth could not recall having seen the expression on the fellow’s face before.

With no little astonishment, Gareth revised his characterization of Brenner’s expression: the man wasn’t smiling, but rather
smirking
.

“If you turn that expression on the young ladies, I will soon lose a competent man of business to the distractions of holy matrimony. Be off with you. I have a will to read.”

Gareth’s hunt for the damned document was interrupted a few minutes later when his butler brought him the morning post, the newspaper, and a breakfast tray, upon which Cook had “insisted.”

The morning advanced, though the day grew no lighter.

“Hughes, I will be meeting with Miss Worthington this afternoon. I know most of the staff takes their half day on Thursdays, but make sure they know not to go above stairs for any reason once the lady has arrived. Miss Worthington and I are not to be disturbed for anything less than the death of the King.” Though Old George had been going barmy for some time. “Make that the Second Coming.”

“Very good, milord.”

“And that goes for the nosy little tweenie who always seems to be making up my bed before I’ve left it, too.”

Gareth skipped the society pages, knowing he would find more than one allusion to the brokenhearted Marquess of H_____, whose personal assets were so bewilderingly large he’d been dropped by a certain Miss W_____, and so on ad nauseam.

Thankfully, by the time the Season began in earnest, a half-dozen new scandals would come toddling along to entertain the idle people whom Gareth called his peers. He took little comfort from that thought, though, and decided he’d spend some time on Andrew’s estate in Sussex once he’d concluded his dealings with Felicity.

Because, a voice in his head taunted, watching a bunch of smelly old sheep be divested of their wool had to be fascinating compared to drinking, dancing, and wenching his way through yet another springtime in London.

He threw down his paper in disgust, and heard the clock chime ten times. The pile of correspondence still lay on the sideboard, and hours ago—it felt like days—he’d been intent on reading Callista’s will. The very document, bound with a thick black ribbon, peeked out at him from a stack near the wax jack. He withdrew it from its hiding place and began to read, only to be cursing fluently within minutes.

Lawyers, damn the lot of them, never wrote in plain English, and reserved their most arcane and ridiculous language for wills and trusts.

“I, Callista Marie Hemmings, being of sound mind and reasonable health, do hereby make, devise, create, and declare this to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking any previous wills, codicils, or other testamentary documents and utterances of any kind whatsoever, whether created by me in my hand, or created for me with my seal affixed thereto…”

He put the thing in the center of his desk, and rose, wondering if, when the good fellows at the Inns of Court climbed into bed at night with their spouses, they “made, devised, created, and declared” love to their spouses, or simply swived them like the rest of humankind.

He plowed through two more pages before fatigue became a crushing weight on his mind. As he stretched out for a late morning nap, it occurred to him that in the past week of sleepless nights, he should simply have forced himself to read legal documents until slumber claimed him.

***

Always before, Gareth had been on hand to escort Felicity up the stairs to the private areas in his house.

“His lordship has been keeping late hours,” Hughes said, and for him, this was a significant confidence. “Not that he’s socializing much, you understand. Mr. Brenner has been much in evidence of late. Much in evidence.”

He gazed up the steps, as if his lordship had been carried above stairs by wolves and wasn’t expected to survive the ordeal.

Hughes was not going to go up those steps to disturb his employer. He’d see Felicity installed in the yellow drawing room, only the tea tray and her nerves to keep her company until Gareth came down.

“I’ll just see myself up.”

For the first time, a hint of… sympathy clouded Hughes’s rheumy blue eyes. “If you think that best, miss. You’ll ring if the staff can be of service.”

She started up the steps, realizing that Hughes did not judge her, but rather, regarded her the way he might a young lady on her way to making the hangman’s acquaintance.

No footman stood at the top of the stairs; no maid hurried by bearing a silver tea service.

This execution of every dream, hope, and wish Felicity had harbored was apparently to be conducted with utmost discretion.

Gareth was not in his sitting room, and not in his dressing room, which left only…

She closed the bedroom door softly and regarded the ninth Marquess of Heathgate, fast asleep, naked as a newborn, facedown upon his barge of a bed. Without being told, she knew Edith Hamilton and those of her ilk had never seen him thus—innocent and vulnerable in sleep—and soon, Felicity would also wish she’d been denied this privilege.

She undressed quietly, but not quietly enough.

Gareth rolled over amid his sheets and pillows. “That you, love?”

“Since you’ve probably called everybody who ends up naked in your bed ‘love,’ then I suppose that includes me,” Felicity said, climbing into bed lest he lie there, inspecting her nudity.

His gaze lingered on her bare shoulders before traversing her bare everything. “Been busy, haven’t you?”

She pushed a lock of dark hair off his forehead. “You needed to sleep.”

“I was out like the proverbial candle. If you’re here, it must be after two.”

“It’s probably two now,” because yes, for the first time, she’d arrived a bit early. “Hughes was courting apoplexy, since you’d left orders not to be disturbed.”

Gareth wrapped an arm around Felicity’s shoulders and pulled her against him. “I am such a burden to poor Hughes.”

Felicity wouldn’t argue that. She cuddled into Gareth’s body and stifled a yawn.

“If you really need a nap, Lissy, I can leave you in peace for a while. I left endless mountains of paperwork downstairs.”

So accommodating of him. Felicity had been enjoying the feel of his smooth abdomen beneath her hand, making lazy circles with her palm as she watched Gareth’s chest rise and fall. Her hand stilled at his words, which had sounded curiously like
stalling
.

“Let us proceed with our business, Heathgate.”

“Please, God, Felicity, do not
ever
refer to me by my title when we are in bed,” he ground out, flinging the covers aside and getting off the mattress.

“And please, God,
Gareth
, don’t you offer to tend to paperwork—that has been sitting on your desk all day—when you are finally supposed to be making proper love to me,” Felicity spat back, rising to her knees amid the covers. “And we won’t ever again
be
in bed, so I hardly think it matters what I call you.”

Gareth paused in the act of pouring himself a drink—at this hour?—but it was the smallest hesitation, and then he turned to regard her where she knelt, naked and uncomfortable on the bed.

“My apologies, Felicity, I meant only to show you consideration. Would you like a drink?” he asked in chilly tones.

How could a man be so intimidating—and so dear—stark naked with his hair rumpled from sleep? She subsided against the headboard and drew the covers up to her chin, because for once, Gareth was going to need her to show him how to go on.

“May we please get this over with?” she asked in a small, unhappy voice.

He came back to the bed and sat, drink in hand, with his back to her.

“I am sorry, Felicity, but with you, I do not want to be simply a stiff prick with a title and a good eye for a pretty bauble.” He sounded beyond weary; he sounded forlorn.

“I am sorry too, Gareth,” she said, her hand on his back.

He didn’t acknowledge her touch, but instead lifted the covers and lay beside her.

“Come here,” he said shortly, wrapping an arm around her. “Let’s begin again, shall we? Hello, my name is Gareth, and I am just the horny bastard you’ve been looking for.”

He was going to break her heart many times this day. The notion should not be surprising.

“Hello, Gareth,” she responded gamely. “My name is Felicity, and I am the spinster-turned-madam whom you will never have to see again after tomorrow.”

She’d failed to accept his challenge—failed miserably. Her voice had broken, her bright tone revealed for the lie that it was. “I am not very good at this,” she said, burying her face against Gareth’s neck.

“Oh, love.” He wrapped Felicity in his arms and brought her under his body, sheltering her with his limbs, his weight, his warmth. He braced himself above her, but let their bodies touch. Beneath him, Felicity gave in to weeping, crying in silent shudders, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and sliding into her hair.

He kissed those tears, kissed her damp eyes, her hair, her nose, her cheeks, her neck, but he let her cry until she was still and relaxed beneath him.

“It isn’t what you think,” she whispered against his chest. She needed for him to understand this.

“What is it?”

“I am not crying because I will no longer be a virgin.”

“Why are you crying, Felicity Worthington?”

Now he was willing to talk—now, of all times. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She’d purchased some sandalwood soap from the shop he patronized on Oxford Street, and despite the extravagance, had made sure she could torment herself with his scent even after today.

“I am crying because I will no longer be
your
virgin, or your whore, or your spinster, or your anything. You have become dear to me, Gareth Alexander, and I do not know how I will cope without your friendship in my life. I am sorry to burden you with these untidy emotions, but you should know somebody cares for you.”

He dropped his forehead to hers. “Your untidy emotions are part of what makes you dear to me as well, Felicity. But we must not let such feelings cloud our judgment, as much as it pains us. After tomorrow—”

She placed her fingers against his mouth, lest he make himself say impossible things for her sake.

“I cannot think of ‘after tomorrow,’ I cannot conceive of it, I cannot bear to imagine it. But I know it will come, and if you please, I should like a few more memories to sustain me through those days after tomorrow.”

***

Felicity took her fingers away, but before Gareth could launch back into his rehearsed pontifications, she replaced her fingers with her lips and drove every noble, selfless thought in his head to perdition.

He kissed her back, kissed her as if his life depended on it, memorizing the feel of her mouth with his own. Behind the languor in her kisses, though, he sensed a desperate grief, even as he felt Felicity’s hands tracing the length of his back, his hips, his buttocks.

She was saying good-bye with her body, and the insight was… devastating. For days, he’d been preoccupied with how to solve the conundrum of preserving her virtue without jeopardizing her future, but that riddle had obscured the reality that
she
was
leaving
him
.
By
this
time
tomorrow, she would be gone.

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled so Felicity was above him, barnacled to his chest in a position they both could take comfort from.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said miserably.

“Don’t say the words, Felicity. Don’t say the damned words. Not here, not now.” She was going to start crying all over again, so Gareth distracted her by brushing his fingers over her nipples.

“Yes, please, Gareth.” She brought her hands up to hold his palms over her breasts. He obliged, watching her expression gradually ease from anxiety and grief into arousal and sadness. Her nipples ruched against his palms as he gently kneaded her breasts, and by slow degrees, even the sadness faded.

So he continued with one hand to pleasure her in that fashion, but his other hand drifted down across her abdomen to pet and tease at her sex.

“On your elbows, sweetheart,” he urged, letting her come down over his body to rest her weight on her knees and forearms. He used the small distance that created between their lower bodies to ply his thumb gently on the seat of her pleasure, then used his fingers to stroke and limn her sex.

She was gratifyingly slick, and when he allowed his finger to slip inside her, she sighed against his neck.

“Soon,” he crooned, giving her shallow penetrations then increasing pressure with his thumb.

“That feels
heavenly
.”

“It would feel more heavenly if you’d move too.”

She complied, rocking her hips the least amount, so the pressure he applied with his thumb would surge and ebb but never leave her completely.

“Will you come for me?” he whispered. “Come against my hand. Come soon, and come
hard
.” He emphasized that instruction with a particularly firm pressure, and she moaned softly. Wanting her responses to build, Gareth gave the nipple between his fingers a slow, equally firm, rolling pinch, and was rewarded by an increase in the tempo of Felicity’s hips.

“You’re close,” he breathed, as desire suffused her features. “So close.”

He curled up against her and took one nipple in his mouth, suckling strongly while he closed his fingers around the other. With his free hand, he applied a similarly unrelieved pressure with his thumb, while his fingers slid deep inside her.

Within moments, she was convulsing around him, her body shuddering with pleasure as she hilted herself on his fingers. He drove her on with little flutters of pressure and release on her nipples, then drew the pleasure out by doing the same with her sex.

When she collapsed on top of him, sated and spent, he breathed in counterpoint to her, while against his chest, he felt her heartbeat gradually slow.

“Dear God in heaven,” Felicity muttered. “I begin to see why people make great fools of themselves over this whole business. If I didn’t hold you in high regard before, I’d become your most devoted supporter after this, Gareth. Such pleasure ought to be illegal.”