Lord Savage (5 page)

Yet, from behind my veil I watched Simon and Parker—who was also quite handsome—as
they loaded my belongings into the wagon, their breeches pulling snugly over their
buttocks and thighs as they bent and lifted the heavy trunks and cases. In most houses,
the servants with the responsibility of driving cars and carriages were seldom as
young or as worthy of such regard as these two men.

At last they were done, and Simon opened the door to the motorcar for me, standing
respectfully to one side. I walked briskly to the door, gathering my skirts to one
side to climb inside the car.

“Permit me to assist you, Mrs. Hart,” Simon said, taking me firmly by the elbow. “That
step is a high one.”

Although the step wasn’t high at all, I simply nodded. But as I bent to climb into
the car, I was shocked to feel the chauffeur’s hand on the back of my skirts, lightly
caressing my bottom as he guided me inside.

I gasped and quickly turned and sat, the audacity of his touch still burning on my
flesh beneath my skirt.

Unperturbed, Simon reached down to push the hem of my skirts into the car, so that
they wouldn’t be caught in the door. As he did, he slid his gloved hand beneath my
skirts and touched my silk-covered ankle.

I gasped again, but perhaps not quite as startled as I’d been before, and when he
slid his hand up my leg to my thigh, I didn’t gasp at all. He did not stop until he’d
reached the top of my stocking, his deerskin-covered fingers warm and sure on my bare
thigh.

I’d never felt leather on so intimate a part of my anatomy, and to my surprise, it
was not distasteful. It was … intriguing.

“Her ladyship wishes you to be pleased in every way, Mrs. Hart,” Simon said, his gaze
intense with promise and his fingers tracing little teasing circles on my skin. “While
you are her guest, whatever you desire is yours.”

Before I could answer, he withdrew his hand and gently closed and latched the door,
then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the motorcar. He said nothing further,
but instead concentrated on steering along the narrow, rutted road.

Yet, as I sat in the backseat, studying the broad sweep of his shoulders before me
and the delightful way the manly sweat had dampened his blond curls around the rim
of his cap, I had no doubt that if I asked him to stop the vehicle and continue what
he’d begun, he would oblige.

I couldn’t deny that I was tempted. I knew other ladies who dallied with their male
servants, confessing in breathless whispers as they compared the prowess of the French
gardener at the Newport cottage, or the groom who looked after the ponies at the lodge
in the Adirondacks. I had only listened, with no tales of my own to confess.

To be sure, there hadn’t been any handsome young men among my own servants who might
have tempted me—both Father and Arthur had made sure of that—but it was also a matter
of being the mistress. Commanding a servant to perform held little appeal for me,
and in my eyes such obedience seemed to diminish the men.

There would be no challenge to that, and ultimately little satisfaction. As handsome
as he was, it would be nothing more than an empty coupling without true passion. I
wished instead for a man who was not intimidated by my fortune or position, but who
would see me only as a desirable woman, not a wealthy one.

It could never be like that with the burly Simon, so I decided that for now I would
decline a taste of what he was offering, and keep my sights set on Lord Savage. Still,
the very fact that Lady Carleigh had offered me the chauffeur for more than transportation
was an excellent omen for the week, and I could scarcely contain my excitement.

Before long we reached the estate. We entered beneath an ancient arch that served
as the gate and passed through a small forest and lush green fields before, at last,
the house itself came into view beyond a lake that shimmered in the late-afternoon
sun.

Whatever notorious reputation Wrenton Manor had acquired over the centuries, it remained
breathtakingly beautiful. I was accustomed to enormous estates, but the ancient titles
and blue blood that bolstered English manor houses like this one put them on a level
of magnificence that no American oil and railroads could ever achieve.

The old Elizabethan house at Wrenton had been much enlarged in the last century, and
made over into an elaborate brick-and-stone tribute to a medieval castle—albeit a
medieval castle with all the most modern conveniences. The house bristled with stone
crockets and gargoyles, and from the center of the house rose a tall tower that dominated
the surrounding landscape.

At the very top flew a large red-and-yellow flag featuring the stags of the viscount’s
crest to show he was in residence. The rampant, flagrant maleness of the stags reminded
me of Lord Savage, and as I gazed up at the bold red flag, I could think of no better
symbol of the week ahead.

I was shown to rooms that were handsomely appointed, with white and gold-trimmed furnishings
and pink-and-green scrolled wallpaper. Because it was a corner room, there were tall
windows on two sides with splendid views of the rolling countryside.

As was the custom for house parties, whether in Britain or America, I wouldn’t meet
the rest of the guests or my host and hostess until they gathered to dine later that
evening. I’d at least two hours to amuse myself.

To pass the time, I decided upon a leisurely bath, dreaming of Lord Savage, while
the lady’s maid assigned to me unpacked my luggage.

The maid was named Simpson, and, much like the two male servants I had met earlier,
she had clearly been hired as much for her youth and beauty as for her skill at looking
after ladies. Most lady’s maids were dour, even plain, so as to offer no competition
to their ladies, or temptation to their masters. Certainly Hamlin, left behind in
London, fit that description.

But Simpson had a voluptuous figure more suited for a sultan’s harem than a severe
maid’s uniform, and her corseted breasts seemed to test and strain her bodice’s buttons
as she reached up to hang my gowns in the wardrobe.

As I watched her from the bath, I wondered idly if Simpson, too, would be willing
to offer herself for amorous play to the gentlemen guests. Or, perhaps, even to the
ladies, and with my thoughts already simmering with Lord Savage, I let myself consider
the shapely Simpson as she moved gracefully about her tasks, her full hips and breasts
swaying seductively.

While I had never explored lovemaking with another woman, I had overheard other women
in the cloakrooms at balls. They’d laughed and whispered to one another, teasing whispers
that suggested such things were not only possible but pleasurable, especially with
a woman like Simpson.

What would it be like to suckle at those full breasts, I wondered, to flick my tongue
over those nipples until they puckered and reddened, and caused their owner to sigh
with delight?

How would it feel to have another woman touch me instead, a woman’s small, soft hands
so different from a man’s? How fascinating would it be to kiss and fondle a body that
mirrored my own, a body whose responses I could share so intimately?

I chuckled to myself, sinking more deeply into the perfumed water to hide how taut
and rosy my own nipples had become. The fullness of my breasts bobbed gently just
below the water’s surface, and I longed to have a gentleman here to admire them. Such
lascivious thoughts for me to have! Wryly I decided that there really must be something
in the very air at this house, exactly as Hamlin had feared.

But even the most interminable afternoons finally pass, and at last it was time to
go downstairs for dinner. Whatever other qualities Simpson might possess, she was
an admirable lady’s maid, and when I paused one final time before the pier glass in
the bedroom, I could only be pleased by my reflection.

My dress had been delivered to me only yesterday at the hotel, directly from the shop
of Monsieur Poiret. The gown was so daring that I might have thought twice about wearing
it in London, and in staid New York, ruled by conservative Mrs. Astor—no.

Like all of Poiret’s chicest dresses, this one was deceptively simple, with a slender,
draped skirt that seemed to pour like liquid silk over my hips and legs. The neckline
was cut square and dangerously low, with only a breath of silk gauze, embroidered
with glittering faceted beads, over my bare shoulders and upper arms. Most shocking
of all was the color, or rather the lack of color: the gleaming silk was exactly the
same creamy color as my pale skin. Even from a short distance, I appeared to be more
nude than clothed.

Blurring the lines of decency further was the jewelry that I had added liberally,
ropes of gleaming pearls that only contributed to the sense of excess. I’d had Simpson
dress my hair in the latest fashion, pinning the heavy chestnut waves into a burnished
cloud around my face and elaborate curls around a twisted knot at the crown. One final
jewel—a glittering diamond star that was both a signature and a lucky piece to me—was
pinned into my hair over my right temple.

I smiled at my reflection with satisfaction, slowly opening my black-feather fan.
I was accustomed to being beautiful, for I’d been beautiful since I’d been born—a
final gift from my mother—but I’d never looked so blatantly and shamelessly seductive.
Dressed as I was, there was no possible way that Lord Savage could overlook me, or
my intentions.

I forced myself to walk slowly down the stairs, the slight train of my dress slipping
down the steps after me. I could already hear the voices of the other guests, assembled
in the library before being called to dinner. I wasn’t uneasy about entering such
a gathering alone, for like all widows, I’d had much practice doing so since Arthur’s
death. I liked the attention I always drew, and it was a little game with myself to
see how many gentlemen would look my way, and how many wives would not approve.

But tonight I did not wish simply to enter this particular room. I wanted to make
an entrance that announced myself not to every male guest but to one in particular.
I needed to be sure that Lord Savage saw me to be composed and confident and unquestionably
desirable, without a hint of nervous breathlessness.

Which is exactly how I did it.

Conversation stopped as I paused in the arched doorway. There were perhaps twenty
ladies and gentlemen in the room, and every one of them turned to look at me. The
ladies stared, mostly with envy, a few with admiration.

But it was, as always, the gentlemen that I most impressed. I’d never seen such frank
desire in so many male eyes, like a palpable force directed entirely at me.

I smiled slowly, pulling my train to one side in a way that deftly drew my skirt even
more closely around my body. Although only one man in the room really mattered to
me, I purposefully didn’t seek him out first, keeping both my gaze and my smile general,
to encompass them all. No matter what I was thinking, I refused to appear too eager.
I was determined to let Lord Savage come to me.

“Welcome, Mrs. Hart, welcome.” Lady Carleigh swept forward, taking my hands in her
own. “How happy I am to have you join our little party!”

“How honored I am to be included, my lady,” I said. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful
house than Wrenton Manor.”

“I would venture in turn that old Wrenton has never had a more beautiful guest, Mrs.
Hart,” the viscountess said, making a quick and approving study of my revealing gown.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if your mere presence is sufficient to rouse the ghosts of
all my husband’s most rakish ancestors.”

“You are too kind, my lady,” I murmured politely, letting my glance wander about the
room. “Too kind by half.”

“By halves or wholes, I’ve only told the truth,” Lady Carleigh said. “But then I suppose
you’ll have more interest in the living than in long-dead ghosts. Let me present you
to everyone you do not yet know.”

The other guests paraded before me in a well-mannered blur. I wasn’t good at remembering
names on any occasion, but especially not now, with my thoughts roiling with Lord
Savage. I’d glimpsed him already, standing near the fireplace and watching me as Lady
Carleigh and I moved about the room with the introductions. Even without looking directly
at him, I sensed his presence, his nearness, his gaze upon me as I made meaningless
pleasantries.

Still I wouldn’t look his way to encourage or even acknowledge him. I’d behaved like
a foolish schoolgirl when he danced with me, and I wasn’t going to do it again. He’d
said we were alike; tonight I would make sure I acted like it. I might not have a
title, but I
was
Evelyn Vanderwick Hart, and I did have my pride.

With my dress, I’d blatantly signaled my interest. Now it would be up to him to act
upon it.

“One more introduction, Mrs. Hart, and then you shall be free to choose your own companions
before we go in to dinner,” Lady Carleigh was saying. “Lord Blackledge, may I present
Mrs. Hart, of New York? Mrs. Hart, Baron Blackledge.”

“Mrs. Hart,” the baron said, swallowing my hand in his thick-fingered grasp and holding
fast. “I have been fascinated by you from the very moment you appeared among us.”

“I am honored, my lord,” I said, trying to slip my hand free of his unobtrusively.
The baron was a large man with a barrel chest and ginger hair above a ruddy face.
His smile was more fierce than friendly, baring far too many teeth, as if he wished
to devour me on the spot. “It is not easy to stand out in such impressive company.”

“A woman like you would stand out anywhere, Mrs. Hart.” He squeezed my fingers more
tightly to keep me from escaping, then harder still until it hurt, all the while watching
my face for my reaction. “In Bombay, they’d worship you like a goddess.”

“The baron has spent considerable time in India, Mrs. Hart,” Lady Carleigh said. “He
is so thoroughly at home there that I almost expect him to appear in a turban.”