The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (147 page)

Suddenly it simply became too much. He was eavesdropping on two ladies discussing discipline, for God’s sake. He was lurking there behind a palm, listening to them, sweating, and ready to remove his cravat. It was not to be borne. Lord Beecham couldn’t hold it back. It just burst from his mouth. He laughed—something he didn’t normally do because he was, after all, a man of the world; a lazy nod or a slightly contemptuous snicker was usually more fitting. And so what poured out of his mouth sounded a bit rusty, perhaps a tad hoarse to the casual ear, but it was a laugh, a good strong laugh, and it just kept rolling out of him.

He realized they could hear him. That would never do. He tried so hard to stop laughing that he hiccupped. He clapped his hand over his mouth and quickly slipped behind another giant palm tree. And none too soon.

“I know I heard someone, Helen. It was a man and he was laughing. Oh, dear, you don’t think it was Douglas, do you? No, Douglas would come right in here and laugh in our faces. Then he would look at me with a smile in his eyes and tell me to forget the thought of disciplining him, that he is in charge. I am tired of his controlling everything. Eight years is a long time, Helen. I want to make him wild first, for once.”

“Well, that can’t be too difficult. Simply distract him when he is reading the
Gazette
. Start nuzzling his ear, kiss his neck, bite him. Why haven’t you done this already?”

Dead silence.

“Oh, dear, you are scarlet to your hairline, Alexandra.”

“I have bitten him, Helen, I have. My bites simply take place in a different context. There is no
Gazette
lying about.”

“A context that Douglas has provided?”

“Yes. You know, it’s just that Douglas has only to look at me, perhaps give me a small touch anywhere with his hand or his mouth, and I lose every shred of thought. I puddle right on the floor, directly in front of him. It just does not stop, Helen. Help me. Oh, dear, what if he is out there, listening? Now he knows what power he wields over me.”

“Trust me, he already knows. Now, you’re right, of course. If it had been Douglas, he would be standing right in front of us, laughing his head off. But then, perhaps he would have let you lead him off to begin disciplining him this very night—that is, if he didn’t decide to discipline you first.”

Alexandra sighed.

“Goodness, you mean it? You’re serious here, Alexandra? Doesn’t Douglas ever let you have control? Eight years of one-sided marital sorts of things? From everything I’ve read, this isn’t good. The Italians, especially, believe that participation in lovemaking should be balanced. You must pull yourself together.”

“It’s difficult once Douglas turns his attention on me. I would like to read what the Italians have to say about this.”

“I will lend you a treatise on it. Now, you cannot allow Douglas always to discipline you first. You must focus your mind, Alexandra.”

Alexandra’s eyes nearly crossed. She shuddered delicately. “Douglas has never said anything at all about discipline. I’m sure he’s never done any to me.”

Helen laughed and patted her cheek. “From everything I’ve read, I’ll wager Douglas already performs a lover’s standard discipline on you and you don’t even realize it. You’re just having fun.”

“Do you really think so? I wonder what specific sorts of things that Douglas enjoys with me one could call discipline? Perhaps I shall ask him.”

“Or perhaps not, at least not yet.”

“Whatever he does, it’s true that I do sometimes forget to think,” Alexandra said, then squared her shoulders, “but that’s another problem, one I will have to solve.” Her shoulders squared even more and her magnificent bosom achieved new prominence. “I will have to learn how to retain my own control if I want to have a chance of controlling Douglas. I will have to have a specific goal in mind, a course that I will have to follow. I will get the upper hand of Douglas. The brink of madness—yes, Helen, that is where I want to dispatch Douglas. You must tell me specifically what I am to do.”

Helen looked down at her fingernails a moment. She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she couldn’t help herself. She said on a deep, wistful sigh, overflowing with exquisite memories, knowing that Alexandra would be enraged within moments, “Ah, even when I was fifteen and I first saw Douglas and fell in love with him, I knew instinctively that he wouldn’t be a clod. I knew he would excel, and I wanted to be the female he chose to excel upon. Such a pity that it wasn’t meant to be.” She sighed again, a sad, forlorn sigh.

Helen watched beneath her lashes as Alexandra’s eyes narrowed remarkably, and her voice turned mean and low. “Helen, I will not tell you again. You will forget those early years of infatuation with Douglas. You will forget those tender feelings you cherished for him when you were too young to realize what was what.”

“Yes,” Helen said at her most humble, her head bent to show how contrite she was, “I will try.” She hoped Alexandra couldn’t hear the laughter in her voice.

Lord Beecham heard the laughter. And then he realized that here he was, a man of immense
savoir faire
, hiding behind huge green palm fronds, hanging on these women’s every word. He hadn’t yet seen the disciplinarian, but he could see Alexandra Sherbrooke now. She was looking around, just a bit apprehensively, her fingers splayed over her incredible bosom. It was too bad Douglas insisted she keep all that lovely white flesh more covered than not. It wasn’t at all the style. God gave women bosoms to flaunt, and every woman he knew flaunted, except Alexandra Sherbrooke. Everyone had seen Douglas drag his wife into a corner from time to time to pull up her bodice if he thought there was too much white flesh showing.

A pity.

Lord Beecham loved breasts: bountiful breasts like Alexandra’s that would overflow a man’s hands, small breasts that were ripe and sweet, breasts pushed up to be lovingly framed by a gown’s satin and lace. He loved to bury his face in a woman’s breasts.

He got hold of himself. Who was the other woman, the self-proclaimed mistress of discipline? He knew only that her name was Helen.

Lord Beecham was not normally a skulker, but he had to know who she was. He waited, veiled by the palm fronds, until, finally, the two ladies came out of the Sanderling’s library.

He nearly dropped his glass of champagne when he saw Helen. She was the woman he had seen riding in the park with Douglas. He remembered remarking to himself then that he wanted a better look at her. Now he was getting it. She had to be nearly as tall as he was, but there all resemblance between them ended. His imagination soared to Mount Olympus for suitable comparisons. She was sculpted like a goddess, statuesque and beautifully curved, skin so white it was alabaster, and her hair—surely even goddesses didn’t have hair like that, thick and pure blond with no hints of gold or red. She wore it twisted atop her head, making her appear even taller, with long, lazy curls caressing the white flesh of her shoulders. Her eyes were bluer than Aphrodite’s, her smile so charming, so utterly seductive, it could have belonged to Helen of Troy. He would wager that this new Helen could launch even more ships.

Lord Beecham had just lost his wits. Frankly, his literary-inspired imagination had made him produce tripe. She was a woman, just a woman, and her name was Helen. She might be on the magnificent side, but she was still only a woman, nothing more, nothing less. He had seen women who were more beautiful, had bedded women who were more beautiful. She was not a goddess, not even close to a siren of myth. She was just a very big girl who happened to have very nice hair of a shade that sparked poetry in a man’s soul. And she had spoken au thoritatively of discipline.

All other things being equal, she was a man’s dream.

He watched Helen and Alexandra walk away from him, down the corridor to the ballroom.

She wasn’t a young, untried girl of eighteen either, newly released from the schoolroom to prey upon the hapless bachelors of London. No, she had been released a goodly number of years ago, which meant she was well married and knew exactly what was what—and that was surely an utterly excellent thing.

He had always preferred married women. What man didn’t? They were safe. They wanted what he wanted—a bit of excitement, a bit of warmth, a new companion to add spice and passion. They didn’t usually whine or carp when he was ready to move on. He did not have to worry about their husbands, most of whom were his friends and who bedded other friends’ wives just as he did. Many men and women were not discreet, and that sometimes stretched civilized manners to the limit. Lord Beecham, however, never spoke of his conquests. There wasn’t any need to even if he had been inclined to bray and brag. For some reason, he could not escape the gossips, no matter how silent he remained.

He tossed down the rest of his champagne as the two women disappeared from his view back into the ballroom.

He rubbed his hands together.

Helen was a very big girl. He spread his fingers out. He thought of her breasts. Were his hands big enough for her? Oh, yes, he thought, his hands would make do quite nicely. He looked at his hands, pictured her breasts, and knew that if he had been speaking just then, he would doubtless have been stuttering.

Why were they talking about discipline? His flesh rippled. He pictured Helen on her back, her white arms pulled above her head, her wrists tied with two of his softest cravats to the posts at the head of his bed.

A woman who was well versed in the art of discipline? She had read everything ever written about it? Had she also employed everything she had learned? Had it all been employed upon her? It was a heady thought, one that made him swallow a bit convulsively.

When he reached the ballroom he looked and looked, but the big girl was gone.

He wasn’t worried. He would simply call upon Alexandra and, with his exquisite finesse, discover Helen’s address and the name of her husband.

He hoped Alexandra would cooperate. He had stopped trying to seduce her at least six years ago, when one evening in the midst of one of his more effective offerings she laughed at him. It had wounded him greatly. He was a renowned lover—at least that was what the gossips were always saying.

But in the end, he quite liked Alexandra Sherbrooke, despite her appalling preference for only her husband in her bed. He liked her husband as well, all the more so once Douglas determined he wouldn’t have to kill him for trying to seduce his wife. It was nothing more than attempted poaching, and that, Douglas had told him some years before, he would let slide. Thank the heavens that there were not all that many couples like the Sherbrookes in London.

Exactly what did the big girl know about discipline? Like Alexandra, he wanted specifics. He couldn’t wait to find out. Other than her far-flung reading, had her husband taught her? Or a lover?

Lord Beecham wanted her in his bed, and he wanted her there very soon. He would be a lover who would teach her something altogether new about discipline. He would take his fill of her and when they eventually parted, she would never forget him. Whenever she spoke of discipline after her time with him, she would remember him, and smile.

He rubbed his hands together in anticipation even as he wondered if her hair was long enough to fall over her shoulders and curl lazily around her breasts.

Lord Beecham was a man with a very detailed imagination. He saw her beneath him, all of her, stretched out, smiling up at him, and her hands were busy, very busy. He was forced once again to swallow. He would bed her soon. Very soon.

Tomorrow night would fit nicely into his schedule.

His fingers clenched at the emerging picture in his mind, a very big picture.

So much white canvas.

A
LEXANDRA SHERBROOKE, Countess of Northcliffe, shook out her dark-green silk skirts and rose. Mankin, the Sherbrooke town house butler for the past eighteen years, was, she saw, growing more and more stooped by the year, but it was not because he worked too hard or that his shoulders were rounding with age. No, Mankin wanted to show off his head in all its perfectly round, glittering bald glory. He polished his head. She had seen him doing it once when she’d happened to peer around the corner into the butler’s pantry; he’d been using some of Mrs. Hibble’s homemade wax. Today, as usual, he had achieved a high shine.

“Lord Beecham, my lady,” Mankin said from the doorway of the first-floor drawing room. He bowed low, bending his head until the very top was in her line of vision. She was nearly blinded.

“Hello, Spenser.” She walked to him, her hands out, smiling. She quite liked Spenser Heatherington, much to Douglas’s annoyance. “Please tell me that you are here to murmur sweet nonsense into my ears. I do miss that, you know. You just stopped doing it.”