The beleaguered Lord Bourne Page 11

  “Sacrebleu!” the irate Montague bellowed in his deep, highly accented voice. “Show to me the canaille who dare fling Montague’s tarts back in his face! A work of art, tossed aside like entrailles, bagatelles! Montague, he shall skewer the coquin, of a surety he will!”

  “Quick, guv’nor,” Ben yelled as Montague turned to shake Del off his arm as a giant flicks away a flea, “Make a break for it. Oi’ve got ’im.”

  Renfrew slipped from the room, unnoticed in the melee, as Kit, his army training coming to the fore, rose from his chair and delivered a punishing blow directly into Montague’s ample midsection, which slowed him down a bit but did not stop him. Ozzy, never much in the way of anything athletic, did his little bit by tossing his goblet full of port at the chef—thinking to cool the man a bit—and then retired from the fray, sliding his pudgy frame under the Sheraton buffet table and his head behind the brass spittoon. Dean Ives, sitting farthest from the scene of the action, merely continued to sip delicately from his goblet and await further developments—which, fortunately for Kit, were not long in coming.

  With a crash that set the china and crystal to shaking, the baize door swung back against the wall as Tiny advanced into the room with all the grace of a benevolent gorilla. “Arrrrgh!” he growled as his huge, beefy fists encircled Montague’s neck and lifted the irate chef a full two feet off the floor, Ben and Bob falling to the carpet like autumn leaves caught in a breeze. Kit dropped his fists and stared, as did everyone else in the room, and it is possible the Frenchman would have choked if Goliath, entering the room in his rapid, skipping gait, hadn’t grabbed onto Tiny’s pants and climbed up the giant to whisper something in his ear.

  Tiny looked at Goliath, who nodded once before sliding back down the mountain to the floor, and Montague, his face a truly lovely shade of purple, was allowed to live to cook another day. Bowing in his lordship’s direction, Tiny shrugged his great shoulders shyly, smiled his sweet, stupid grin, and allowed Goliath to lead him from the room like a tame puppy. His anger effectively choked out of him, Montague—who had lost more than one job due to his lamentable temper—lapsed completely into French as he tried simultaneously to apologize to his master and hide the deadly cleaver behind his back.

  “Now, now, m’lord,” Renfrew soothed placatingly as Kit showed every intention of finishing the job Tiny had started, “there was no harm done. Lady Bourne had warned me about Montague’s temperament, but somehow I had forgotten about it and allowed the plate of desserts to go back to the kitchen without first emptying it. Montague is a wonderful chef, sir, it’s just that he gets a little touchy about his, er, creations. The rest of the staff humors him by hiding any leftovers out of sight—indeed, we have the best-fed staff in all London town, if I do say so myself, but you know how it is, every once in a while there’s bound to be a little slipup. It’s just a good job,” the man ended earnestly, “that I remembered about Tiny in time.”

  “Yes, Kit,” Ozzy put in as he crawled out from under the buffet. “Your lady did warn us to be sure to eat all our peas. Seems the fault lies with us—being as how we were put on notice. Now, now, old fellow,” Ozzy went on as Kit showed some lingering signs of impending explosion, “think again of that lobster. Would you be so daft as to give that up just because the man has a bit of a temper? I call that very poor sporting of you, Kit, in truth I do.”

  In the end, Montague was allowed to return to his kitchen—where Ben, Bob, and Del had already effectively removed any remaining bits of evidence by filling their bellies with the riot-causing sweets—and the gentlemen, one still silently fuming, one obviously amused, and one curiously silent, adjourned to the drawing room, where, after a few minutes of rather anticlimatic conversation about such tame doings as the war and other mundane events, the party broke up at the ungodly early hour of eleven.

  As Ozzy stepped out the door into the steps he ventured a parting shot at his friend. “Kit,” he said, his lips trembling with suppressed mirth, “I’ll say one thing for you—you sure know how to give a fellow a good time. Really, perhaps you ought to give a thought or two to charging admission to your little shows.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Kit responded, somehow summoning up a smile. “After all, Ozzy, it’s m’wife’s menagerie, not mine. You’ll have to ask her.”

  “Oh, her ladyship’s a prime right one. I have no fears on that head,” Ozzy returned jovially. “Keep this up, Kit, and the Bourne mansion will become the place to see and be seen and your lady the premier hostess in the entire ton! Give her my regards,” Mr. Norwood ended, skipping lightly down the steps to the flagway and saluting his friend before turning to enter his waiting carriage.

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” the earl called after him, his smile becoming a little strained around the edges. Once the carriage had driven off, the smile, which had been frozen on his face like a Gunther ice, melted slowly and reformed itself into a fierce grimace. “Give her my regards, the looby says,” he told the night sky before slamming the heavy front door with a satisfying swipe of his hand. “Of course I will, Ozzy, old fellow—and then I’ll murder her!”

  IT WAS JUST STRIKING TWO when Jennie came tiptoeing carefully up the stairs to her chamber, her head swimming just slightly from the wine she had imbibed in an effort to overcome the nervousness brought on by her first foray into society. Not that Lucy hadn’t been by her side the whole evening, doling out gossip about some of their company while waving gaily to any number of acquaintances who called to her most familiarly as they made their way to tables already set up for tame-stakes gambling.

  The card party hadn’t been nearly as much fun as Jennie had thought—and certainly not as pleasurable as it should have been, considering she had chanced Kit’s wrath in order to attend it. But then ton parties, according to Lucy, were for the most part dull as ditchwater. Jennie rather doubted this was true, or else why would Kit attend so many of them? But, she had thought as two of Lady Sefton’s footmen carried a happily passed-out earl from the cardroom, perhaps men found amusement more easily come by than women.

  No matter what, Jennie was now home again, and she could not help but wonder how Kit’s evening had gone. Entering her chamber, her evening slippers dangling from one hand, she was just beginning to make out the shape of her furniture in the near darkness when a movement in the shadows caught her attention.

  “Good evening, wife,” came Kit’s voice, oddly strained. “Much as I hate to upset you, I am afraid I have to tell you that your attempt at assassination failed. Your husband, ma’am, is still very much alive.”

  “I—I don’t understand,” Jennie stammered nervously, misliking the strange glitter in her husband’s eyes.

  Kit advanced on her, his smile making her stockinged toes curl defensively into the carpeting. “Really?” he purred, sliding a hand around Jennie’s throat to finger the curls at her nape. “Allow me to refresh your memory. Do the words ‘eat all your peas’ ring any bells for you, ma’am?”

  Jennie’s stomach dropped to her knees, and she made a face that looked as if she had just bitten into a rather bitter pickle. “Montague,” she breathed softly. “I knew I should have remained at home. Drat Lucy and her fine speeches about putting you in your place.”

  “Please, kitten,” the earl said silkily, his fingers tightening just slightly, “have the decency not to include Miss Gladwin in this particular escapade. She may have been the instigator of your little mutiny tonight, but I know for a fact that it was not she who had the hiring of that maniacal Frenchman. Oh no. Montague bears all the marks of your handiwork.” Exerting a bit more pressure, Kit directed Jennie’s footsteps toward the bed and pushed her rump down onto it. “Do you have any idea how disconcerting it is to look up from your own dinner table to see death looking you in the eyes? It may serve to put me off my feed for a month. Well?” he asked, staring down into her fear-widened eyes, “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  It was quiet in the room for some moments while Jenni
e searched wildly for something to say. At last, her wits deserting her entirely, she gave voice to the only thing that her brain could muster: “Do you not care for green peas, then, my lord?”

  Kit dropped into a nearby chair and let his forehead rest on his hands. “God give me patience,” he groaned, shaking his weary head. He looked up at Jennie, saw her tear-bright green eyes, and instantly felt as if he had been cruelly mistreating a lost kitten. She was such a baby—such an innocent, trusting baby. She shouldn’t yet be allowed out on her own, not with her penchant for picking up strays and bringing them back with her. Unable to vent his spleen by taking vengeance on his wife’s nubile body, Kit reached out his hand for the nearest object—which happened to be a rather fine crystal vase—and flung it full force into the cold fireplace. It landed with a satisfying crash, which went a long way toward easing the constriction in the earl’s chest, at least for the few moments it took for Goldie and Miss Bundy to burst upon the scene in their nightclothes, anxious to see what was amiss.

  Miss Bundy’s eyes took in the scene in a glance, and, as she had been informed by Renfrew of the events earlier in the evening, she had no doubt as to what was now taking place. His lordship was merely making a critical statement concerning Jennie’s choice of chef.

  But Goldie was another matter. In her simple brain the thought formed that her mistress was in dire danger of imminent death—or worse. Racing to Jennie’s side, she flung her ample arms wide and pronounced dramatically, “You’ll not get ta her lessen it’s over me own dead body!”

  Miss Bundy, sadly aware that she was standing before his lordship dressed only in her nightgown, but also realizing her intervention was needed, pushed herself into disgusted speech. “Goldie,” she said condemningly, “there are times your ignorance would disgrace a Hottentot. His lordship is not here to do murder; it’s just that the vase slipped from his hand as he was making a point in a discussion he was having with Lady Bourne. Now drop the pose of martyr you have struck and remove your scantily clad body from the room posthaste.”

  Goldie looked down at her coarse white cotton gown and rapidly pulled in her outflung arms to wrap them protectively around her upper body. “’Pon my soul!” she exclaimed, mortified.

  “Upon yours, maybe,” Miss Bundy was pushed to say unkindly, “but thank goodness, not upon mine. Now scoot!”

  “You want me to leave?” Goldie asked, clearly still of half a mind to stay and protect her mistress.

  “What would you suggest as an alternative?” Miss Bundy asked acidly.

  From his place in the corner, Lord Bourne was heard to mumble under his breath: “We gather here to lend prayers…”

  This irreverent aside was too much for Jennie, who laid herself back on her bed and began to howl with relieved laughter. Kit might be an easily lit match, but luckily, he was one whose temper burned brightly for only a moment before common sense and his wonderful love of the ridiculous effectively snuffed the flame.

  Within moments of Jennie’s delighted chuckling, Miss Bundy had successfully herded the confused Goldie, still vainly trying to cover her “private parts” with her hands (now placed strategically behind her as she scuttled toward the door), and Lord Bourne rose from his seat to lock the door behind them.

  “Now, kitten,” he began softly once the key was safely in his breast pocket, “perhaps we can discuss your punishment?”

  IT WAS NEARING DAWN when the earl returned to his own chamber, a man much changed from either the angry one who had waited countless hours for the return of his delinquent wife or the amused one who had waggled his eyebrows in mock menace as he approached his wife’s bed, intent only on making her feel a bit of the discomfort he had felt earlier. Now it was a thoughtful earl who paced his chamber, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

  How had things gotten so out of hand? When had teasing turned to something infinitely more intense, and vague thoughts of revenge receded to be replaced by a desire to feel his wife’s warm form beneath him as he burned kisses over every inch of her soft body?

  Memories of the past hours crowded into his brain, and he could close his eyes and relive every moment, almost as if he had been hovering above the bed looking down at the passionate pair clinging to each other among a tangle of sheets and blankets. Jennie’s soft cries, begun in fear but swiftly turning to whimpers of mingled delight and anticipation, echoed disturbingly loud in his ears, and he sank into a chair as his mind recalled the sound of his own voice, soothing, cajoling, reassuring—and, in the end, begging, pleading for blessed release. Never, he told himself passionately, never before in his life had he felt such intensity, such a deep need to possess, to enfold, to cherish. And more—much more.

  He could now recapture, with almost physical pain, the rapture he’d felt as Jennie’s young head bent to run light kisses the length of the wicked scar on his side. What had he felt when she had caressed him so unselfishly? Could that strange constriction in his throat have been the first stirrings of love? “Nonsense!” he nearly shouted into the early-morning haze. “Utter nonsense! By God, I don’t even like the balmy chit. Playing at love, just as she plays at lady of the manor. Bloody hell, the idiot picks her companions with all the discretion and judgment of a child allowed to choose her own menu—never thinking about a thing but what tastes good, and giving not a single thought to what’s good for her.”

  That little speech gave the earl pause. It was one thing to rationalize away Jennie’s predilection for eccentrics who tugged at her gentle heart, but it was another to classify himself as one of her pet projects. Could it be the affection she had showered on him so freely just a short time ago had stemmed from some warped idea of hers that he was in need of her protection and direction, like Tiny, or Del, or even the volatile Montague? Did she see him as some sort of misfit, or had her tender heart been wrung by his tale of Denny and the wound he had sustained? That would explain her gentle, ministering attitude, though, he thought hopefully, it certainly would not explain her passion.

  Perhaps the little dreamer had decided that he was a romantic hero and she believed herself in love with him. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head! First he was saddled with the girl as an unwanted bride, and now he was in danger of suffering through her first encounter with puppy love. It was more than any one man could be expected to bear.

  Kit crossed to the connecting door and peeked in on his sleeping wife, all curled up in a little ball in the middle of the huge bed and looking for all the world like a sleep-warmed child. His heart did a strange sort of flip-flop in his breast and he was hard-pressed not to crawl back beneath the sheets and cradle her golden head on his bare chest. He resisted the impulse, knowing full well he was getting in much too deep for a man whose very last wish in life was to be saddled with an adoring wife.

  Returning to his own room once more, he lit a cheroot and went to look out his window onto the square below. She was getting to him, this child bride of his, and he’d be damned if he’d allow her to make further inroads into his self-sufficiency.

  Then why, he asked himself on a deep sigh, did his arms feel so damned empty without her?

  JENNIE HELD HER BREATH until the door closed, with Kit safely returned once more to his own chamber. He had stood looking down at her for so long she was sure she would give herself away. But just as she felt sure she would have to open her eyes, he had at last turned away. She didn’t know why she didn’t want him to know she was awake, she only knew she couldn’t face him until she had time to think over what had happened between them and come to some sort of conclusion as to just what it all meant.

  Had that really been her, Jennie Maitland Wilde, who had behaved with such wild, even wicked, abandon in the wee hours of the night? Could it have been the same Jennie Maitland Wilde who now lay here, shivering in a tight fetal position, striving vainly to pretend to herself that nothing earthshaking had happened? But she could not deny the facts, any more than she could deny the lingering lassitude that had her twisti
ng slowly between the sheets so that her suddenly sensitive skin could relive in part the wonderful, cherished feeling of being held so tightly in Kit’s embrace.

  She was a wanton—there was no other explanation for it. But how could she help herself, when Kit was so very handsome, and so very experienced! That was it! He had seduced her again! No, her honest self denied as she punched her pillows and tried once more to find the sanctuary of sleep. He did not seduce me. It was…it was more of a joint seduction, with both parties equally at fault.

  All right, she told herself rationally. It was one thing to allow oneself to be made love to, but it was quite another to initiate a second round of lovemaking. And that mad impulse to kiss away the pain of his scar—why, Bundy would die of mortification if ever I told her I had been so forward.

  “So why should you be telling Bundy?” she said aloud, sitting up sharply in the bed. “You are a married lady now, not some schoolgirl who must give an accounting of her every move. Although,” she went on, a ghost of a smile lighting her worried features, “it might be interesting to see Bundy’s reaction to a full recitation of last night’s events. For once the roles of tutor and student would be reversed, I believe.” This little bit of silliness lightened Jennie’s somber mood for a moment, but nothing could keep her mind overlong from her newest dilemma. It had been one thing for Jennie to disregard a single “tumble,” as Goldie would term it, but it was quite another to sweep the abandoned lovemaking just past under the rug and pretend it had not happened.

  Besides, she wasn’t really sure she wanted to forget. She really believed she might just be doing the unfashionable—falling in love with her own husband. Then another, sobering thought intervened. Obviously Kit did not feel the same, else why would he steal out of her chamber before dawn like some thief? Couldn’t he face her in the morning after the things he had whispered into her ear during the night? This put a whole new complexion on the matter, Jennie knew, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Now she was more confused than ever, and she mentally tried to hold back the dawn so that she would not have to face her husband over the breakfast table and try to think of something to say other than “Ah, yes, Kit. That—please do that!”