Scoundrel in My Dreams Page 23

  She’d never had anything so fine—and she’d only just begun!

  The blue gown was cleverly made. She was able to reach the buttons because it dipped dangerously low on her back. The tiny sleeves were little more than useless puffs to drape over the points of her shoulders, yet the gown was so perfectly fitted that it could never slip.

  How had anyone been able to make such an ideal gown for her with only a couple of old dresses to measure from?

  She ought not to accept. It implied . . . oh, never mind! She’d already borne his child! How much more improper could things get?

  So she donned the gloves without a single twinge of guilt, smoothing them high over her elbows.

  She was panting for a mirror. How could she be expected to do her hair? She wasn’t even sure she’d buttoned herself up properly!

  There was a tiny silk bag left on the bottom of the box, much like the one the garters had come in. Was it a spare?

  No. It was a lovely little hand mirror. She held it up to the light, running her fingertips over the gleaming metal. It warmed to her touch at once. There was only one thing that did that.

  Solid gold.

  Blinking, she looked at the generous array of lovely things. If it were any other man, she might think he was trying to buy her. Jack, no. These were gifts, plain and simple, purely to give her pleasure.

  A woman could get used to this.

  The bag also contained a small gold-handled brush. There wasn’t much Laurel could do with her hair, for she only had the pins she’d worn the day she’d come to Brown’s. Feeling daring, she decided to simply brush her long, curling hair into a dark, silken cloud and let it cling to her bare shoulders and swing sensuously over her bare back.

  The box was empty of treasures at last. Hmm.

  No underthings. None at all, other than the stockings, and those only made her look more naked!

  This Lementeur was a very naughty fellow indeed. Not that anyone would see, of course.

  Her fingers stilled in the act of caressing the folds of the gown yet again. No one would see her except for Jack. What were they going to do, sit down at her little breakfast table and talk, dressed in ballroom finery?

  At that moment, a tap came on the door. “Come in,” she called out, unable to resist assuming a slight pose. Chin up, breasts high, her hands clasped demurely behind her back . . . she couldn’t help it. She was a woman, wasn’t she?

  His face when he entered and saw her standing there was absolutely priceless. The last shred of his haunted remoteness burned away as his eyes flared with appreciation. “You look . . . you are . . . stunning.”

  It mattered, damn it. It mattered to her that he thought she was attractive. In all her life, she had never cared what any man thought of her but for Jack. That didn’t seem likely to change any time soon.

  She dipped a curtsy. “Thank you. You look rather devastating yourself, my lord.”

  Her compliment was meant to be light and social, but his eyes widened. “Thank you,” he said seriously. “The cravat gave me fits for half an hour.”

  Laurel bit her lip and did not smile, but she could see that his neckcloth was just a tiny bit . . . wonky. Jack, nervous?

  She would not be charmed. Instead, she folded her arms and tilted her head. “Now what are we to do? Change back?”

  He gazed at her for a long moment, his brown eyes going nearly black with desire. Laurel became very aware of the strategic tightness of her bodice and the very telling lack of underthings.

  Lementeur, you and I are going to have to have a little talk.

  Just when Laurel was afraid Jack meant to ruin another gown on the floor—heavens, what a marvelous idea!—he held out his hand. “Come,” he said.

  He’d said that to her once before. Now, as then, she came. Putting her gloved hand in his, dipping her head to hide her flaming face, she let him lead her from the attic.

  But when she thought they were about to head down the stairs and into the club, he turned to take her to the large window in the main attic.

  It was much like the one in her cell. In fact, it was in the same wall and had the same view of St. James Street. Jack let go of her hand long enough to open the center panel of the window wide.

  Then he climbed through it.

  Twenty-seven

  Laurel’s eyes widened and she stepped forward hurriedly to reach out to Jack. “Don’t do it, Jack! It isn’t worth it!”

  He looked back at her in surprise. Then he smiled, a quick flash of white teeth in the moonlight pouring down upon them. “Don’t worry. I’m not planning to end it all.”

  It was the first smile she’d seen in years. Not since before he went away to war.

  Her heart melted into a simmering little puddle, quite against her will. He was yet so beautiful, even shadowed as he was now.

  He became vastly less attractive when he held out his hand through the window. “Let me help you through.”

  Laurel stepped back. “I hardly think so!”

  He reached for her. “It’s all right.”

  Laurel put her gloved fists on her hips. “My dear marquis, I’ll have you know that there are certain laws of nature that cannot be denied. One is that it will inevitably rain on the first day you wear your new bonnet. The other is that what goes up must always fall down!”

  Jack blinked at her. “Aren’t you even a tiny bit curious, Bramble?” He flashed her another smile. “I double-damn dare you!”

  The nickname caused a repeat melting. She was going to have to do something about that very soon. The dare, however . . .

  Hiking her priceless skirts high, she grabbed his hand and stepped through the window. Keeping her eyes ruthlessly on the ledge at her feet and at the handholds he helped her to, she somehow managed to climb the slanting edge of the mansard roof to the flat top above.

  Dusting her gloves irritably, peering at the stains in the moonlight, Laurel shook out her skirts and looked up.

  She gasped. “Oh, my heavens!”

  It was beautiful. Jack had lighted dozens of candles and placed them all around the roof. Some were lanterns and some were in candelabras. Some appeared to be simply stuck into a puddle of wax on the stone. The effect was madly beautiful, like a fantasy ballroom with no ceiling but the sky.

  Laurel turned and gasped again. The moonlight streamed down upon the city of London, laid out before her. She could see St. James’s Palace, fully lighted as the Prince Regent always kept it during the Season. She could see rooftops and the golden squares of windows in buildings as far as the eye could see.

  “I never realized the city was so huge,” she gasped. “It looks like a fairyland from here!”

  Jack, who had not yet released her hand, led her to the center of the roof. Then he left her, hurrying over to one side. He bent over something she could not see.

  A sweet chiming sound filled the night air. Jack came back to her and bowed. “May I have this dance, dear lady?”

  Laurel stood in the circle of candlelight and stared at this amazing, bewildering man. “You wish to dance with me? To a music box?”

  Jack straightened. He looked a little worried. “I hoped . . .” He stopped, then cleared his throat. “You never had the opportunity to attend a ball,” he said huskily. “That was my fault.”

  A ball? For her? She gazed around at the shimmering fantasy rooftop. The silvery chimes of the music box danced on the moonlit night.

  It was hands-down the most romantic thing she’d ever seen.

  Her heart was never going to unmelt if he kept this sort of thing up. Swallowing back a ridiculous little sob, Laurel curtsied to Jack in return. “Why, thank you, my lord. I would dearly love to dance.”

  She put her hand in his. He swept her into his arms.

  At last.

  She’d dreamed of dancing with Jack when she was young. She’d fancied that they would whirl about the dance floor, entranced in each other’s eyes, and the entire world would disappear.

  Lau
ghing out loud at her own prophetic fantasy, she let her head fall back as Jack whirled her around and around, skillfully guiding her in the steps she’d never had the opportunity to try out.

  “Sing the words,” Jack urged her.

  Laurel laughed and looked away. “I think not.”

  “Sing. Melody told me your voice was the beautifulest.” He gazed down at her with eyes dark and admiring, just as she’d once dreamed he would. “I want to hear you sing,” he said huskily.

  It seemed she could never refuse that tone of intimate command.

  She could scarcely believe it when her lips opened and the words came out, shyly at first and then with more confidence. It was a love song, this silly music box tune. A sentimental favorite of hers.

  “Alas, my love, you do me wrong

  To cast me off discourteously.

  And I have loved you oh so long,

  Delighting in your company.”

  They didn’t even notice when the music box wound down, nor when the candles guttered and failed. They danced until the moon went behind a cloud and then they danced in the dark, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s eyes.

  When Wilberforce had put all his charges to bed, both young and old, he consulted with Cook briefly to approve the menus that Lady Madeleine thought she had already approved, and made a brisk circuit of the main rooms of the club with Bailiwick, pointing out several minor matters that needed seeing to.

  The mantel in the “family parlor” was looking a mite sooty and there was a new scratch in the wood parquet floor that needed polishing out. Wilberforce squinted at it for a long moment. Bailiwick shifted uncomfortably.

  “It were spurs, Mr. Wilberforce.”

  “I am quite aware of that, Bailiwick. I am only pondering whether the aforementioned apparatus resided on Master Evan’s boot or perhaps . . .”

  He waited.

  Bailiwick drooped. “It might’ve been mine, Mr. Wilberforce.”

  Wilberforce was perfectly aware that the mark came from Evan’s spurs. The boy had affected a pair of them only last week, although he would never dream of actually using them on his beloved Ramses. He had insisted that Bailiwick wear them as well, sending half the staff running around London trying to find a pair that would fit the young underfootman’s massive boots. Bailiwick’s spurs still hung next to Balthazar’s whip in the mews, neither ever having been used.

  Wilberforce merely wished to ascertain whether Bailiwick remembered his primary purpose on this earth. He was to serve. Service was an ancient and nearly holy occupation, in Wilberforce’s mind. Service, to him, was an art and a science, and he was the high master of both.

  Nodding in satisfaction that Bailiwick did in fact recall his proper mission in life, Wilberforce offered the young man his highest praise. “That will do, Mr. Bailiwick.”

  Even in the doldrums of his languishing passion for Fiona, Bailiwick brightened at such a florid compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Wilberforce!”

  Wilberforce nodded and turned away. All was right in his kingdom.

  It was time to investigate the attic.

  Once through the door in the upper hallway, he saw little to dismay him on the stairs. Climbing higher, he saw by the light of his candle that the main attic chamber was much as it should be, although he thought he might send the abrasive young Samuel up there to give the relics a thorough dusting and inventory.

  Then Wilberforce noticed a strange fact. There was dust everywhere in the attic, a thick layer that covered everything like a sifting of fine flour.

  Everywhere except in a clearly defined path that led directly from the top of the stairs to the attic laundry chamber where Lady Madeleine had once been imprisoned. That must be where Melody was spending her days.

  Crossing the chamber, Wilberforce felt in his pocket for his other master key. When he put his hand to the latch, however, the door simply opened. Melody had not locked up behind her—

  It was difficult to surprise a man of Wilberforce’s experience. He’d endured decades of churlish members, demanding members, and even a few insane members. Still, his elegant features registered actual shock as the door opened onto Ali Baba’s cave of treasures.

  The room was filled with color and comfort. This was no child’s hideaway, not unless the child had an army at her disposal. Had Bailiwick helped Melody create this luxurious chamber? Had it been the marquis himself who had raided his own room for Melody’s comfort?

  And why in the world would Melody need a bed?

  Abruptly aware that his jaw sagged in disbelief, Wilberforce snapped it shut and assumed his usual imperturbable expression, grateful that there was no one about to see him lose control so outrageously.

  How to handle this strange thievery? There was no actual crime of course, for it appeared that nothing had left the club at all. There were the tapestries and all the carpets and the fine rosewood furniture, right before his eyes.

  Actually, there seemed to be no harm at all in it. If his lordship knew of Melody’s secret chamber, then there was no reason to interfere with her play. He might have a word with Bailiwick, just in case the young man had known of it and neglected to inform Wilberforce, but that was no concern of his lordship’s.

  With a decisive nod, Wilberforce turned and left the chamber as he had found it.

  However, he would keep a very close eye on matters, to be sure.

  Wilberforce would have been very surprised to know that in the main attic chamber he had failed to notice that the center panel of the large window stood ever so slightly ajar.

  Wilberforce was not the sort to miss things.

  Laurel gasped and shut her eyes and trembled, yet somehow she still managed to make her way back down the angled bit of roof and across the narrow ledge to the attic window. Jack kept her hand tightly in his the entire time and helped her, giggling with relief, back through the window into the attic.

  She tripped over the windowsill and tumbled with a tiny shriek into his arms. Gasping, she clung to him, then recalled that she had only to fall to the floor. She snickered. “Only I would be clumsy after the ledge.”

  Jack didn’t set her on her feet again as she’d expected him to. He held her there, close enough to hear his heart pound. “I would never let you fall,” he whispered.

  If her heart melted one more time she was going to have to keep it in a jam jar on a shelf. Her lips parted as she gazed into his shadowed eyes. Kiss me.

  He kissed her, so softly at first it was no more than if a butterfly had rested on her lips. She grasped his lapels in her gloved hands and leaned into the kiss, deepening it. He let her, returning her foray into his mouth with a questing tongue of his own. His hands came up to cup her jaw and he tilted her head to better explore her mouth.

  They kissed long and slow, until Laurel lost her breath and hung dizzily in his arms.

  At last she pulled away, gasping. “Stay—stay with me tonight.”

  Even as the words came from her lips, she had no idea why she’d said them, nor did she have any wish to call them back. Time was running out, this time of secret days and nights. She could feel the clock ticking away until the moment when the world would intrude once more.

  One night, she told herself. One last night and then I will take my daughter and go.

  One glorious night with Jack, to match that other astonishing night. Two memories to keep with her always.

  Together they stumbled into her chamber. Laurel staggered to the center of the room, hardly noticing when Jack paused to lock them inside.

  Twenty-eight

  Once he had locked them in, Jack dropped the key into his weskit pocket and walked slowly toward his magnificent, outrageous Laurel.

  This time he would not take. His overpowering need on this night was to make sure Laurel understood.

  I know what you have lost.

  Her girlhood was stolen from her, her debut passed over to give birth in secrecy and loss. She experienced nothing that a young lady should—
no beaus, no balls, no dancing the night away in beautiful gowns. There was only betrayal from everyone who should have been most kind to her. The world had been taking from Laurel for far too long.

  It was time for him to give.

  He had so much to make up for. So many years lost to being foolish and blind. So many times he could have seen the truth and he’d turned away from it.

  Most of all, he needed Laurel to feel how much he loved her, not just wanted her, not simply needed her.

  He stood behind her and slowly scooped her hair from her back and swept it over her shoulder to fall down the front of her gown. That left her delectable back bare to his hands and his lips. She stood quite still with her head bent as he kissed his way down her delicate spine until he reached the tiny buttons.

  He managed them rather well, considering he was a bit out of practice undressing women. Though they shook a bit, his hands were sure as they spread out over her shoulder blades like wings, then pushed the silly little cap sleeves off her shoulders.

  The gown slipped dramatically away and she was quite suddenly naked before him.

  Thank you, Button!

  Jack moved up close behind her and laced his fingers into hers by her sides. For a long moment he simply buried his face in her neck and breathed her in. Never, never would he get enough of that sweet, clean scent.

  She shivered slightly as his hands slid slowly up her arms to her shoulders. He pulled her to him, savoring the roundness of her bottom against his groin. Tipping her head back on his shoulder, he let his hands explore the changes the years had wrought in her.

  Her breasts were full and heavy in his palms. Her body swelled beautifully from her tiny waist, providing him with tempting hips and full, soft thighs. She was rounder all over now and he relished it.

  She melted against him. He recognized that desire in her. She was ready to be conquered and dominated. How wrong he’d been to introduce her with such play. If it was possible to rewrite that night of taking, he would try to do it over again tonight.