The Wager of a Wallflower, page 9
“This... Lady Pettigrew. Is she a decent sort? Trustworthy?”
Marcus winced. “I’ve only just learned since coming on this trip that she is in fact one of London’s premiere gossips and that she provides information to some news sheet called The Tattler.”
A low whistle sounded from the captain. “ Even I’ve heard of The Tattler. Might have even read an issue or two this past year.” He shook his head. “Oh, you’ve gone and done it, young man.”
“What? Done what?”
“Made a deal with the devil, you did. And now you’ll be paying for it, probably for the rest of your life.”
Marcus glanced overboard, halfway tempted to jump. No matter what happened to him, though, Lucy would still be left ruined. “How do I fix this?” he asked in dismay. “I don’t want her to hate me—”
“Too late for that,” St. John remarked.
“I did manage to get a letter off to her as we were leaving the docks, but I’ve no way of knowing if she ever received it. Apparently, even if it was delivered to her house, it’s possible it was intercepted by her mother or...” He paused.
“Or?” St. John prompted.
“Her brother. Viscount Reardon.”
St. John gave a start. “Reardon?” he repeated.
“Yes, Lord Reardon.”
“Christopher Fitzsimmons, you mean? The army captain?”
Marcus gave a shrug. “I heard he fought the frogs on the Continent. I remember him from school, but he’s older than us, so I was never friends with him.”
The captain held up a staying hand. “But... you’ve met him? Recently?”
Nodding, Marcus said, “At the Weatherstone ball. A few nights ago. I asked him for permission to court Miss Fitzsimmons.”
Swallowing, St. John’s attention was captured by the sound of splashing water beyond the starboard railing. “So... he’s alive?”
Momentarily confused, Marcus said, “Well, he was at the ball. Although he looked as if he might have eaten a bad lobster roll. He took his leave not ten minutes after I spoke with him.”
“He gave you his permission?”
“He did,” Marcus affirmed.
St. John chuckled softly. “Well then, this should work out after all,” he murmured.
“What do you mean?”
“Reardon is an honorable gentleman,” St. John commented. “If he’s aware of what’s happened, he’ll set things right, and if he’s not... you’ll want to be sure to send him a letter. Apprise him of the situation, and tell him you’ll be back in two years to collect his sister.”
“Just like that?”
The captain scoffed. “Well, you might beg a bit.”
Marcus hung his head. “I really wish Miss Fitzsimmons wouldn’t hate me in the meantime, though.”
Huffing softly, the captain patted him on the shoulder. “I plan to put into port at Valencia. I have some cargo to deliver, and our cook likes to take on some special ingredients he claims can only be found there.” His expression suggested Doyle Watson might have had a different reason for wanting to stop at that particular port, but it wouldn’t have mattered. One of the reasons he had such a loyal crew was due to the amount of space in the hold devoted to their food stores. Nothing would be gained by starving his men. They worked far better and longer on full stomachs.
“So I could send my letters from Valencia?” Marcus asked with some excitement.
“I’ll do you one better. I know someone there who could possibly act as a courier for you. See to it your letters to Reardon and Miss Fitzsimmons are delivered personally,” St. John offered. “I might have a missive or two of my own I need delivered as well,” he added, his voice sounding as if from far away.
“I would pay him, of course,” Marcus replied. Although he didn’t have a lot of extra money, he did have some gold his older brother had given him to use in an emergency. The small purse was sewn into the lining of one of his waistcoats.
St. John once again chuckled. “Write your letters tomorrow,” he instructed. “Have them ready by tomorrow night, and I’ll see to it they’re given to a courier along with strict instructions.”
“That soon?”
“It’s only about twenty hours before we reach Valencia,” St. John confirmed.
“Thank you, Captain,” Marcus said, darting to the side when a cascade of water shot up from the starboard side of the ship.
“Seems we have a whale escorting us,” St. John said with a grin. “A sign of good luck if I ever saw one. Now, off to bed, young man.”
Marcus nodded and hurried to the companionway as another spout of water shot up, barely missing St. John as he made his way to his cabin.
If a whale was indeed a sign of good luck, then Marcus hoped they would see more of them. He needed all the luck he could get.
Chapter 13
A Captain’s Recollection
A moment later
Once Captain John St. John had closed the door to his cabin, he leaned against the wooden slab and cursed softly.
Christopher Fitzsimmons was still alive!
Moving to his nightstand, St. John pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured a finger’s worth into a small glass. About to put the bottle back in the cabinet, he instead reopened it and took a quick sip.
How could the viscount have survived his bullet wound to the belly?
St. John had been there at Waterloo when the young captain had been shot by a frog, the bullet penetrating his mid-section. He remembered watching in horror as Christopher Fitzsimmons doubled-over, fell off his horse, and landed with a thud on the wet battlefield.
He was sure the man was dead before he hit the ground.
The small regiment of soldiers, part of one of the two armies of the Seventh Coalition dispatched against French troops led by Napoleon himself, had gamely continued their fight, pulling their captain’s body into the center of their circle and resuming their shooting among shouts and curses until the fire from the French had finally ceased.
St. John wasn’t there because he was in the British Army, but rather because as a Foreign Office operative, he had been dispatched with a missive for the captain.
He had been a minute too late. Probably an entire day too late when he thought about the events of that battle. Had he been able to locate Captain Fitzsimmons when he was expected to rendezvous with him the day prior, the heir to the Reardon viscountcy wouldn’t have taken a defensive position on the battlefield. He would have been on the outskirts, his band of soldiers kept at the ready but ordered not to engage unless absolutely necessary.
As the only son of Christopher Fitzsimmons, Viscount Reardon, the junior Christopher was meant to be spared. He had unknowingly inherited the viscountcy when the senior Christopher died unexpectedly a fortnight prior to the battle. St. John carried the updated orders as part of the tranche of documents he had been entrusted with as a spy.
Worse, St. John knew the younger Christopher had set his sights on a particular young lady to be his future viscountess. The second daughter of a Spanish nobleman, Lady Maria Paloma was beautiful, clever, and anxious to wed the English aristocrat.
Probably because she wanted to be free of her father.
José Antonio Arístegui de Benavides, seventh Conde of Albacete and a widower, had accepted an invitation to spend a few months at a country estate in Kent the year before. He had brought his daughter along in the hopes she might be betrothed before he returned to Spain, and, if he found a particularly well-off English widowed aristocrat in search of a husband, he was willing to remarry as a means to shore up his dwindling accounts.
St. John knew all this because he had been the one to transport them from Spain to England aboard The Fairweather.
Although St. John hadn’t been present for their introduction at a house party in Kent, reports from those in attendance said Christopher and Maria’s initial meeting was rocky at best, the young man showing more interest in her than she did in him.
A few weeks later, they met again during a soirée in London. Something had obviously changed, for it was rumored a betrothal had been arranged only a week before Christopher was dispatched to the Continent. A wedding occurred sometime before his departure.
The conde and his daughter returned to Spain, expecting to return to England when Christopher sent for her.
* * *
St. John sat on the edge of his bed and remembered how he had delayed his own return to British shores when that battle—the last of the Napoleonic Wars—ended. Knowing he had failed in his mission even as England succeeded in taking out the French forces, St. John made his way to where Lady Maria Paloma Silvestri y Arístegui de Benavides and her father were staying near Madrid to share what he had witnessed.
He would never forget the brave face Maria had displayed upon hearing the news of what had happened to Christopher. How her lower lip trembled as tears filled her eyes. How she had stood steady and tall until he had taken his leave of the count’s apartments and, disguised as a Spanish sailor, made his way back to British shores and the life of a sea captain.
In the meantime, the count had taken his daughter to a villa in Valencia, a palatial house vacated by another aristocrat, to live out his days as a widower. Maria had promised to mourn the man she had been married to for less than a month.
When St. John paid a call during his last time in Valencia two months’ prior, he soon learned she had kept her word. Dressed in a black bombazine gown and a black veil, she was still mourning a man who, according to Marcus Higgins, was miraculously alive.
So why hadn’t Christopher Fitzsimmons sent word to her he still lived?
Perhaps he had, not knowing Maria and the conde were no longer in Madrid.
John St. John finished off his brandy and settled under the bed linens. The solution to Marcus Higgins’ need for a courier seemed obvious as he dozed.
Who better than Lady Maria Paloma Silvestri y Arístegui de Benavides? She could deliver herself to the wounded viscount along with the letters.
Excitement growing at the realization he could reunite the two young aristocrats, St. John grinned as he fell asleep.
Chapter 14
A Dream Disturbs in a Most Delightful Way
Meanwhile, in a certain young lady’s bedchamber in Reardon Manor
Having read Marcus’ letter for probably the tenth time since climbing into bed, Lucy Fitzsimmons finally turned down the candle lamp on the nightstand and fell asleep.
Although she rarely remembered her dreams upon waking the next morning—nightmares might leave her with a nasty memory—the one she experienced a few hours before dawn had her wishing she could remain sound asleep for the rest of her life.
For whenever had she experienced something so glorious as what Marcus Higgins did to her?
She wasn’t sure when or how he had joined her in her bed, or even if it was her bed. The linens were soft, the mattress quite comfortable. He had settled his body next to hers while kissing her hair, her forehead, her eyelids, and finally her lips.
His fingers deftly undid the buttons on the front of her night rail, which she didn’t mind in the least. She felt warm—too warm—and the cool night air felt good against her skin.
When the flat of his hand smoothed the cotton fabric off her shoulders to expose one breast, she inhaled softly, knowing the nipple had pebbled into a hard bud. The other, chafing beneath her night rail, wanted out as well. Apparently Marcus knew it, for he used his warm hand to free it, soon covering it with his mouth.
Her entire body seemed to come alive as his tongue flicked over her nipple. When he pulled away slightly, he blew cool air over it.
“Do you like honey?”
The question hadn’t sounded the least bit odd at the time. “Of course,” she had whispered, watching as he lifted a small pot of honey from the nightstand. He dipped a finger into the golden liquid and then swirled a dollop onto one breast.
She inhaled sharply and did so again as he coated the nipple of the other in the sticky sweet goo. He touched the tip of his finger to her lips, and she pulled it into her mouth. Using her tongue, she licked the remains of the honey from it, purring when he slowly pulled it out.
When his mouth descended once again on one of her breasts, she speared the fingers of one hand through his hair. She needed to hang on to something as he suckled the honey from her nipple. The sensations he created with his tongue and lips had her entire body ripening in a way she had never experienced before.
Every single nerve ending seemed to come alive all at once.
When he moved to the other breast, she cried out as his teeth took the hard bud and bit it slightly.
“Apologies, my lady,” he murmured before she felt his mouth give up its hold on her. She was about to put voice to a sound of protest, but his lips were soon kissing her all the way down the front of her body, leaving a trail of cool moisture behind.
“Whatever are you doing?” she remembered asking, her voice breathy when she felt the cotton of her night rail slide up her thighs as his body moved farther down hers.
“I wish to taste your honey,” he whispered.
Lucy couldn’t remember having spread her legs for him. Couldn’t remember having tilted her hips to expose her quim to his questing tongue. Perhaps he had been the one to do it, for she felt hot hands beneath the globes of her bottom, thumbs spearing the dark curls at the top of her thighs. Something there was throbbing with an ache she had never felt before, and she wished he would touch it. Rub it.
He did that and more, his tongue flicking and licking, his lips suckling it until she was on the verge of something monumental. When his tongue delved into her most private place, a spasm took hold of her entire abdomen, setting off a slow wave of pure pleasure unlike anything she had felt before.
She grasped both sides of his head with her hands as a means to hold on, sure she was drowning with each crashing wave. She wasn’t even aware of how she sobbed, of how she begged for more and then begged for it to end because she simply didn’t know any better.
And then all at once, Marcus was above her, his manhood replacing the space where his tongue had been.
His initial push into her was so slow, she lifted her hips of her own accord. Whatever he had been doing, she now wanted more. The sense of fullness when he was finally completely seated inside her helped somewhat, but she wanted the motion that had sent her insides into molten lava only the moment before.
He lowered his face, his forehead touching hers as his lips captured hers in a sweet kiss. Sweet, for she tasted honey as well as her own ambrosia.
“I love you. I have always loved you,” he whispered. Then he began to move, pulling out of her and pressing into her, quickening his movements until he was thrusting and retreating so quickly, she could barely hang on.
She was hanging on, though, her hands gripping the sides of his chest, her thighs pressed into the sides of his, her feet hooked together at his back. The dusting of curls on his chest—she hadn’t even noticed it before—tickled her nipples with each thrust until the sensation changed into something more intense. Something growing quite pleasurable. Something so wonderful she could only lie back and allow it to consume her.
When he suddenly ceased his movements, his face displayed a grimace of what looked like pain. She felt heat penetrate her insides. He collapsed atop her a second later, his head landing on the pillow next to hers.
Sliding her hands to his back to embrace him, Lucy held on until she felt his body slacken, and he rolled completely off of her.
She glanced over to see his eyes were closed. His chest, rising and falling as his breathing slowed, was damp with perspiration. The scent of musk and citrus tickled her nostrils, and she moved her head closer to his and inhaled.
“Is it always like this?” she asked in a whisper.
“Do you wish it to be?”
“I do.”
“Then it shall be. Every night if you’d like.” There was a long pause before he added, “Can you wait for me? Can you wait two years?”
She sighed in disappointment. “Oh, I will if I must.”
“I can hardly wait to marry you, Lucy,” he said before kissing her temple.
“I love you, Marcus Higgins,” she whispered, feeling bereft at the loss of his heat and the weight of his body on hers.
She was soon tucked against his body, though, warmth at her back, a heavy arm draped over her waist, and a hot hand holding one of her breasts.
Sleep had barely descended on her when light disturbed her eyelids. Before she could put forth a word of protest—what was Marcus thinking to leave her bed so early?—her lady’s maid’s greeting of “Good morning” had her wide awake.
Sitting up with a start, she stared at Persimmon. Glancing about the bedchamber as if she expected to see Marcus in all his naked glory, Lucy scoffed and collapsed back onto her pillow.
She lifted the bed linens and stared down the front of her body, not at all surprised to see her night rail bunched around her middle.
Glancing over at the letter still on the nightstand, she decided she would have to read it before going to sleep every night.
Every night for two years.
Chapter 15
A Courier Accepts an Assignment
Meanwhile, at the Port of Valencia
Although he hadn’t planned to be part of an entourage when it came to paying a call at the palatial villa where the Conde of Albacete had set up residence the year prior, Captain St. John agreed to allow both Marcus Higgins and Frank Turnbridge to join him. Meanwhile, Sinclair and Hornsby set off with the cook, promising to help Watson haul his purchases back to the ship in exchange for a tour of the town.
Forgoing the uniform he usually wore at sea, St. John had opted to wear the clothes he did when he was acting as an operative for the Foreign Office. Dressed in leather breeches, a red waistcoat, and a navy wool top coat, he appeared as any European gentleman might. In place of a tricorn, he wore a short top hat. Tasseled black boots and black leather gloves completed his look.
