A Baron for Becky (9 page)

Rebecca Mary
Winstanley. So said the contract, his copy of which currently
resided in the case of legal papers he carried with him always.
Rebecca. Becky, at least when they were private, though she would
continue to use the name ‘Rose Darling’ in public.

He’d asked the
loan of two carriages, one for him and Becky, and one for Sarah and
the maid they’d borrowed from Anne. They would be one night on the
road, and he did not intend Becky to spend it looking after
Sarah.

Indeed, why
wait for an inn, when one had a commodious carriage?

With many miles
of journey ahead of them, they had plenty of time to explore one
another, and he was enjoying a long appetiser to the main event
when the carriage drew to a halt not a half hour out of
Longford.

Becky tucked
her exposed breast back into her bodice, and wrapped a shawl around
her shoulders to cover the loosened stays, while he buttoned the
side of his fall that she’d half released.

Just in time,
as a knock on the door revealed a tearful Sarah.

“Mama, Pansy
has been sick all down my dress,” the child complained.

Becky
apologised as she helped the little girl to wash in a nearby stream
and change into fresh clothes. Aldridge made sure the travel-sick
maid was supplied with a bucket. Did Rede know the maid was subject
to travel-sickness? Aldridge dismissed the thought as unworthy.

Becky attempted
to persuade Sarah back into the carriage, but the little girl burst
into tears again.

“Bring her in
with us,” Aldridge suggested.

Becky looked
stricken, and he reassured her, “Do not worry, Becky. We have two
whole years. We can wait another afternoon.”

After two hours
in the carriage, he called for his horse and rode the rest of the
way to the inn where he’d booked a suite for the night. His
spirits, somewhat depressed by domesticity, lifted as he reflected
that the little girl would be tired and go early to bed.

He had dinner
served in their suite, but went down to the tap room afterwards to
let Becky put her daughter to bed, the exhausted maid asleep on a
pallet in the child’s room. “If you are tired,” he said, “we can
wait till we reach London.”

She lowered her
lashes. “Give me one hour, my lord. I will be in bed when you
return,” she murmured, and just like that he was hard as nails
again. Not long now.

He found a
table in a corner and worked his way through the day’s satchel of
mail. It included a letter from his friend Overton—one that had
clearly followed him for several weeks, from London to the various
houses he’d visited and back to London before ending in the satchel
of duchy business. It was just a brief black-bordered note saying
Baroness Overton and her baby had died.

Poor Overton.
He had been full of dreams when they parted—for the promised heir,
for mending his marriage which was, Aldridge gathered, not a happy
one. All dust now. Aldridge started a letter in return, but he
could not find the words to express his sadness for his friend.

His mind
drifted to the woman upstairs. He would write to Overton
tomorrow.

At one hour to
the minute, he returned up the stairs. The suite was silent and
dark. He lit a candle from one in the hall sconce, and let himself
into the bedchamber he’d reserved for them. “Becky, I am here,” he
said.

No reply. She
must be tired, after spending the day keeping little Sarah amused.
He put the candle down on the bedside table and stripped naked,
muttering to himself as his fingers fumbled over buttons and
laces.

He’d wake her
with kisses, then... his mind full of images of what came next, he
had one knee on the bed and one hand already reaching for the
blanket when a tousled dark head emerged, confused cornflower blue
eyes blinking at him. “What are you doing in my Mama’s bed?” asked
little Sarah.

Chapter Six

The Marquis of Aldridge
assured Becky he hadn’t minded spending the night in Sarah’s bed
rather than his own, that the maid barely disturbed him at all when
she woke vomiting again in the early hours of the morning, and of
course, the girl should travel no further. He would pay for her
accommodation until she recovered, and her transport home to
Longford, and Becky was to take Sarah in the carriage with her and
think no more about it.

He rode.

Several times
in the course of the morning, he passed the carriage, not looking,
his face set and distant, though when he caught her watching, he
smiled, a wicked gleam that lifted her spirits. Perhaps he was not
angry. Perhaps he was just thinking.

When they
stopped for something to eat, he was his usual affable, charming
self, flirting with the maid who brought their meal, teasing Becky
about insisting Sarah eat her meat before her pudding, telling
stories about journeys he’d made when he was a boy.

As they
finished, one of the grooms presented himself in the private
parlour. “If you please, Mrs Darling, if Miss Sarah comes with me,
I can show her the kittens they have in the kitchen.”

Becky gave her
permission, and then, as the door closed behind Sarah and the
groom, looked suspiciously at Aldridge.

“Yes,” he said.
“I arranged it.”

“You knew they
had kittens?”

“Or puppies, or
foals, or some other small, furry distraction. We have little time,
Becky. I just wanted to give you something to think about between
now and London.”

She stepped
towards him, expecting an embrace, but he held up his hand. “No.
Stay there, or I will have you right on this table, and you do not
want your daughter walking in on that. But I do want to tell you
precisely what I have been planning for tonight as I rode.”

He reached out
and skimmed her shape from neck to waist, without touching.

“First, we will
settle Miss Sarah in nursery, and she may have a dozen maids to
keep her company and do her bidding, but prepare her, Becky, for
the fact that you will be otherwise occupied.”

Becky
nodded.

“Then,” his
lips curved in that same wicked smile. He took a step backwards and
breathed in deeply, letting his eyes follow the same curves he’d
shaped as he breathed out slowly.

“A bath first,
I think, one large enough for two, my dear, waiting, piping hot and
perfumed. You will stand by the fire, Becky, where it is warm, and
I will be your maid. Or perhaps not quite, for would a maid, as she
loosened and removed your stays, brush your arms with feather-light
touches? Would she gently and tenderly caress your lovely thighs as
she rolled down your stockings, running her fingertips up, oh, so
softly, almost, but not quite, to your most secret treasures?.
Would she, when she lifted your chemise, cup your beautiful breasts
and run a thumb over your nipples?”

She could feel
them contract and harden under his intent gaze.

“They tighten
and pebble. Is it the cold, Becky, that makes them so hard? Let us
have you up and into the bath, then.

“Now, your
turn. I have gazed upon your glories. Lie back and soak up the
heat, and I shall disrobe for you. Will you be pleased with what
you see, I wonder? Ah...” she was about to speak, but he put his
finger just above her lips, still not touching. “Yes, you saw me
before, by the light of one candle. But my room shall have many
candles, Becky.

“Where were we?
Ah, yes, you are lying in the bath, all relaxed in the hot,
perfumed water, waiting for me to serve at your pleasure. Picture
me at your feet, dear Becky, soaping my hands. We will order your
own soap, the softest, finest soap money can buy, and you shall
choose the perfumes to scent it with, but tonight, we shall use
mine: bergamot, almond, a touch of wintergreen.

“What shall I
wash first, I wonder. These?” He reached out again, this time
shaping her breasts, his hands a bare inch from the dress that now
felt tighter against her skin.

Step by step,
he described how he would bring her to completion in the bath, and
then what they would do afterward, “on the rug by the fire, dear
Becky, this first time, if you will allow,” and then how they would
sleep and wake again, for another encounter he had also planned,
and described in detail.

By the time the
servant returned with Sarah, Becky’s eyes were glazed and her
thighs slick with arousal.

If it was
revenge, it was a good one. She’d spent the rest of the trip in
high suspense, struggling to respond to her daughter, grateful when
Sarah fell asleep for part of the afternoon and she could spend the
time imagining the night to come. Aldridge seemed as interested in
her response as his own, which was outside her experience.

Still: make her
burn, would he? She’d done her best to serve him likewise at every
post change along the way, stroking her hands down his arms when he
lifted her from the carriage, whispering suggested amendments to
his erotic plans when they were in company and he could not
respond, leaning towards him so her breasts lifted in her loosened
dress, licking her finger and sucking it into her mouth, lifting
her skirt so he (and only he) could see her ankles. Only Sarah’s
presence, she was sure, prevented him from following her into the
carriage when, his body screening her from view, she brushed her
thumb up his fall and wondered out loud whether her mouth was big
enough.

By the time
they arrived in the mews behind Haverford House, she was beyond
worrying about propriety. Aldridge assured her the heir’s wing was
quite separate, he did what he wished there, and his servants were
paid to make no comment and pass no judgement. And, in any case,
the duke and duchess were not in London.

“You will stay
here till we find the right house,” he insisted. “And no one will
say a word.” Because no one of any importance would know, she
thought. But he didn’t say that, and certainly, when he escorted
her through the private entrance to the left side of the massive
house, the servants were everything polite and deferential. In
short order, she and Sarah had been introduced to the maids
assigned to look after the little girl, and whisked up to a
freshly-aired nursery.

Becky gave
Sarah her bath, by which time a maid had set out a nursery
dinner.

“Do you eat
with me, Mama?” Sarah asked.

“No, my love.
But I will stay while you eat, and see you to bed. And you will
have Jenny and Clara and Mary to keep you company and look after
you in the morning.”

The maids all
nodded, beaming smiles, and Sarah nodded gravely back, her mouth
full of bread and jam.

Poor darling.
At seven, well accustomed to being left with a maid, or even on her
own, while Becky tended to the desires of whatever male had them in
keeping. Becky forced a cheerful smile.

Becky heard
Sarah’s prayers and told her a story, then bent to kiss her
goodnight. “G’night, Mama,” Sarah murmured, not even opening her
eyes.

“Now, don’t ye
fret, ma’am,” one of the maids said, benevolently. Clara. Becky was
fairly certain this one was Clara. “We will look after the little
miss, we will.”

They looked
kind, and Sarah had reacted well to them. And Becky had kept
Aldridge waiting for nearly two hours. It was time.

A servant
waited to escort Becky through the house. She followed in his wake,
hands bunched and twisting in the shawl she’d donned against the
chill of the long halls. What if she didn’t live up to his
expectations? He, after all, had bedded some of the most famous
harlots in England, amateur and professional. Surely they knew far
more than she?

He said this
would be about her pleasure as much as his... and when he was
kissing her, or detailing his plans, she believed him. But she had
believed men before and been disappointed. Whatever he chose to do,
she could not object.