The Seduction of an Earl (10 page)

George and Elizabeth stood only a few feet away, their bodies pressed against one another as they, too, kissed behind the hedgerow. And although they seemed involved enough in one another to not take notice of Hannah and Henry, George suddenly pulled his head away from his wife’s kiss, turned, and nodded in their direction. “If best wishes are in order, then please accept them,” he whispered hoarsely, before returning his amorous attentions to his wife.

Glad for the darkness hiding her reddening face, Hannah suppressed the urge to giggle. She instead lay her head against Henry’s chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you, George,” she murmured.

Stunned at being caught, and even more surprised by the viscount’s reaction, Henry lowered his lips to kiss the top of Hannah’s curls. “My lady, I do believe you owe me this dance,” he said.

The Marquess of Devonville awoke to an unfamiliar sensation. And a familiar scent.
Lilac.
Cherice Dubois, Lady Winslow, was using her tongue to amazing affect on one of his nipples. Could the woman be ready for him again ... already?
I’m too old for this
, he thought as he felt the fingers of one of her hands splay over his chest and travel ever so lightly down his torso, their nails occasionally scraping his skin and sending shock waves of pleasure coursing through him. He was surprised when her fingers curled around his hardening shaft.
Or, perhaps not
, he amended his thought, realizing he was already recovered enough to bury his manhood in her warm, welcoming sheath at least one more time. Just the thought of spending every night with Cherice was enough to make him ready for her.

The younger widow was obviously not shy in the bedroom, a trait he wondered about when he first called on her. She’d only been out of widow’s weeds for a fortnight. He’d kept track of when Winslow had died, timing his visit to ensure he would be the first, and with luck, the only gentleman caller she would entertain. She offered tea and he accepted. He offered a ride in the park and she accepted. She wondered if he would be at the ball. He said he would be; he lived across the street and could hardly decline the invitation. She said she would save him a dance. He asked for all of them. She smiled at him, her gaze quite telling through her long, dark lashes. “All of them?” she had repeated, her large, green eyes suggesting a demure demeanor.

And then the minx had agreed!
So much for her being demure.

Had anyone taken notice of them, at least when they weren’t hiding behind a potted palm or a hedgerow in the garden, they would have been quite convinced Lady Winslow would soon be the Marchioness of Devonville. Much like the two in question were convinced Lady Hannah was about to become the Countess of Gisborn when they were on their way to hide behind a hedgerow and noticed the Earl of Gisborn kneeling before Devonville’s daughter.

Devonville hadn’t watched beyond the moment he saw Hannah give her obvious answer of ‘yes,’ but Lady Winslow had sighed with such heartfelt joy, Devonville wondered if it had been a mistake not to ask for her hand at that very moment. But the marquess wanted his daughter settled before he remarried, and Cherice seemed more interested in a tête-à-tête that involved more kissing than conversation. He had to accommodate her, of course, even if Lord and Lady Bostwick had decided to carry on their mutual affection only a few feet away.

Who knew the Attenborough’s garden could be such a popular and delightful destination for amorous encounters?

Devonville had no intention of bedding Cherice before asking for her hand; she had been the one to suggest they share a night of carnal pleasure so they could determine ‘if they suited one another.’ Well, he wasn’t absolutely sure how she felt about their suitability, but he had decided quite early on – an hour after leaving the Attenborough’s ball, in fact – that they suited one another just fine. Cherice Dubois would be his next wife. And should another expect to court her, well, there was a reason he was an excellent shot.

A special license, granted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, was a rather powerful piece of paper, Hannah was learning as she and Elizabeth made arrangements for her wedding. Although Henry could have left for Oxfordshire and returned to marry her at some point a few months in the future, he seemed quite eager to marry her as soon as possible.

He suggested the following day.

At Hannah’s widened eyes and sudden look of distress, he amended his suggestion to the day after that. Given her father’s surprising news over breakfast of his own upcoming nuptials with Lady Winslow, Hannah realized it made sense to simply agree to an early wedding and leave for Oxfordshire with Henry.

Elizabeth, hell bent on seeing her best friend wed before she and George left for Sussex, assured Henry a wedding would take place before noon Saturday as long as a vicar could be located. Then, just as soon as the breakfast was complete, the Bennett-Joneses could be on their way to Sussex. And the Forsters could leave for Oxfordshire the following day.

Hannah didn’t seem to have a say in the matter. She clung to Harold as Elizabeth took charge, sending footmen this way and that to acquire flowers and ribbons, ordering her kitchen staff to move into Devonville House to help in the creation of a cake and the breakfast foods, and summoning a modiste and her crew of seamstresses to construct a wedding gown overnight. Henry was dispatched to find a vicar or a bishop, a task he seemed most willing to do. Hannah wondered if his enthusiasm was due to a desire to take his leave of the chaos or to avoid Lady Bostwick. Either way, he took off on horseback directly after tea was served, assuring Hannah he would see her at dinner that night, if not before. And when he’d asked if she knew what was being served for dinner, she listed ham and a variety of side dishes among the five courses.

“My favorite!” he replied, his face lighting up as if she had made his day with the recitation of the dinner menu.

Even the marquess seemed eager to share in the festivities as he took off for White’s to make the announcements to those who hadn’t been at the Attenborough’s ball the night before.

Shortly after luncheon, which featured another round of discussions about who else should be sent an invitation, how Hannah’s hair would be dressed for the ceremony, and what to pack for the trip (“Everything I own,” Hannah answered, reminding Elizabeth she was moving to her husband’s house), Hannah found herself amazed at her best friend. When had Elizabeth acquired these kinds of skills? She hadn’t planned her own wedding; had it been up to Elizabeth, she and George would have been married by a vicar the very day she proposed to him. Instead, the Marchioness of Morganfield had arranged a church wedding that took place five days later. So, when had Elizabeth become so organized? So efficient? Was this how she ran her charity? Hannah wondered.
How could a woman, already round with child, have so much energy?

Because it didn’t last, of course. About two in the afternoon, George arrived at Devonville House to remind his wife it was time for her nap. Hannah thought perhaps George intended something else once he got Elizabeth back to Bostwick Place, just a few blocks down Park Lane, but Elizabeth really was suddenly quite tired. Hannah insisted they take one of the guest bedchambers at Devonville House. George agreed, saying he could rub his wife’s feet there just as well as he could at home.

“Rub her feet?” Hannah repeated in a whisper, stunned that the viscount would do such a thing, let alone speak of it. The thought of having her own feet rubbed brought a mixture of disgust and the sensation of flutterbies in her stomach.
Would Gisborn do such a thing?
she wondered. The flutterbies seemed to cause her entire body to spasm in delight at the thought.

“Of course,” George said without the least hint of embarrassment. “The poor thing can barely walk when her ankles are so swollen,” he said as much to Hannah as to Elizabeth, who was leaning against him for support. With a quick glance to ensure no servants were about, George lifted Elizabeth’s skirts a few inches to show what he meant. Hannah gave Elizabeth a questioning glance before she dipped her head to confirm that, yes, Lady Bostwick’s ankles were indeed a bit swollen. And her slippers seemed too small for her feet.

“Up the stairs, second door on the right,” Hannah ordered, pointing a finger in the general direction of the staircase. It was her first and only order of the day.

Once the viscount and his viscountess were locked away in the guest suite, Hannah was about to settle herself into a chair in the parlor when the modiste and a team of seamstresses invaded Devonville House with yards of sarcenet, a light blue satin gown, strings of tiny seed pearls, and rolls of silver satin ribbon. Whisked into her bedchamber, the girls soon had the plain gown fitted and the hem pinned up. As the modiste, who spoke with a faux French accent, flitted about the room giving her seamstresses various orders, she occasionally stopped to inspect the work being done, her delicate eyebrows rising and lowering as she studied the results. Soon, the sarcenet was fluttering over the top of the blue satin, ruched by loops of the seed pearls that were then anchored into the gown with tiny stitches. The ribbon was then strung through the loops and fashioned to follow the lines of the ruched sarcenet as it crisscrossed into diamonds down the length of the skirt. The bodice was then trimmed with the ruched sarcenet, pearls and ribbon.

Hannah watched in her cheval mirror as the simple dress was transformed into a wedding gown worthy of a princess. By four o’clock, the seamstresses had all they needed to complete the gown without her being in it, but she made sure Elizabeth approved before she dared step out of it. Lady Bostwick had emerged from the guest bedchamber looking quite refreshed and very happy, leading Hannah to believe George had done far more than rub her feet.

The thought of Gisborn doing those things to her set the flutterbies to tumbling in her belly. She had to suppress a gasp at the surprising sensation she felt, realizing with a bit of shock that she was looking
forward
to her wedding night! Could any other woman of the
ton
claim to have felt this way
before
their wedding? From the talk she’d heard in various parlors in Mayfair, she rather doubted it.

As the seamstresses took their leave, the modiste promised the gown would be delivered in the morning. With Elizabeth once again locked away in the guest bedchamber with her husband, Hannah descended the stairs to reflect on the day’s preparations. Devonville House had only seen this kind of activity during her mother’s last ball.

It was during the lull in the late afternoon, after Hannah had settled into a comfortable chair in the parlor and Harold was napping peacefully at her feet, when the butler delivered a white parchment. She examined the stamp in the red wax seal on the back of the missive, not recognizing the ducal insignia. Breaking it, she opened the fine, white paper and smiled.

Dear Hannah,

I received your news of Henry’s arrival and his request to court you. I do hope you find him a suitable match! I should be so happy that one of my friends from childhood would marry my best friend. I write with happy news of my own impending nuptials. Joshua has (finally) asked for my hand! We are to be married Saturday at eleven o’ clock in a chapel a few miles from here. I apologize for the late notice; it seems my Joshua is more romantic than I first thought. He obtained a marriage license, and his household staff has seen to the wedding and breakfast. I do hope you can join us, although I have reason to believe Henry might have other plans for you. Would it be possible you are to be married at the same time as me? I do hope yours is the fairy tale wedding we always thought you would have. Best wishes! Please give my love to your father and to Elizabeth and George.

Yours very truly, Charlotte.

Hannah sighed, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she reread the letter.

“Is something wrong, my lady?”

Startled by the sound of the masculine voice, Hannah gasped and stood up, her feet still under Harold. The dog, startled by her sudden movement, made to remove himself from in front of her, causing her to lose her balance. “Oh!” she cried out, hoping she could grab onto the dog before falling completely to the floor. Strong hands caught her before she could pitch forward onto Harold, though. Her own hands were suddenly holding onto broad shoulders, their muscles bunching beneath her grip. When she glazed up, she was surprised to find Lord Gisborn regarding her with a look of concern.

“Are you well, my lady?” he asked, his face suddenly an unreadable mask.

Hannah stared up at him, her lips parting before she gave him a huge smile. A tear streamed down one cheek. Although she had her feet safely under her, she rather liked the way Gisborn’s hands had grasped her on either side of her waist, at the sensation she felt of being nearly weightless as her feet barely touched the ground, of the flutterbies that were sending shivers of pleasure through her entire body. “Oh, yes, Gisborn,” she murmured. And then, in a move that was bold beyond measure, she reached up and kissed him.

Henry had only a moment to react. He’d returned to Devonville House with the news that a bishop would be there on the morrow to marry them. Hatfield met him at the door, but he assured the butler he could find his own way to the parlor. He intended to make his presence known at the threshold, intended to bow and give his future bride a kiss on the back of her hand. But he’d found her reading a letter, a letter that obviously contained bad news, for he was aware of tears brightening her eyes. Not wanting to interrupt her, he had made his way into the room a quietly as possible, hoping to offer his condolences and perhaps a shoulder on which she could cry.

Instead, Lady Hannah had been so startled by his query, she nearly tripped over her damned dog. Seeing the tears stream down her cheek had made his heart clench. He’d wanted nothing more than to hold her just then, to comfort her and assure her all would be well. That’s what he did when Sarah cried, after all.

So, the last thing he expected was for Hannah to bestow him with a smile and a kiss. In that moment of surprise, and the sudden change from feeling sorrow on her behalf to feeling the joy in her kiss, Henry allowed Hannah to have her way with him. When had a woman ever initiated a kiss with him? He couldn’t recall this ever happening, not even a bar maid in a tavern had done such a thing!

When he was aware she was ending the kiss, he allowed his grip on her waist to lessen so her feet could take purchase on the carpet below. Then he raised his face from hers and saw the pink blush color her cheeks.

“I have never been welcomed like
that
before,” Henry spoke after he’d blinked once, his tone of voice not giving away how he felt about such a greeting.

“Oh!” The sound was as much an exhalation of air as it was surprise at what she had done.
I kissed my fiancé! He’ll think me fast. He’ll think me a hoyden!
“I ... I apologize, my lord ...” Hannah stammered, realizing too late what she had done.

“Do not,” Henry commanded, one of his hands lifting to her cheek to brush away one of the tears still left there. “I believe I rather like being greeted by my fiancée in such a manner. It assures me she has not changed her mind about marrying me,” he added with a hint of humor. He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped another stray tear from her face. “Now, pray tell, what was it that made you cry?”