Chapter 5
Miss Lucy Butterworth ran her tongue from his balls, up his shaft and covered the head of his prick with her mouth. The image of her sweet lips was enough. The tingle at the base of his spine was all the warning he had before his seed sprayed over his stomach and chest. He grunted in satisfaction as he blinked his eyes open and frowned into the early morning light peeping through the curtains. He glanced down at the angry red crown and sighed. He’d look angry too at the abuse he’d heaped on the poor damned thing in the days since his first meeting in the village with Miss Butterworth.
It had only been three days, but he could not get the damned chit out of his mind. He had never had this reaction to a woman, even as a callow youth. He had written to her yesterday, which was a full day after his proposal, but had been sent no reply.
What the Devil was she playing at?
He got up, cleaned up the mess on his torso and rang the bell for his valet. Slipping into a pair of buckskin breeches he considered himself in the small looking glass. When Maxwell walked in, he glowered at the fellow.
“Am I ugly, Maxwell?”
Maxwell stopped, his eyes wide open and his mouth agape. “I uh…”
“It is fine. You can tell me the truth.”
“I can’t well say, My Lord. I am not a molly, so I cannot pass judgement.”
Robert roared with laughter. “I am not suggesting you are, Maxwell. Good God, man. You have eyes. You can tell if a chap is ugly or good looking without wanting to… you know.”
“You mean like how Mr Horsburgh is an ugly bugger, begging your pardon, My Lord.”
“Ah yes, Mr Horsburgh is most definitely ugly. But I am trying to ascertain if it is my looks that may make a young lady think twice about marrying me.”
“But you’re very rich, My Lord. I thought that was what all the ladies wanted.”
“You would think but I believe with the fashion for love-matches they are looking for handsome men who sweep them off their feet. Ones who speak fancy words, like bloody Byron.”
“Who is Byron, My Lord?”
“He’s a poet, the sixth Baron Byron. I hear he lives in Italy. Best place for him, if you ask me. But he and his ilk have put these fanciful notions in the heads of all the ladies, that we gentlemen should be able to write sonnets and poetry and be delightful company, rather than just… well… be ourselves.” He could hardly tell his valet his best talent was making a woman scream as she had an orgasm. But he liked to think that the women he bedded had as much pleasure as he did. The man shrugged and set about his duties.
Maxwell shaved him and helped him dress. He had just pulled on his second boot when there was a ruckus outside.
“What the Devil is all that noise?”
Maxwell beat him to the window. “It’s a pony and trap with two ladies and a load of children, My Lord. They have quite a few valises and boxes with them.”
Robert hurried to the window, pulling on his waistcoat and his mouth dropped as he watched the pert derriere of Miss Lucy Butterworth descending from her trap as one of his stable hands held the pony steady. He could tell it was her from the red knot tied neatly at the nape of her neck. God, he wanted that hair loose and running through his fingers.
Of course, he still had no idea what had prompted him to propose marriage to her, but he was oddly serene about the whole thing and was happy to allow the cards to fall as they would. He had a feeling that his nocturnal and early morning fantasies may soon become reality.
“Help me put my coat on, Maxwell. It appears we have visitors.”
“Aye, My Lord. And going back to what we were talking about… the maids seem to think you very handsome indeed, if their opinion counts for anything.”
“The maids.”
“Oh aye. They all think you a handsome devil.”
Robert felt quite pleased about that. He had always wondered if women only wanted him for his money, but the maids knew they could never marry an earl, so their opinion actually did count—probably more than the opinion of a lady who may one day be a match for him.
“Thank you, Maxwell. That is very interesting.”
“Oh no. I haven’t got them in trouble. Have I?”
“Who?”
“The maids.”
Robert chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. “Of course not. Their jobs are all safe.”
“They worry about you.”
“How so.”
“Well, some have worked for other lords and the other lords… took turns with the maids.”
Robert raised an eyebrow. “They are worried I do not tumble them?”
Maxwell now looked unsure of himself and looked down at his feet kicking at the fringe of the rug to straighten it. “Something like that.”
“I am not tumbling the stable hand if that is what they are implying.”
Maxwell looked up with big, worried eyes. “Oh no, My Lord. We would never suggest that. That’s illegal.”
“Mayhap but I know of men who do, and I would never tell. They’re adults. They should do as they damned well please. But no, the maids can rest assured that I do not need to tumble them. I can wait until I return to London. I do not tumble the staff. It is… it is not the done thing. They are not possessions for one’s own amusement.”
“I understand.”
“Will they?”
“I think they will. Some may be disappointed. You are more handsome than some of the other lords they have worked for.”
“Well, they shall just have to live with their disappointment. Mine may just have arrived on a pony and trap. Come, I have a visitor to meet.”