Chapter Fifteen
Hetty wore another of her new evening gowns to Eustace’s dinner, a delicate white silk embroidered with silver thread.
Guy complimented her, spoke briefly to her aunt, then escorted her to the carriage.
“You seem distracted,” she said. He’d merely smiled at her when she complimented him on the clever arrangement of his neckcloth.
He tucked her hand in his. “Not at all. My thoughts are always with you.”
She doubted it, but was charmed by it, nevertheless.
The carriage pulled up at a townhouse in Curzon Street where an elegantly dressed couple climbed the stairs.
Eustace greeted Guy and Hetty at the door, seeming more animated than usual, and escorted them to the drawing room where the guests chatted and drank champagne.
Hetty’s fears that she would face the critical judgement of the Ton again, faded when they were introduced to an interesting group of people: the Earl of Liverpool, England’s prime minister and his countess, a famous actress, the editor from The Times, the reverend from St. George’s in Hanover Square, and a foreign prince who clicked his heels and bowed over her hand.
In the dining room, mouthwatering aromas blended with the scent of hyacinths in a silver bowl. Fascinated, Hetty hung on every word as they conversed during the lavish and delicately flavored courses. Liverpool spoke emotionally about the state of the country, the depression, and political uncertainty, social discontent and unrest and the difficulty of reform, while the dishes were brought and covers removed.
While a footman poured gravy over her veal olives, a rousing discussion began on the veracity of the social movement called the Luddites, who opposed progress and the loss of jobs. Its members were known to have destroyed or damaged machinery in the industrial northwest of England. The unsuccessful march of the Blanketeers was mentioned.
“Blanketeers. That is a curious name, Mr. Randall,” Hetty said to the man beside her.
The publisher from Fleet Street, nodded. He explained how four hundred spinners and weavers marched from Manchester to London to hand the government a petition. They were named thus because they carried their blankets with them. Most were turned back or arrested by the magistrates and yeomanry before they reached Derbyshire.
Hetty was incensed for them. “And not one made it to London?”
“Rumor has it one protestor did arrive and handed over his petition.”
“I’m glad,” Hetty said. She found it terribly sad.
The mention of Bonaparte’s name produced murmuring around the table. While the prime minister declined to comment, Mr. Randall expressed the view that the French general would never escape Saint Helena where he had been sent last October.
Further down the table, Guy remained silent. She thought he looked unhappy. He was yet to reveal his true feelings about Napoleon Bonaparte. The discussion of politics came to a halt when the famous tragedian, Sarah Siddons, a forthright older lady, declared they’d all become too serious. An amusing discussion followed concerning Bertram, the current play on in Drury Lane, which continued through the dessert course. Then the ladies rose from the table and left the men to their port.
After an hour, Eustace’s guests began to depart. He saw them to the door. Rain had begun to fall, and footmen scurried about with umbrellas. Hetty looked for Guy, who had not emerged from the dining room. Finally, she went in search of him. She found him in the library seated behind a satinwood desk, scanning a sheath of papers.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked shocked.
He dropped the papers into a drawer and rose, crossing the room to her. “Now don’t frown at me. We don’t have time for this. Come, we must say our goodbyes to your godfather.”
She stepped in front to him. “Don’t be so insufferable. You were spying on him.”
Voices sounded in the corridor outside. Eustace said in a loud voice, “I can’t think where they’ve gone.”
Guy pulled Hetty into an embrace and pressed his mouth to hers.
“Well, here they are,” Eustace said, smiling, the reverend at his side.
Guy bowed. “I apologize for my poor manners.”
“Young people. So passionate. Best you marry without delay,” Reverend Dewhurst said. “The banns can be read this Sunday. I believe the first of April is free for a wedding.”
“But my parish is in Digswell, Reverend,” Hetty said, embarrassment making her cheeks burn.
“That won’t be a problem if notice is sent,” the reverend answered. “Would you not prefer to be married at St. George’s?”
“We should be honored. Thank you, Reverend,” Guy said. “But I have matters to settle before I can set the day.”
“Very well. Please advise me as soon as you can.”
With the rain loud on the coach roof, Hetty tried to read Guy’s expression, aware they would reach her aunt’s home in a matter of minutes. “Have you altered your opinion of Eustace?”
“I’m beginning to understand how things stand,” Guy answered. The cool tone of his voice made her anxious. “Are you cold?” He moved across to sit beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders.
Hetty laid her head against his shoulder. “Have you learned anything more?”
“Who is behind the attacks? No.”
His voiced sounded strange, tight, unlike himself. “But you don’t think it is Eustace, do you?”
“I don’t know yet, Hetty.” He sounded impatient. Was there something he wasn’t telling her?
“You would tell me if there was another attempt?”
He sighed. “There hasn’t been. Eustace approves of our marriage. Perhaps there won’t be another.”
“Then shall we end this engagement? Everything is becoming too complicated.” She sagged as bitter disappointment took hold. It had cost her a lot to say it.
His arm tightened around her. “I’m aware of how difficult this is. Can you be patient for a little while?”
Hetty nodded. She’d never been so far out of her depth before. She appealed to him with her eyes, wanting to know how he felt.
As if in answer to her unspoken question, Guy tapped on the roof with his cane. The panel in the roof slid back. “Yes, my lord?”
“Drive through the park.”
Guy closed the blinds as the carriage turned into Tyburn Lane and rolled on toward Hyde Park Corner. He pulled Hetty onto his lap. Cradled in his arms, she leaned against his hard, heated body.
He took her chin in his hand. “Hetty,” he murmured against her lips. When his mouth sought hers, demanding a response, she could only obey as her thoughts fled. He drew away and untied her cloak, sliding it off her shoulders, and bent to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat. “You smell so sweet, my love,” he said, “like a flower garden.” His voice was muffled against her skin. She was filled with an odd kind of yearning. She stroked his thick hair, finding it silky to the touch.
Guy undid the hooks on her bodice. When he pulled it down to reveal her chemise and stays, she grabbed his hand as confusion filled her. She wanted to encourage him and stop him both at once.
He paused, his intense gaze searching hers. “If you want me to take you straight home, just say so, Hetty.”
He looked different, dangerous, potent, which both thrilled and disturbed her. Her breath quickened, lifting her bosom as he slid the straps of her chemise further down her shoulders. She stilled, as he bent to kiss the rise of her breast. He traced a line down her throat, his fingers lightly calloused, not the pampered hands of a lord. A cautionary voice entered her mind. She knew so little about him. “Where were you before you came to England?”
He straightened and sighed.
*
“I will tell you, but not now, Hetty.” Hetty’s hair was a halo of rich color in the dim light from the carriage lamps. Heat pooled in his groin, and his determination not to give in to desire, wavered. He could stop. He would. But not yet. Not until he’d tasted her, he would have that at least if his life was to end soon by the hand of an assassin or at the end of a rope. He took a curl and raised it to breathe in the floral fragrance while longing to loosen her tresses from their pins, to slide over her naked shoulders. He trailed a finger down the smooth column of her neck to a brown areola peeping from the top of her corset. He freed her breast and bent to kiss it. This time Hetty didn’t stop him. She pulled him to her.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” she whispered.
*
Hetty breathed in his clean musky scent and ran her tongue over her lips. Ripples of sensation rushed over her skin as he took a nipple in his mouth. “Guy…” She went limp as threads of fire traced their way to throb low in her stomach. He turned his attention to the other taut, sensitive nipple. She inhaled sharply when he eased her skirt up, his fingers stroking her bare skin above her stocking.
“So soft,” he murmured, a low sound deep in his throat.
“Are we going to…” she asked between great gasps.
He angled his mouth to kiss her. To silence her.
He drew away. In the dim light, his eyes were serious and passionate with intent.
“Guy…” Tantalized and aroused, Hetty couldn’t finish the sentence for the life of her. She loved to lie in his arms, her body eager for his touch. She wanted… she wasn’t sure what it was she yearned for. But, perhaps not yet. Not here. Powerless to stop him, she grew afraid it would spoil something they shared. Something fine.
Suddenly, Hetty found herself deposited back on the seat. Guy cursed. “I’m not taking you here in the carriage. Not your first time, Hetty.”
Hetty gave a sob, feeling part relief and part disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Hetty.” He leaned back with a grimace and adjusted his pantaloons. “I should not have treated you in that manner.”
“I want you, too, Guy.” While it thrilled her that she moved him so, she hated the distance that had sprung up between them.
He eased a lock of her hair from her cheek. “I haven’t forgotten your wish to remain unmarried.”
She stiffened. She now hated the very thought of being a spinster. To condemn herself to a life without love? It seemed unthinkable. She could no longer defend her earlier pronouncement although she feared the life of a lonely poetess would be her future.
“Such a dry and passionless life. And you are far from passionless, Hetty.”
She huffed out a breath, determined to gather together at least some shred of dignity. “I will meet famous poets here. Aunt Emily expects Wordsworth to call again, Byron, too, when he’s in England.” She was aware of how halfhearted she sounded.
“Neither of those gentlemen will keep you warm at night,” Guy muttered through tight lips. He tapped on the roof with his cane. “King Street please, Jason.”
“Right you are, my lord.”
Hetty’s need to argue the point over something that no longer appealed to her, evaporated. He looked so serious in the dim carriage light. Was she enough for him? Why had he changed his mind? Had he not desired her enough? She placed a tentative hand on his arm. “Did you intend to make love to me tonight?”
“No! That was not my intention.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, but I do, Hetty. I definitely do.”
Thrilled, she said, “Then why can’t we…”
His eyes locked with hers. “I don’t want you as my mistress.”
“Oh.” It was a stark declaration. Did he mean it? Even that would be better than being alone.
He took her hands in his. “I have several things I must sort out before we can continue this conversation.”
“Will you tell me what they are?” she asked gently. He had not told her he loved her, so she supposed he didn’t.
“No, Hetty. I won’t.” He tipped up her chin and placed a light kiss on her mouth. “You will keep at me I know,” he said with a smile. “I only ask you to be patient.”
“Oh, Guy. I care for you.” It was an admission that a woman wasn’t supposed to make until the man declared himself. But she couldn’t play games. Not when danger seemed to lurk in every corner.
His mouth curved with tenderness. “I care for you, Hetty, very much indeed.”
“Oh, Guy.” She touched his cheek.
His eyes beseeched her. “Hetty… tomorrow evening, I am engaged to escort Lady Georgina to a ball.”
She frowned. He looked guilty. Bitter disappointment flooded through her. “Alone?”
“With Strathairn. I am indebted to these people who have taken me in.”
“Will you dance with Lady Georgina?” Hetty wrestled with her emotions, she knew the request was unfair, she had no real claim on him.
“I don’t expect to.” He framed her face with his hands. “Know this, Hetty. I do not desire Lady Georgina. If I was able to marry tomorrow, it would be you. No other lady is in danger of capturing my heart.”
If it wasn’t a declaration of love, it was very close to it. A luminous glow of happiness threaded through her as the carriage pulled up in King Street.
As he placed his hand on the door latch, she stopped him. She didn’t want him to leave her, to go off to face danger without her. “What are you planning to do?”
“Strathairn is making inquiries.”
She remembered John’s hard gaze. “Lord Strathairn would be a good man to have on your side, I should think.”
“He has made some useful connections during his years away at war,” Guy said. “You’re right, a better man at my back I couldn’t find.” Guy opened the door. “I have accepted an invitation for you and your aunt to Lady Bloxham’s rout on Saturday. You met her at Lady Eleanor’s soiree, remember?”
“I look forward to it.” Hetty remembered the lady only too well. She’d looked through Hetty as if she hadn’t been there.
“I’ll call for you both on Saturday evening, ma cherie.”
Hetty hurried inside, aware that her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her aunt appeared on the stairs in her dressing gown and nightcap. “Your gown is rumpled, and your hair is coming down. I trust that you behaved with decorum.”
Her aunt’s voice lacked conviction, Hetty thought. “Guy has invited us both to a rout on Saturday at Lady Bloxham’s.”
Her aunt followed Hetty up the stairs. “Oh well, that is nice indeed. I’ve met Lady Bloxham. She is a devotee of the romantic poets. I shall be pleased to spend time in her company.”
Hetty shut her door. It had been such an extraordinary evening, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. What had Guy found in Eustace’s library? What did he keep from her? But most pressing was the need to know he loved her. She had witnessed his desire, but men were made that way, were they not? While his words were designed to put her at ease, she still didn’t know his true feelings or intentions.