Indiscreet Part 17

Just having him watch her, his eyes drifting from her hair to her lips to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her legs, made her feel so warm that she was afraid she was flushing bright red in front of everyone. Camilla plied her fan to cool her heated face and tried to ignore the questions that hovered at the back of her mind: What was going to happen in their room tonight? Would he try to seduce her? And if he did, how would she respond?

When at last Aunt Beryl raised her fan to hide a yawn and announced that she was ready to go to bed, Camilla rose with alacrity, saying that she was rather tired herself. Aunt Lydia cast her an odd look, for usually Aunt Beryl's retiring was the signal to break out the cards or launch into more interesting conversations. But then she smiled knowingly, her cheeks turning pink, and Camilla found her own face reddening in response. She glanced at Benedict, who had also risen and come forward to offer her his arm. He smiled at her in a way that denoted not amus.e.m.e.nt, but a sort of sensual satisfaction, and when she placed her hand on his arm, he brushed his other hand over hers.

They followed Aunt Beryl and her daughters up the stairs, neither Camilla nor Benedict speaking. When they reached the bedroom, they found her maid there waiting for her. Camilla tossed her fan and gloves on the vanity table, sneaking a glance at Benedict out of the corner of her eye. He was standing by the bed, his gaze fixed on her, his expression unreadable. Millie came forward and began to unb.u.t.ton the mult.i.tude of tiny b.u.t.tons down the back of her dress. The two sides of the bodice peeled away, exposing the smooth white expanse of Camilla's back.

Benedict made a m.u.f.fled noise. Camilla glanced at him. He was standing with one hand wrapped around the post of the bed, his whole body rigid and his eyes blazing in his set face. Suddenly he turned, as if wrenching himself away from the bed, and strode out the door.

Camilla turned away. She told herself that it was for the best, that Benedict had done the right thing. But her words could not get rid of the disappointment that filled her.

Benedict marched rapidly down the long hall, away from Camilla's room. He thought he might very well go mad at any moment. He had told himself that he could be with Camilla this evening and not make love to her, but at the last minute he had had to bolt. When her maid unb.u.t.toned the back of her dress and the sides fell away, revealing the sweet curve of her spine, something in him had snapped. He had known that he had to get away or he would fall upon her like an animal.

He came to the stairs and stopped, clutching the rail and trying to decide what he was going to do. Instead, he found himself thinking about Camilla. He remembered this afternoon, when he had stepped back from her, and the way she had looked-her face flushed with the heat of pa.s.sion, her lips soft and swollen, slightly open in shock, and that one sweet white breast exposed, cupped and lifted by the neckline of her bodice, the nipple damp and rosy from his mouth, pointing eagerly toward him.

Just thinking about it made him almost groan aloud. His manhood was stiff as a board, and his skin felt as if he had been stripped and doused in burning pitch. There was nothing he wanted to do at this moment but turn around and go right back to her bedroom.

But that, he knew, would be insanity. He could not defile a woman under his protection. It would endanger his mission, violate his principles, and const.i.tute a hundred other sins-none of which he could recall at the moment for the abominable thrumming of his blood through his temples. Why did she have to smell so good and taste so sweet, like the ripest, most succulent fruit?

He had tormented himself all through supper with the most lurid s.e.xual fantasies. He had imagined pulling Camilla onto the long table in front of everyone and tearing off her clothes, then feasting on her as he had feasted on her breast earlier. He'd daydreamed about her sliding out of her chair and crawling under the table to him and unb.u.t.toning his trousers, caressing and playing with his manhood until it was full and hard, quivering with eagerness, and then taking him into her mouth and bringing him to climax. He had thought of seating her on his lap and letting her ride him, or of pulling her down to the floor and throwing up her skirts and plunging into her right there. He had imagined taking her on every piece of furniture in the dining room, and later in the music room-and in every conceivable position. As a result, he had spent a highly uncomfortable evening.

The last straw had been when he stood there, rooted to the floor, while the maid began to undress her. He knew he could not take any more of this torture without giving in to his desires. That was why he had to occupy himself in some way until Camilla was safely in bed and asleep-and, hopefully, divert his own mind from these tormenting imaginings.

He drew a long breath and let it out. After a few more minutes, feeling somewhat calmer, he started down the hall to me Earl's room. It was not late; he and Camilla had gone up to bed early, when Aunt Beryl did, so he was hopeful that the Earl's valet might yet be up. He had not talked to Jenkins yet; he knew, ruefully, that he had been putting it off because the old servant resented him for the Earl's sending him away whenever Benedict came to visit.

Well, it had to be done, and now, he supposed, was as good a time as any.

A soft tap on the door brought Jenkins to it. The old man frowned as he stuck his head out and whispered, "His Lordship is asleep, sir, and cannot be disturbed."

"I understand. But it is you I wanted to speak to."

"Oh. I see." Jenkins hesitated, and Benedict felt sure he would have liked to refuse, but years of training won out. He reached back inside the room for a candle, then slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him and motioning for Benedict to follow him. He led him down the hall to the next door, which he opened, and ushered Benedict into the room.

It was a very small chamber, with only a narrow bed, a chair and a small chest of drawers. Benedict surmised that it had formerly been a dressing room, a guess borne out by the side door opening into what must be the Earl's bedroom. Punctiliously polite, Jenkins offered Benedict the straight-backed chair and sat down himself on the edge of the bed. His face gave nothing away, but the rigidity of his posture made it clear that he would have preferred to be elsewhere.

Benedict smiled at him. "His Lordship thinks very highly of you," he told him.

Jenkins gave a small nod. "Thank you, sir."

"I am sure that is why he asked me to talk to you. Did he tell you?"

"He requested that I speak freely to you, yes, sir."

"The Earl seems quite worried about this smuggling ring. I told him I would do my best to help him."

Jenkins struggled for a moment to hold on to his stiff distrust, but his concern for his employer overcame him, and he leaned forward, looking worried. "He has been somewhat bothered by it, sir, for several weeks. It worries him constantly, and the doctor says that is not good for him. But nothing I can say soothes him. He-he trusts you. He told me that Miss Camilla chose well. Can you help him? Will you do something about it?"

"I shall do all I can," Benedict promised readily. "But at the moment, I am still fumbling in the dark. I talked to several of the servants, including Purdle. The main thing I have learned from them is that there appears to be a new leader of the smugglers, but that no one knows who he is. Do you think that is true?" Benedict had been unable to tell whether no one actually knew or they were merely refusing to talk to an outsider, no matter what the Earl had instructed them.

"I think it is the truth. I have not heard anyone even hint that they knew who he was. There are one or two men who seem to be his henchmen, closer to him than the others. One of them often gives orders. But the orders have to come from someone else. He is too stupid to act on his own."

"You know this man?"

Jenkins shrugged. "Yes, but I find it doubtful that even he has seen the man's face. No one but a fool would let this fellow know who he was, and the new leader is no fool."

"I could talk to him nonetheless. Who is this man?"

The valet hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "If the Earl says to trust you, then I must. His name is Evans. He is a drunken lout who lives in the village. His wife died long ago-they say she was lucky. But you will get little out of him, I think."

"What else do you know about the new man? Some have said that he talks as if he was from around here.''

Jenkins grimaced. "Or tries to copy the accent, anyway."

"Are you saying that he is not from the area?"

"That I do not know. What I am saying is I've heard that he tries to talk like one of the locals. But sometimes his accent slips or he uses too fancy a word. In short, there are those who say he is Quality."

Chapter 12.

Benedict straightened, his heart suddenly racing. It was what he and Sedgewick had talked about time and again-the possibility that the man they were looking for was from the upper cla.s.ses, someone Richard Winslow would have readily invited into his home, even into his inner sanctum, his study.

"A gentleman? Are you sure?" he asked carefully, trying not to give away his excitement.

"No," Jenkins admitted. "Not sure. I'm just saying there's some suspicion."

"Is there anything beside the slips in his speech?"

"Well, I heard that one man got a glimpse of his hand one time, and it looked like a gentleman's hand, white and uncallused."

Benedict sat back, looking at the man. "How do you know so much? Even Purdle didn't tell me this."

Jenkins returned his gaze without wavering. "Purdle is a fine man, Mr. La.s.siter, but he is not from here. He came to work for the Earl some thirty years ago. He's from Suss.e.x originally, I believe. My family, on the other hand, has been here as long as the Chevingtons-perhaps longer." His blue eyes twinkled. "I have connections, perhaps, that Purdle does not."

"I see." Being an outsider, it seemed, was a stigma that was rather difficult to overcome among these people. "Then perhaps you can tell me this, too, why is the Earl so upset? So worried?"

Jenkins's expression was perfectly blank. "I beg your pardon, sir? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do, and I think you know why, too. The Earl seemed uncommonly perturbed by these local disturbances, more so than I would a.s.sume a man in his position would be."

"His Lordship is a very good landlord, sir. He likes to know what is going on among his people."

"But that doesn't cause the kind of anxiety I saw in his eyes. I think both you and Purdle know, but Purdle would not tell me. However, I am hoping that your concern for the Earl is greater than your immediate loyalty to your employer. I must know everything if I am to help him."

Jenkins sighed and looked away. He seemed to come to some decision, for he turned back to Benedict and said, "You're right. He is quite worried, sir. It's, well, it's Master Anthony. His Lordship is afraid that he has joined the smugglers."

Benedict, who had been leaning forward, intent on drawing the answer out of the old man, now sat back with a sigh. "That is what I feared."

"There's nothing wrong with the boy," Jenkins a.s.sured him earnestly. "He is a wonderful lad, full of life and fun. He always has been. It's just that, well, sometimes, he doesn't think. He has been a trifle spoiled, perhaps, and he gets bored here. His Lordship cannot bear to let go of him, you see."

"Better to do that than to let him sink the family with his mischief."

Jenkins winced at his choice of words, but said only, "Yes, I tried to convince His Lordship to let him go up to Oxford now that he is eighteen, but he would not hear of it. And as for the army, which is what Master Anthony wants to do...well, it doesn't bear thinking of."

"Why do you think he is involved with the smuggling ring?"

"Purdle and I have seen him sneaking out at night. It isn't the first time he has done so, by any means, but it's been much more frequent of late. Every time we have seen him sneaking out, the next morning our delivery of brandy is on the doorstep."

Benedict sighed. "Everyone turns such a blind eye to the smuggling here. It's no wonder the boy was intrigued by it."

"Mayhap, sir, but for an Elliot-a future Earl, no less-to be involved in it...! Why, it would break His Lordship's heart if anything were to happen to that boy. That would be even worse than the scandal. And G.o.d knows the scandal would be bad enough."

"Yes, well, we must make sure that there is no scandal." He paused, then continued cautiously, "Antony is a smart lad, and daring. He could turn his frustrated yearning for the army into another sort of campaigning. Could it be he who is the gentleman leading the smugglers?"

"No!" Jenkins's face flushed red with anger. "Never. You don't know Master Anthony like I do, or you would not say that. It is one thing to help out for a lark. But he would never, ever, murder anyone."

"Soldiers kill. You say he has a longing to be a soldier."

"On command. For his country. Yes, then the lad could kill, I suppose. And he would do so to protect his family or, indeed, any innocent person who was threatened. But he has a good heart. He would never kill anyone for gain. Especially not Nat Crowder. Nat was Jem Crowder's brother, and Jem and Master Anthony have been friends since they were little tykes. It'd be almost like killing one of his own family. Worse, really, if you were talking about the rector, whom he cannot like." Jenkins stopped abruptly, looking embarra.s.sed. "Oh. Pardon me, sir. I should not have said that."

"Perfectly understandable. I have visited with the Right Reverend Harold Elliot, you see."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, thank you, Jenkins." Benedict rose from his chair.

"Anything to help ease His Lordship's mind, sir. If you don't mind my asking...have you told Miss Camilla about this?"

"No. The Earl told me to keep silent."

"Ah. Very good, sir." Jenkins looked relieved. "I was hoping that was the case. I fear Miss Camilla would get in a regular taking if she was to find out about the young master's escapades."

Benedict suspected that, far from not knowing about them, Miss Camilla was probably neck-deep in them, from the way he had seen the two of them whispering together like conspirators. However, he said nothing to disillusion the aging servant, just bade him goodnight and walked back down the hall to his own room.

The room was silent when he walked in. A lamp burned low on the table, lighting the room dimly. In the faint golden light, he could see Camilla's sleeping form on the bed, as well as his own couch, a blanket and pillow thoughtfully left upon it.

He walked to the sofa and began to undress, glancing over now and then at Camilla's rec.u.mbent form. She was turned on her side, away from him, and all he could see was the dark cloud of hair above the covers. He wondered if she was really asleep. He thought of a pair of fine blue eyes and of the way her lips had yielded sweetly beneath his.

A few days ago, the pretense of marriage had seemed like nothing but a nuisance, and sleeping in the same room with her had been a fine jest on her for creating such a pretense in the first place. Tonight, sleeping fifteen feet away from her bed did not strike him as particularly funny.

Mentally cursing, he lay down on the couch and wrapped the blanket around him. He adjusted me pillow beneath his head and closed his eyes. But sleep would not come. He kept imagining what it would be like to go to her bedside and pull back the cover, to look at her lying there in her nightgown. The gown would be white, he knew, and he could picture it rucked up around her legs, exposing her shapely calves and thighs. He would be able to see the dark circles of her nipples beneath the thin material, the soft swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips. He thought of tracing her sleeping face with his forefinger, of touching her forehead and cheeks and lips, of trailing his finger down over the velvet softness of her throat.

Benedict turned his head into his pillow to stifle a groan. He was so suddenly, poundingly hard he felt as if he might burst, yet he could not stop thinking about her. About kneeling beside the bed and taking her nipple into his mouth, cloth and all, and pulling gently. When he pulled away, the wet cloth could cling to the hard pink bud, inviting his return. He thought of sliding his hand down her body to the apex of her legs, slipping in between them and stroking until she was hot and damp with pleasure. He could hear her moan, feel her thrusting up against his hand, wanting more.

This was insane! He bit into the pillow and wrapped his arms around his torso, willing himself under control. So he lay, wide awake, refusing to give in to his desires, through much of the seemingly interminable night.

He did not drift off to sleep until the pale light of dawn began to show around the edges of the drapes. Then, just as he was finally sliding down into the darkness, the creak of the door brought him wide awake.

Benedict turned, his hand sliding down to his boot, beside the sofa, and the knife that was strapped inside it. He pretended still to slumber, watching through slitted eyes as a man tiptoed across the room toward where Camilla lay sleeping.

The man crossed in front of him, and Benedict relaxed, recognizing the slender form as that of Camilla's cousin Anthony. He started to sit up and comment on the young man's unusual visiting hours, but he restrained himself. The wiser course, he knew, would be to watch and find out exactly what had brought the young Viscount here at this hour of the morning.

Anthony leaned over the bed and shook Camilla's shoulder. She came awake with a low cry, and Anthony quickly clapped his hand over her mouth.

"Shh...Camilla, it is I."

Camilla recognized Anthony's voice, and, blinking the sleep from her eyes, she could see his features now in the dim light. She pushed his hand away irritatedly.

"What in the name of heaven are you doing?"

"Waking you," he answered reasonably, still in me same low whisper. "Get up. I need you."

"Why?"

He shook his head and turned to look over his shoulder at the couch where Benedict slept Camilla followed his gaze and understood. He was afraid that Benedict would awaken, and he did not want him to know why Anthony was here. She nodded her understanding and slid quietly out of bed. She stuck her feet into her slippers and wrapped the heavy dressing gown around her, all the while keeping a cautious eye on the sleeping form on the sofa. With Anthony on her heels, she stole out of the room.

Outside in the hall, she strode across to the long, narrow table where Anthony had left his candle and turned to face him. "All right. Now what is going on?"

"Shh," he cautioned her again. "You'll wake everybody up."

"Oh. You mean the way you woke me?"

He grinned sheepishly. "All right I'm sorry. I wouldn't have done it Milla, except that it's an emergency."

"Isn't it always?"

''No. I really mean it. There is another man's life at stake here."

"What?" Camilla straightened, all teasing erased from her voice. Her eyes flew instinctively toward her door across the hall.

"No, not him," Anthony said impatiently, picking up the candlestick in one hand and taking her by the arm with the other. He started down the hall, pulling Camilla along.

"Then who?" Camilla asked as she hurried along beside him.

"I don't know."

"Anthony, you aren't making any sense. Are you bosky?"

"No!" he answered indignantly, forgetting his stricture to be silent. "I haven't had a drop to drink since a cup of wine at dinner last night...where, I must say, you and Mr. La.s.siter were acting most peculiarly."

"Don't be silly." Camilla was grateful that the dim light of the hallway hid her rising .blush.

"I was not the one being silly," he replied significantly. "The two of you were making sheep's eyes at each other all night. And don't think that I am the only one who saw it. Mama was going on about it for ages after you left last night. Even that cipher Thorne noticed it. He kept blathering on about love in bloom."