Sherry Thomas - His At Night

Elissande Edgerton

Elissande. A beautiful name. Almost cutting, like a mouthful of sharply faceted gems. And lovely, clever Elissande wished to meet Freddie at close to midnight, well after the ladies had retired, far away from the drawing room and the billiard room, where the gentlemen still lingered.

A rendezvous alone, in a remote part of the house—with Lady Avery in an overexcited state of anticipation.

He had entirely underestimated Miss Edgerton’s interest in Freddie, it would seem.

* * *

Elissande trembled. This made her nervous. Her aunt was the trembler, not she. She had steady hands and eyes that remained unblinkingly limpid no matter how terrified she was.

Perhaps she could use the trembling to her advantage. A lady meeting a gentleman at an unorthodox hour ought to tremble a little, ought she not? It would give her suddenly unleashing passion a touch of authenticity, and that, in turn, might inspire Lord Frederick to a more heartfelt response.

She touched her shoulders. She’d unraveled the stitches that held the top of her nightdress together. Underneath her robe, it literally hung on by a thread. A tug with any force would split it in two and send the anchorless halves sliding toward the floor.

And what have you found this time, Miss Edgerton? Lord Frederick would ask.

And she would gaze upon him as if he were the Second Coming itself. Oh, forgive me, sir. I know I shouldn’t have, but ever since we met, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.

At least that last part was mostly true.

She breathed deeply, out, in, out, in. It was time. She pulled her robe tight, prayed that she wouldn’t rend her nightdress before its time, and left her bedchamber to head to the green parlor.

The light was on in the parlor. Japanese prints depicting the four seasons took up the walls. Vases and incense holders of jade echoed the lotus leaf hue of the silk wallpaper. Large, clear bottles, raised to chest level on custom-made stands, contained intricately crafted model ships—prisoners, just like her.

And she was alone in the room.

She blinked. She’d meant to arrive a few minutes after Lord Frederick. He should be here already, a little startled at her informal state of attire, perhaps, but eager and impatient to see exactly what too-good-to-believe treasure she’d uncovered.

No fire had been laid in the grate. After two minutes or so pacing madly about the room, she realized she was trembling far worse, as much from the chill in the air as from a sudden onset of panic—her plan was worth nothing without Lord Frederick.

Her hands inched near the flame of her hand-candle, hungry for its meager heat. She breathed fast and shallow. The air smelled of turpentine, from the furniture paste the maids had applied.

The mantel clock striking the hour made her jump. It was the time she’d stated in the unsigned note, with its wax seal already broken, that she’d left outside Lady Avery’s door. Midnight. The green parlor. My heart sighs for you. And she knew Lady Avery had discovered the seemingly accidentally dropped note, because throughout the evening, she had scrutinized the gathering incessantly, trying to discover which love-demented pair dared set an assignation right beneath her nose.

And now it was all for naught.

Numbly, Elissande extinguished the light in the parlor and headed out toward her uncle’s study—to avoid running into Lady Avery, who would most likely be coming from the direction of the front hall. Beyond the study were the service stairs. She would return to her room that way.

She came to a dead stop outside the study. She’d specifically informed her guests that the study was off-limits. But the study door was ajar and the light was on.

She pushed the door open the rest of the way. Lord Vere stood before the cabinets, opening them one after another, humming to himself.

“Lord Vere, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, hullo, Miss Edgerton,” he replied cheerfully. “I’m looking for a book. I like to read before I go to sleep, you see. It’s better than laudanum by far. Two pages—sometimes two paragraphs—and I sleep like a baby. Nothing like it, especially Latin verse. A bit of Latin verse and I won’t get out of bed before ten o’clock in the morning.”

She was surprised he could read at all, let alone read in Latin. “I’m sorry, sir, but you are in the wrong place. The books are in the library, not here.”

“Ah, no wonder. I thought this was the library—was just telling myself what a bizarre sort of library it was.” He stepped out into the passage. “I say, Miss Edgerton, what are you doing here? Haven’t the ladies gone to bed already?”

“I forgot something.”

“What is it? Can I help you find it?”

She was about to say she’d already found it when she realized that she had nothing on her except her hand-candle.

“I can find it myself, thank you, sir.”

“Please do let me help.”

This was the last thing she needed—to be possibly caught with him by Lady Avery. But Lady Avery had not yet arrived. Judging by the lack of footsteps anywhere near, she would not arrive for another minute or two, plenty enough time for Elissande to march back to the green parlor next door, pick up any old bric-a-brac, pronounce it found, and get rid of Lord Vere.

So that was what she did, Lord Vere in tow. Once in the green parlor, with only her hand-candle for illumination, she headed directly for the mantel, grabbed the nearest object, and said, “There. I have it.”

“Oh, what a nice snow globe,” said Lord Vere.

She could have picked up something else, anything else. The malachite candlestick, for example. The plain Chinese urn that held the spills for starting a fire in the grate. But she hadn’t picked up anything else; she’d picked up the snow globe with a miniature village inside: church, high street, snow-covered cottages—the last Christmas present Aunt Rachel had given her, eight years ago.

It had snowed that Christmas Day. Her uncle, in one of his moods, had disappeared somewhere by himself. Elissande had persuaded Aunt Rachel, whose health had improved steadily under Elissande’s care, to come outside for a walk in the snow. They’d made a topsy-turvy snowman. And then, somehow, they’d begun a snowball fight.

It had been a spirited battle. Aunt Rachel had good aim—who would have guessed? Elissande’s overcoat had been full of the splattered remains of snowballs that had hit her straight and true. But she hadn’t been so bad herself either. How Aunt Rachel had run screaming from her, and then laughed hysterically as she was hit squarely in the bottom.

She could see her aunt, her not-yet-graying hair escaping her bun, her face pink from exertion, bending down to form another snowball. Only to suddenly freeze, still crouched low, as she realized that her husband had returned.

Elissande never forgot her uncle’s expression: anger, followed by a frightful flash of pleasure, of anticipation. By her laughter, her rosy cheeks, by the mere fact that she was at play, Aunt Rachel had betrayed herself. She had not been completely broken. There was still youth and vitality left in her. Her uncle, of course, could not allow this grave offense to pass unpunished.

Aunt Rachel had not left the house since.

Elissande glanced at Lord Vere, who seemed fascinated by the snow globe, which she herself could not bear to look at. He stood very close to her. She took in his broad shoulders, his strong neck, and the rather unbelievably perfect sweep of his brows. He did not smell of cigar smoke tonight, but only of foliage—belatedly she noticed his boutonniere, a sprig of hard green berries pinned to a leaf of fir.

Could she bring herself to marry him, knowing there was nothing else to him, a pure void behind those already vacant eyes? Could she tolerate a lifetime of his prattling and bosom staring? Could she smile at him for the rest of her days?

Her grip tightened on the snow globe. I thought it would be a little grander, her aunt had said as Elissande shook the globe for the first time. I wanted something beautiful for you.

Desperation. She thought she’d known it all her life. She’d never truly known it until this moment.

Distant footsteps. Lady Avery was coming.

She set down both her hand-candle and the snow globe, and smiled at Lord Vere. She was trembling again. Good. Trembling went well with the words that tumbled from her lips.

“Oh, dear sir, forgive me. I shouldn’t. But ever since we met, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” she said, undoing the sash at her waist and casting the dressing gown behind her.

Lord Vere’s eyes widened. She wasted no time in stepping hard on the hem of her nightdress. The threads at her shoulder snapped. The nightdress whispered as it slid down her naked body.

For once in his life, Vere didn’t need to act flabbergasted. He was struck dumb, his limbs turned to stone, his brain a pulped turnip.

His eyes, however, remained quite functional. She was ripe perfection, like a Degas nude, all curves and softness and shadowed mysteries. And then she came toward him, her lips parted, her skin smooth and lovely, her nipples the very points at which the darkness kissed the illumination of the candle flame.

Her arms raised and intertwined behind his neck. She smelled, as she always did, of honey and roses. Her mouth, cool and quivering, touched his.

Reaction jolted through him. Lust, an astonishing quantity of it, but not lust alone: He was finally shocked out of his paralysis.

How could he have missed it so badly? Her aunt was a broken woman who no longer knew how to scream even when terrified. Miss Edgerton herself could and did smile under almost all circumstances. Everything pointed to her uncle being a monster. She didn’t just want a husband. She wanted a way out of this house.

And she was desperate enough that even he would do.

He disengaged her arms and backed away from her. She followed him. Without thinking, he yanked the curtain next to him from its mooring and tossed ten yards of double muslin at her. She flailed inside the tent of fabric, a pornographer’s idea of a girl mummy.

He ran. But encumbered as she was, she tackled him. Hard. Her weight crashing into him unbalanced him just enough to tumble them both over the curved, padded arm of a chaise longue, knocking down a stand in the process.

Something made of glass broke loudly—one of the ships in bottles. Something else crashed too—the hand-candle. The room plunged into darkness. He tried to heave her off him, but she was as demonically strong as one of Jules Verne’s giant octopuses, her arms welded to him. He set one foot down on the ground, turned so that she was against the back of the chaise, and pushed.

Yes, her hold on him was loosening. He pushed harder. She emitted a muffled scream of frustration. Or was it pain? He didn’t care. He had to be rid of her. She struggled with renewed vigor. Dear God, she almost kneed him in the groin.

He wasn’t sure what happened, but suddenly the chaise longue overturned along its length, dumping the two of them onto the carpet. They rolled a turn and a half before coming to a stop, she again on top of him, but this time without the curtain.

Her hair had come entirely loose during the struggle. She panted. Her beautiful breasts rose and fell. And just visible behind the cascade of her hair, small, tightly budded nipples—

How could he see anything? Hadn’t the candle gone out earlier? His eyes followed the source of illumination up and up, his gut already comprehending what his mind did not want to acknowledge.

There was someone else in the room.

“Oh, my. Oh, my, my, my,” Lady Avery murmured. Then she giggled. “I must say, I did not expect the two of you.”

Now Miss Edgerton leaped off him. Now she wrapped herself in the muslin curtain. Now she stammered, “It’s…it’s not what you think.”

“No? What do you think this is, Lady Kingsley?”

Bloody hell, not Lady Kingsley too.

Their eyes met. “I…ah…” Lady Kingsley stammered, her shock almost as strong as Vere’s own. “It is certainly an inconvenient situation.”

“Inconvenient, Lady Kingsley? Inconvenient is when your footman breaks his leg and you’ve no one but your parlor maid to serve tea to your callers. This is scandalous. And to think, Lord Vere, that your father was a schoolmate of Sir Bernard Edgerton, Miss Edgerton’s uncle.”