Lord Gayfield looked doubtful, but obediently pushed open the door to his wife’s bedchamber. They both peered in.
“Good lord!” Lady Gayfield said, one hand to her cheek.
Lord Gayfield spun his wife around and slammed the door behind them.
“There’s nothing to see,” he told the expectant crowd. “It’s just Lord and Lady Weston…uh…having a discussion.”
It took a few minutes to dispersed the crowd, but at last the Gayfields were alone in the hallway.
Lady Gayfield put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm as he started to follow his guests. “Charles,” she whispered.
“Eh? What is it, Lydia?”
“Charles, did you see? How is that possible? Standing up? Against the wall?”
Lord Gayfield looked mildly embarrassed. “Er…yes. Against the wall. We’ll discuss it later, Lydia.”
“Well, I should hope so. And to think that Lady Weston assured me her husband wouldn’t bed her in front of the guests.”
“Er…yes. Best let it go, Lydia.”
“Well, I shall do so, but I will need to have the wallpaper redone in my room, Charles.”
“Quite, my dear.”
“Against the wall…Lord Weston must be incredibly strong!”
Lord Gayfield put a supportive arm around his wife’s shoulders and said nothing for a moment.
“Did you see Lady Weston’s stockings, Lydia? Quite charming embroidery. Eh…what say you get yourself a pair like them and we’ll discuss the wall issue?”
Lady Gayfield giggled.
CHAPTER NINE
The Black Earl, that coldhearted, callous man who was rumored to have strangled, shot, and stabbed his wife to death (depending on with whom you spoke), the man who was well known to have a temper of astronomical proportions, the man who had, over the course of just a few years, challenged four men to duels (and subsequently put a lead ball into the arm of all but one), the man whose name was used by wise mamas to scare their silly daughters into looking at more appropriate suitors, sat back against the cushions of his well-sprung carriage and chuckled.
He felt light-headed, giddy almost. His arm tightened around his wife, snuggled up against his side, her head resting against his shoulder, her warmth wrapping him in a cocoon of happiness. She hadn’t betrayed him, he gloated to himself as he breathed in the perfume that was Gillian. He had been right in judging her a suitable mate. She was everything he could possibly want in a woman — intelligent, loving, kindhearted, spirited — and she was his and his alone. She’d never give herself to any other man.
Noble felt a wellspring of happiness bubble up from the light that glowed strongly within him and rejoiced at its appearance. Gone were the layers of ice that had held him in their frigid grip for so many years. Gone were the dark corners of his soul that harbored doubts and suspicion and distrust — her light had vanquished them. Gone was the crippling pain of loneliness that he had not known held him tight in its misanthropic embrace until she had destroyed that too.
Noble felt freer than he had since he was a young man. He was free to glory in all the emotions other men had: love, happiness, and joy. For the first time since he had achieved manhood, Noble purposely let the reins of control slip from his fingers and wallowed in the delightful feeling such an action brought with it. He kissed the top of Gillian’s head while he mused that no more would he live by the mandates of order and rigid structure. He and Gillian and Nick would live in happy, glorious chaos, and he’d enjoy every damned minute of it.
He looked down at the cause of all his joy. She was sleeping, her face buried in his neck, her sweet, gentle breath feathering his skin with the softness of down. Good. She’d need her sleep. He had plans to honor this new happiness, and she’d need her strength to celebrate fully with him. He would have rubbed his hands together with glee but for his armful of wife. He contented himself with planning his celebration.
He would introduce her to all the ways of loving, all of the positions he knew, and probably a few he made up on the spot. He was feeling very inventive at the moment.
He would begin by loving her from the tip of her elegant toes to the top of that fiery crown, paying tribute to all the parts in between. He would kiss his way up those long legs, pause for a moment at the gates of heaven, then continue up over her gently rounded belly to those delicious twin peaks of pleasure. After paying his respects there, he would pause only long enough to make sure each graceful arm received its due attention, then move up to plunder that sweet mouth until she moaned and arched up against him.
Yes, yes, it was a good plan. First he’d start with mapping her terrain, then he’d be the stallion to her mare, and then, once she had caught her breath again, he’d let her ride him. He had planned on saving the activities they’d shared earlier in Lady Gayfield’s bedchamber for another time, but that couldn’t be helped. No, there was still much he could show her, but slowly, so as not to shock her. He reminded himself that she was new to the intimacies of the bedchamber, and with reluctance scratched off the list some of the more athletic variations. Simple was best. First the homage to her sweet, lush body, then stallion and mare, then he’d let her ride him, and then a long, long episode with them both on their sides, legs twined together, bodies moving in that delicious rhythm…perhaps that ought to move up on the list. First homage, then stallion and mare, then a sweet loving facing each other on their sides, followed by…
“My lord?”
Noble shook the images from his head with difficulty.
“What is it?”
A footman stood at the opened door of the carriage.
“My lord, do you wish to exit the carriage?”
Noble looked closer. It was Dickon, his footman. They were home.
“Ah, yes, indeed.” Home. What a sweet word. Home and Gillian. Gillian at home. Gillian at home, in his bed.
“My lord?”
“One moment. Her ladyship is resting.”
He waited until Dickon stepped away from the door, then kissed Gillian awake.
“Come, my dear, you are tired and need your rest.”
“I’m not really that tired.” Gillian yawned. Noble smiled to himself. She would be tired, oh yes, very, very tired indeed by the time he was through celebrating with her.
He helped her down the steps of the carriage and, giving into a carefree, wild impulse, swept her up into his arms.
“Noble! What on earth are you doing? I’m quite capable of walking, I assure you,” Gillian protested, blushing at his actions in front of the servants and a passing carriage.
He smiled down at her and started for the three steps leading up to the front door when a loud noise shattered the calm of the evening. A sharp explosion echoed off the side of the house, followed immediately by the wild clatter of hooves as a small passing carriage suddenly raced away from them, the horses whipped to a gallop.
“What…”
Noble’s mind snapped into sharp focus. He set down Gillian and hastily conducted a check of her person, then turned to instruct the coachman to follow the carriage from which the shots had been fired, but it was too late. Tremayne was on the ground, coming toward them, having recognized the sound for what it was.
“Noble, what was that? Surely not a rifle shot.”
“Pistol, my dear,” he said grimly, and waved Tremayne back to the carriage, ignoring the burning in his upper arm. “Follow him, you fool! Are you armed?”
“Aye, m’lord,” Tremayne nodded and, leaping back into Noble’s carriage, snatched the reins from the groom and set off after the culprits.