Admittedly, Alexandra was curious about pleasure, about lovemaking. The bliss she’d heard members of the League who’d had satisfactory unions review in closed quarters. Amberly had been neither caring nor skilled. In fact, he’d not been interested, leaving Alexandra to wonder about her husband’s proclivities. They hadn’t spent much time together after the wedding ceremony, less than six weeks in five years, actually.
Sadly, she hadn’t known the man she’d married well.
Hence, her letter from Claudine, two folded sheet of foolscap currently burning a hole in her pocket. What could her friend say that might encourage Alexandra to proposition him? That he’d been an honorable leader, an able fighter, a capable man among men? Maybe she knew everything she needed to after watching Cort ride into the sunset three days ago, his broad body in perfect accord with his mount’s. She admired a strong seat on a horse more than most.
Her cheeks flushed when she considered this, but she wanted someone’s hands on her. Rough, greedy possession. Passion. Her life couldn’t be confined to sensual narratives in forbidden books, would it? Her touch in the darkness all she’d be given?
Alexandra halted in the corridor after checking the house before bed, the creak of a loose floorboard sounding beneath her feet. A rake would do nicely, she decided. She’d rarely experienced a spark of attraction as intense as the one she’d felt that day. Her thighs getting as warm as they would if she were standing next to a hearth must mean something. She trailed her slipper through a slice of moonlight settled across the runner.
According to speculation, Cortland DeWitt knew his way around a woman’s body. He’d gotten superb marks from those who’d chosen to discuss him in parlors scattered across London. Alexandra had never taken part, of course, but she’d listened, her heart thumping while her body ached.
Why not him? If he was set to be her neighbor again, even for a short period, this presented a fortuitous opportunity. He came from a good family. He was tall. Handsome, more than. His laugh had been delightful. If he was dimwitted, what did it matter? So were most of the men in the ton.
It was what he did with his hands that counted.
She didn’t need his brain. She had a fine one of her own, thank you very much.
As night fell, she headed to her chamber, prepared to read Claudine’s letter in bed with a glass of sherry and formulate a plan, as she’d no idea how to seduce a man. She halted on the stair when the knock sounded. A storm had blown through earlier, thunder and rain rattling the windowpanes in their casings. She descended the staircase in alarm. What if something had happened to the horses in the stable? Hamilton, her favorite bay gelding, was sensitive to loud noises.
Alexandra didn’t wait for her butler, Cosgrove, to arrive from his suite of rooms in the back of the house. He was sixty if he was a day and moved slower than a three-legged cat. She had the front door open, a humid gust ripping past, before she considered the wisdom of her actions. After all, she was a woman living alone with a small staff of elderly servants, the pistol tucked in her bedside table’s top drawer her only means of protection.
Her breath banked in her lungs upon seeing her strapping grooms on the portico’s landing, their arms full of Cortland DeWitt.
“What happened?” she breathed and flung the door wide.
The oil sconce’s flame flickered wildly as they shuffled into the entryway, the eldest of the grooms, Oscar, kicking the door shut behind them. They had Cort by the shoulders and legs, his head dangling precariously. Alexandra rushed over, sliding her hand into the sodden hair at his nape, supporting his neck as she would a babe’s. He had a gash over his left eye that was trailing blood down his jaw, the droplets staining her plank flooring. The wound cut directly through his eyebrow, a mark that would only boost his rakish air. His cravat had been lost, his coat torn at the lapel, his shirt stained crimson and black.
“There’s a spare chamber down the hallway,” she instructed. “Past the staircase to the left.”
“Took a tumble in the squall. We found him alongside the ditch on the main path, just past the bend between Hampton Court and the village. Almost made it to his place, hundred yards from the turnoff. Must have been one of those strikes of thunder that spooked his mount. Duke of Herschel, ain’t he? I’ve seen him around a time or two riding down the lane to his estate.”
She shook her head, no doubt in her mind. “It’s the other one. Cortland.”
Oscar squinted, his flaxen brow kicking high. “How can you tell? Word is, they look just alike. Used to trick folks around here with their adventures, they did. Pretending to be one, then the other. Old Mrs. Viceroy said the joke wasn’t appreciated by no one.”
Alexandra bumped the door open with her elbow and backed into the bedchamber. She didn’t know how she knew which brother it was, she simply knew. This was the man she’d seen lounging in the courtyard, the one who’d made her skin burn as surely as if he’d dragged his fingertip down her spine.
When they laid him on the bed, his lids quivered and for a brief moment, opened. His eyes were a vivid green, open emerald fields, dazed with pain and confusion. She had not mistaken the color in her memory. She was close enough to note the cusp of gold circling his pupils, making them shine. They really were most stunning.
“Shh…” Alexandra brushed his hair from his brow, lingering, the heat of his skin warming her palm. The thick strands were curling around her fingers from the damp. “You fell from your mount on the post road. I have you.”
“Have me,” he whispered, so low that only she heard him. Then he blinked twice, his gorgeous eyes closing, lost to the world.
The younger groom, Liam, dropped a leather haversack to the floor. “Found this beside him. It’s wet but not ruined. Papers and such inside. Drawings of a mechanical nature. And all his necessary personal items. He wasn’t robbed while lying there.”
Alexandra glanced up. “His horse?”
“Loyal beast,” Liam murmured. “A warmblood, if I’m not mistaken. Cross between an Arab and a draft. Stayed by his side. That’s how we saw him as we rode past, truth be told. Holding a good gallop and could have missed them altogether. We settled the animal in the stable. I’ll go now and rub him down.”
Oscar dusted his hands on his trousers and paced toward the door. “I’ll head for the village sawbones, Doc Grover. If I can locate him, as he’s down the pub by this time most nights. But knocks to the head can be worrying, so best is best.” The young man swallowed, his cheeks coloring. “That is, if you don’t need…”
Alexandra adjusted the pillow beneath Cort’s head. “I’ll wake Cosgrove and have the scullery maid gather hot water and linens. I’m not certain what medicinal supplies we have, but we have something. I haven’t had time to review what’s here and what I need to purchase on my next trip to London.” She waved them off, checking her smile. Benefit number two to being a widow was, nobody tried to protect her from seeing things she’d already seen.
Naked males being one.
She stole a fleeting glance at the man sprawled on her guest bed. Although she’d never seen a physique like this, not once in her life. Her deceased husband had mostly resembled an overripe peach.
When her grooms left the room, Alexandra let her sigh break free. She hadn’t wanted to display her concern but head wounds could indeed be problematic. With a trembling hand, she traced her fingertip along the jagged edge of his injury. It wasn’t a long cut but it would need stitches, a few, at least. A bruise the size of an apple was forming on his cheek, and he’d winced when they banged his left leg while settling him in the bed.
