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He walked across the room to the huge, antique wardrobe, pulling open the doors and selecting a shirt and breeches.
“Most of the time,” Alexandria replied, “I’ve missed you. My husband is an old man. All he cares about is his precious porcelain collection.”
Edward scrubbed a hand through his unruly dark hair. His stomach was flat and muscled, chest and arms well defined. Like many sons of the gentry, he had taken an officer’s commission in the army. Like most who did, he’d expected to spend his time at Horseguards, looking pretty in his uniform. The fine white scars that crisscrossed his abdomen stood testament along with his honed body to the fact that he had done far more than attended with the Prince Regent at court, or pushed papers for the Department of War.
After collecting an assortment of garments and casting them onto the bed, he began to dress.
“You really are an inconvenience in the mornings, Alex,” he said, “if you weren’t here, I would summon Rafeson to dress me. A gentleman really mustn’t bother with all this nonsense.”
He gestured at the cravat, tie pin, underclothes, breeches, shirt, coat, and other accouterments of the gentleman’s wardrobe.
Alexandria, wife of the Duke of Richmond and, therefore, one of the elite of London society, sat up. She propped herself with her hands behind her, letting her breasts be exposed to him without shame. The sheet fell away from her stomach to reveal just a hint of her womanhood. Edward’s eyes lingered there for a moment and she gave a wicked smile.
“Are you sure, Edward?”
Dark eyes locked with hers. “Yes. Quite sure. You of all people know how much work goes into arranging a ball. Especially one of this scale. Half the country is invited.”
“Yes, I’m quite looking forward to it. Am I to assume that this ball to which you have attached so much significance will presage the end of our…fun?”
Edward arched an eyebrow. Then, without warning, he leaped onto the bed, kissed Alexandria, and pressed her onto her back. One hand circled her buttocks while another squeezed one of her breasts. She had time for a startled gasp before she succumbed to his passionate kisses. Presently, he lifted his head.
“Never,” he whispered.
“But, rake that you are, you care too much about your name to disgrace any prospective wife by being openly adulterous,” Alexandria said, winding her fingers through his shaggy dark hair.
“True. But I must see Rebecca safely married off before I can think of myself. That is the ulterior motive you’re looking for behind this soiree.”
He kissed her again, forgetting his own decision not to dally beneath the sheets after sunrise. Their bodies entwined and kissing became more heated, hands more insistent as touching and caressing became grabbing. When Alexandria began to undo the dressing Edward had already achieved, he pulled away. Alexandria screeched like a scalded cat and threw a pillow at him. Edward laughed.
Alexandria looked at him for a long moment, her frustrated desire putting anger in her eyes. But, Edward’s easy, boyish grin was infectious. She chuckled, flinging the sheets away from her and standing, looking around the clothes Edward had ripped from her the previous night.
“My dress better be intact. You were most insistent in your disrobing of me.”
Edward laughed again, putting on a silk brocade vest of black and purple, over tan breeches.
“So, do you have a prospective suitor in mind for your sister?” Alexandria asked.
“Yes, a very worthy fellow. I came across him in the army. Stout fellow, very solid. Perhaps you know him? Grantley is the name. Philip. He will be Duke of Stamford.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him. You couldn’t find someone a little less stone-faced?”
“He’s not a rake like me. Almost puritan in his values, in fact. Just the kind of serious-minded man that will ensure Rebecca is taken care of. She does not need a clown for a husband.”
“And you would be content with Rebecca spending the rest of her days in the distant north. Where is Stamford? Scotland?”
“Hardly. Yorkshire. Twenty miles from York. Not exactly the ends of the earth.”
“It would be for me. Poor Rebecca. Have they met?”
Edward was dressed. He strode to the curtains and yanked them wide. Pale daylight flooded the room. Beyond lay the streets of Chelsea. Franklin Place was quiet at this time of the morning. Somewhere behind the rows of townhouses, a milk delivery cart clattered, kept out of sight of the gentry to make its delivery to the servant’s entrance. The houses were tall and immaculately dressed. The city beyond was misty, the highest buildings poking through in murky silhouette.
“No,” he said distractedly, “they will meet at the ball.”
“Then I at least hope, for Rebecca’s sake, that you will have told her of your plans before she meets him.”
Edward turned back from the window. London was a distraction he could do without. Once it had been his playground, but that was a long time ago. As he often did when considering his youth, he uttered a silent prayer within his head to the spirit of his father.
Forgive me papa for my callow youth. I did not know. But I will make you proud.
