The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Read online

  The last time had been rather funny, as if the two realized what they had done and were inexplicably embarrassed at their behavior. His teasing touches had tickled and led to her titters and giggles. But his manner had soon sobered when he kissed her at the end. “I do love you,” he claimed again just before his movements ceased and his body went rigid with his release.

  Jane had kissed him then, kissed him with the same fervor he had shown the night before and then pulled his head down to her breast when she could tell he no longer had the strength to hold himself up.

  She allowed a sigh of contentment at the memory before she realized Nicole was back from the bath and regarding her expectantly.

  “Is there anything special happening in the household today?” Jane wondered, about to get out of bed when she realized she wasn’t wearing her nightrail. In fact, she wasn’t wearing anything at all! The simple movement had also sent the scents of amber and citrus wafting from the pillow next to hers, which had her inhaling deeply.

  Max!

  She dared another sniff before realizing the side of the bed on which Andrew had slept was made up as if no one had slept there. Such a considerate man, she thought before she realized her maid was still staring at her. “What is it?” Jane asked as she pulled on her dressing gown. At least that garment had been within reach, probably because Andrew had seen to putting it there. She certainly couldn’t remember having left it out on the bed.

  “Elsie said she came upon a man at the back door of the house this morning.”

  Jane blinked, her breath suddenly gone from her body. “A man?”

  Nicole nodded. “She was on her way to the coal bin. Said the gent was very well-dressed, as if for an evening at the theatre, and that he was quite polite. Said he had come in the back door, and realized he was in the wrong house and simply made to leave before anyone could discover him,” she explained quickly. “Called her ‘my lady’, too. She’ll not be forgettin’ that for some time,” she added with an arched eyebrow.

  Not sure what to say—Nicole’s manner didn’t suggest she suspected anything—Jane thought it better to be safe than sorry. She allowed a look of worry to cross her face. “Should I call for a Runner, do you suppose?” she asked as she feigned panic.

  Her maid seemed to think on the question for a time before finally shaking her head. “Probably not, my lady. From Elsie’s words, the man seemed like a perfect gentleman. And it’s not as if The Tattler will print a story about it.”

  At the mention of London’s most notorious gossip rag, Jane gave a start. “Why ever would The Tattler wish to print anything about a drunk man making his way into the wrong house?” she asked, her question meant to be rhetorical.

  Nicole answered it, though.

  “Why, you’re a widow, milady. Some might think he was here to ravish you.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Or that he was here for a liaison!”

  Jane blinked, her alarm not the least bit feigned. She was about to murmur something like, I could only hope, but thought better of it.

  What if Nicole reported her words to one of the writers for the gossip rag?

  Andrew Burroughs had been there for a liaison, although certainly not one she had arranged in advance. Given how wonderful her entire body felt just then, she found she looked forward to future encounters with the banker. “Well, no harm done, I suppose,” she finally replied, deciding a change of subject was in order. “I’ve been invited to Lady Torrington’s luncheon today. As of today, no more widow’s weeds.”

  Nicole nodded. “The lavender lawn then?”

  Jane considered the question and realized she would have to pay a call on a modiste in the next day or so. She hadn’t a single gown in the current style. Although she had several mourning gowns that weren’t black, the thought of wearing lavender every day wasn’t particularly appealing. “That will have to do,” she sighed.

  Although her expression suggested she wasn’t looking forward to her day, the rest of her body certainly was. Especially to the following day. Andrew would be taking her for a ride in the park. And perhaps for a different sort of ride after that.

  A smile finally appeared on Jane’s face as she headed into the bath.

  Chapter 13

  Lady Jane Gossip

  Yes, we were selfish. Yes, we did wrong. Yes, we justified it in the name of affection. But if we had the chance to do it over again and do it differently, would we have? No, dear reader, for we were a fool in love. ~ The editor’s final article in the May 14 issue of The Tattler.

  May 7 1818, back in Hyde Park at eight o’ clock in the morning

  Mr. Pepperidge dared a glance in Emelia’s direction, noting her nervousness, noting how the veil from her hat hid her beautiful green eyes from being seen by him or anyone else who might pass by. Not that anyone would be out in this fog at this ungodly hour of the morning, especially the morning after a ball that hadn’t ended until the wee hours of the morning.

  Christ! Just over ninety minutes ago, he had nearly decided to send his valet away, roll over, and return to the sweet dreams he had been enjoying just the moment before his valet opened the dark velvet drapes and woke him with the reminder that he had a meeting that morning. At eight o’ clock.

  He had only been in bed an hour! After leaving the Weatherstone mansion just after the midnight supper—a rather dull affair except that he had learned a thing or two he could use—he’d had to head straight for the offices of The Tattler to finish the paper. There he found a letter listing various tidbits of gossip from an unknown subscriber, and the pressman, who was waiting for the type for the front page so he could finish printing the rag. He had set aside the letter and concentrated on getting the articles finished for the front page.

  The letter! He slapped his forehead, disappointed he hadn’t stuck it in his hat or waistcoat pocket. Left on his desk back at the office, it was unfolded and probably on the stack of other subscriber-supplied gossip. He hoped the pressman hadn’t simply helped himself to it as a means to fill space.

  He would pay a visit to the office in Sackville Street after the day’s session of Parliament ended and determine if it included any news he could use in the next issue.

  The thought of being able to see Lady Emelia had him nearly bouncing out of his bed, anxious to dress and help himself to a bit of breakfast and a cup of coffee before he hurried from his townhouse in Bruton Street and made his way to their assignation in Hyde Park.

  Assignation.

  He rather liked the word. It portended naughtiness. Intrigue. Danger.

  Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Meeting with Lady Emelia was more milquetoast than anything else. The poor chit didn’t have a scandalous bone in her body! He always hoped there would be a bit of naughtiness in what Lady Emelia shared. A bit of a blush on her rather beautiful complexion. A bit of gossip that would put all the other gossip to shame. Instead, the news she shared always seemed familiar, as if he had already read it in the missives he was receiving from some reader who identified herself as The Gossip Goddess. The letters from that particular woman were always pink and scented with a delightful perfume. He had thought he might be able to figure out just who had sent the letters if he caught the same scent on a woman at a ball, or a dinner party, or during a soirée, but he hadn’t had any luck. Yet.

  As far as truly salacious, scandalous gossip was concerned, he had come to realize Lady Emelia apparently wasn’t privy to it. She was the epitome of staid. Reserved. Behaved.

  The perfect lady.

  And he wouldn’t be nearly as attracted to her if she were a gossip monger. He would probably despise her if she were.

  He had certainly come to despise himself over the past few years of publishing the gossip rag. Devil’s work, he thought as he considered how he was going to bedevil Lady Emelia today.

  “Now then, what can you tell me about last night’s ball?” Mr. Pepperidge began, his speech tinged with a bit of Cockney, hoping she could provide more tidbits than
what he had already included in that day’s issue of The Tattler. After all, Lord Weatherstone’s ball was always the source of so much gossip, it took at least two issues to cover it all. “Everyone knows his gardens and library are the stuff of legend when it comes to assignations and dalliances. Why, you know it first hand,” he claimed as his eyebrows waggled. “You must have been privy to a few … inappropriate couplings,” he hinted, wondering whom she might mention.

  Only one more week of this, and he would no longer be meeting Lady Emelia in the park. Only one more week and he could finally offer for her hand. His eight weeks of once-a-week rides in the park would be complete, although he hoped they could continue them on a more frequent schedule once they were married.

  He would miss these quiet assignations with the young lady, though. Well, young was probably pushing it a bit, he considered, but she wasn’t quite on the shelf. Three-and-twenty, he thought she might be.

  He had a mind to ask Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, when he met him for drinks later that night at White’s. He was quite sure Grandby was the chit’s godfather—nearly every daughter of the ton of about that age was, after all. But to ask directly about Lady Emelia might have the earl thinking Felix was interested in her in that way. Grandby didn’t need to know of his interest.

  At least, not yet.

  “Not particularly,” Emelia replied, the disappointment in her voice quite evident. “I spent the entire time I was there in the ballroom. I was never near the library nor out in the gardens,” she claimed with wide eyes. “And, no, Lord Fennington did not ask me to join him in the gardens.”

  She had been almost disappointed when he merely danced with her the one time. A cotillion. He danced the waltz with Lady Morganfield and looked ever so elegant doing it. Emelia hadn’t stayed late enough for the second waltz to discover if he would have danced it with her.

  “Did you dance the waltz with him?”

  He instantly regretted the question. The way Emelia’s shoulders slumped and her face fell had him realizing the chit expected to do so. And had she still been in the ballroom when the second waltz was played, he would have been dancing with her.

  I almost feel sorry for her, the editor of The Tattler thought for a moment.

  He did feel sorry for her, although not because of what he knew would have the ton’s tongues wagging if they knew. Kissing in broad daylight at a ton event was damning, and maybe quite surprising given her reputation as a perfect daughter of the ton, but Emelia seemed to think it would be the end of her life if others knew.

  Didn’t she realize it would be the end of his life as he knew it? His life as a single man? For if others knew what she had done—what they had done—Society would force them to marry, despite the Earl of Aimsley’s odd response to the matter.

  Gave me an ‘out’, I suppose, he thought. Rather sporting of him.

  No, he felt sorry for her because she seemed lonely. Lost, almost. As if she didn’t quite know what was next in life. At her age, unmarried and with all her friends already married—some with a babe or two—Emelia Comber, youngest child of the Earl of Aimsley, was headed for spinsterhood.

  Or not, if his alter ego had any say in the matter. If she accepted his offer of marriage.

  He still didn’t have a feel for if she felt any affection for him. If she was even considering matrimony. Never having courted a woman before, he really had no sense of how it was progressing. There was even a Monday when she implied he was only taking her for rides because her father had asked him to escort her!

  Obviously, Mark Comber hadn’t shared what he knew with his daughter, which meant Felix had an opportunity to set her straight. To make his intentions crystal clear. And yet he had bungled that by simply claiming he enjoyed her company and needed to get some air.

  Fool! Why was courting so … confusing?

  He wasn’t sure if he believed any of the rare gossip he had collected from others about Lady Emelia during his tenure as publisher of The Tattler. The report that she was sent to Switzerland because she had bloodied a man’s nose turned out to be partially true. Moyer’s report the week before confirmed she had punched a man, although she had done so because the man was attempting to ruin one of her classmates. By kissing her in front of several other classmates.

  It’s a wonder I still have a straight nose, he thought just then, about to lift a finger to stroke it when he remembered it was covered with a prosthetic and appeared rather bulbous just then. Besides, he might accidentally knock his fake mustache out of place.

  Now he simply had to make sure nothing of note was ever written about Emelia. As the publisher, and for all intents and purposes, the writer and editor of London’s premier gossip rag, he could ensure news of her never made its way onto the printed page.

  The power of the press was only as powerful as its owner, after all. As for the gossip rag, well, he knew there were worse ways in which to make a living.

  “So, tell me, Lady Emelia, if not news of last night’s ball, then what other news do you have for me this fine morning?” he encouraged as his pencil pressed against the thick pad of paper he held.

  Emelia allowed a sigh of resignation and began reciting her list of the on-dit to which she had been subjected whilst paying calls during the past week. “Lady Pettigrew is willing to add a sum to Lady Jane’s dowry as an incentive to marry off her youngest niece,” she began, deciding the tidbit wasn’t particularly juicy. Everyone in the ton knew Eugenia Pettigrew, Viscountess Pettigrew, had been saddled with the responsibility of seeing to it her four nieces were married off. Three were either married or betrothed, which just left the youngest, Lady Jane, available.

  “I hardly think that counts as gossip, my lady,” Mr. Pepperidge replied with a shake of his head, remembering he had seen the chit in question dancing a waltz at Lord Weatherstone’s ball with a young man who looked exactly like the Earl of Bellingham. He remembered Lady Morganfield had identified the gentleman as Andrew Burroughs. He had already confirmed with Lord Devonville that the man’s oldest son, Will Slater, Earl of Bellingham, wasn’t in attendance at the ball, but that his other son—his bastard son, Stephen Slater—was.

  Pepperidge had watched as Lady Jane danced with either Andrew Burroughs or Lord Bellingham’s brother—he was now beginning to wonder which was which—but most in the ton simply thought she had been dancing with Will Slater. The story in that morning’s edition would have been made better if only all the players were actually at the ball. Apparently, Will Slater wasn’t even in London, and if rumors were to be believed, he wouldn’t return to town until either his father died or he found his long-lost love.

  That wouldn’t be anytime soon, he knew. Bellingham’s father, the Marquess of Devonville, was a rather hale and hearty sort who was enjoying marriage to a younger widow, which had Pepperidge thinking word of another heir could be announced at any time. Although the legitimate brothers would be more than twenty-seven years apart in age, it wouldn’t be the first time heirs were nearly a generation apart in age.

  Emelia sighed again, deciding her knowledge of Lady Jane wasn’t meant to be kept quiet. “Except that Lady Jane doesn’t wish to be married,” she countered with an arched eyebrow, hoping the editor of The Tattler would understand her meaning.

  Despite the veil covering the top half of her face, the editor of The Tattler found the arch of Emelia’s eyebrow especially fetching just then. The way it made her seem in control, confident, and just a bit naughty. He could imagine her making such an expression in his bedchamber, when he informed her she would be spending the entire night in his bed that night—or any night.

  Every night for the rest of his life.

  He could only hope.

  But he had a news sheet to write. He couldn’t be thinking of Lady Emelia as his wife just yet. He simply couldn’t. If he wasn’t careful, the evidence of his arousal would become, well, evident, and he couldn’t afford to have Lady Emelia notice how attracted he was to her just then
. How he had spent the past six weeks thinking of her in those terms. Thinking of her naked and lying in his bed, her blonde hair splayed out on his pillows like some kind of angelic halo, her luscious body, warm and wet and willing, waiting for him to mount her, to impale her with his manhood, to make love to her until she fractured and cried out his name as ecstasy took her—and him—to oblivion.

  Such an exquisite union they could have in his bedchamber.

  Or hers.

  He rather doubted he would even hear anything she said, for he was quite sure ecstasy would have him deaf and dumb to anything else but the extreme pleasure he would experience as he spilled his seed into her, as his body would shake and shiver and collapse onto hers.

  Mr. Pepperidge blinked, realizing he had missed the key words Emelia had just spoken regarding Lady Jane.

  “Could you repeat that please?” he managed to get out without his voice sounding too terribly high-pitched.

  Lady Emelia frowned. “Lady Jane doesn’t wish to be married,” she repeated, her look of confusion making him realize he had better concentrate on the matter at hand.

  Gossip.

  “Am I to find her wish of not finding a husband … scandalous?” the editor wondered suddenly, his brows furrowed in question.

  Emelia held her breath a moment. Well, she had found the claim rather surprising when she had overheard the chit make it whilst out in the gardens behind Carlington House.

  Oh, I’m not looking to marry, she remembered hearing the girl say when a cluster of chits were gathered around the refreshment table during Lady Morganfield’s garden party last month.

  Emelia thought Lady Jane to be about eighteen then, but as the youngest of several sisters, she hadn’t yet attended a ball.