Kesseley couldn't move. He shouldn't let this happen. She didn't know what she was doing.
She released his lip and murmured something he couldn't understand, then took his lips again, her mouth open, her warm, wet tongue slowly running under his teeth.
He shouldn't let her. It was against every trust, every gentleman's code of honor.
Her hand tightened around his curls, and she thrust her breasts against him, straining, her lips moving faster, deeper, tasting him. Clumsy with inexperience, yet driven by instinct. It would be so easy to kiss her back, lay himself on top of her. Feel her softness under his hard muscles, lose himself in her dark cinnamon scent.
His cock was swelling, rising.
He couldn't.
He wouldn't.
Kesseley heard the quiet footsteps of a female servant coming up the stairs.
He laid Henrietta onto the bed, letting his hand linger on her waist, one last moment holding her. She drew up her legs, cuddling around him. Her face turned up to his, so pale and beautiful in the shadows. He ran his hand up her body, then brushed her cheek with the back of his palm.
"Edward," she whispered.
The single word crashed like thunder in Kesseley's ears.
He stumbled back, colliding with a small bedside table, knocking off its contents. He heard the shatter of glass. She didn't move, falling into drunken sleep.
He turned and fled.
What the hell had he done?
He sat up on the edge of his father's bed and hung his head in his hands. He tried to calm his breathing.
Why didn't you stop her?
He stood up and paced.
Are you so bloody pathetic you'll pretend to be another man just to get her affection?
He could almost hear his father yelling at him, just like he had on Kesseley's fourteenth birthday when he'd had taken Kesseley to a brothel to celebrate. "Damn it, be a man, you cully boy!" he shouted at the sniffling adolescent.
Kesseley spun and stared angrily at his father's portrait. His eyes met his father's painted ones, evenly, unflinchingly, as they never had in life.
What, Father? Is being a man raping your dearest friend because she loves someone else? Because she could never love you- His father just stared back.
Something began to turn inside him, years of futility and hurt heaped like leaves, grass and slop upon his manure pile-teeming, decaying, breaking down. Something was emerging, sprouting from the depths. It felt like anger, except colder, duller. Truth.
He had to find someone else, even as he loved her. He was a young man, but his heart was tired, feeble, unable to keep up anymore. He had to let her go.
But how the hell would he explain everything to Henrietta in the morning?
Chapter Eleven.
"Miss Watson," a female voice whispered.
Henrietta opened her eyes. She could just see the fuzzy outline of her crisp maidservant in the morning light. Ughhh, Henrietta's head felt as if it would burst open and grow new heads. Dizzy, she turned and buried her face in her pillow.
"My lady wants to see you in the parlor," the servant said.
I'm sure she does.
"She asked that you drink this. Mr. Boxly made it."
Henrietta carefully opened one eye and peered at the thick, orange substance in a glass sitting on the table, beside the miniature of her mother. The glass was cracked across her mother's face.
She took the picture into her hand. What had happened?
Having dressed and ingested the vile substance that tasted of anchovies, raw egg and tomato, Henrietta walked timidly into the parlor, not knowing what to expect but imagining the worst.
Lady Kesseley sat at her desk, writing. Calm. The smell of her tea and biscuit unsettled the foul orange drink sloshing about in Henrietta's belly.
"Good morning, Lady Kesseley." Henrietta curtsied.
Lady Kesseley didn't acknowledge her and continued to write, leaving Henrietta at a loss whether to sit, stand, or get on her knees, confess to the crime and plead for a quick, painless execution.
Lady Kesseley returned her pen to the inkwell and set her correspondence aside. "Miss Watson, do you know we are judged by the company we keep?"
"But I thought they were your friends and I thought-I mean-your friends were respectable."
Lady Kesseley's head whipped around. "My friends are extremely respectable! What are you insinuating?"
"Nothing!"
The corner of Lady Kesseley's mouth twitched. "In any case, we are not talking about Lady Winslow and the princess. It is your company that concerns me."
"Oh."
Lady Kesseley stood and began to pace, her footfalls reverberating in Henrietta's ailing brain. "Tell me, how will my son marry a lady of respectable name and prospect when my companion openly gambles and drinks to the point of inebriation in one of the finest homes in London, then stumbles home singing abhorrent canting songs?"
"I'm sorry." To her own shock, Henrietta burst into violent, hiccupping sobs. "I didn't mean to hurt Kesseley. I'm so sorry. Edward doesn't love me. I'm going to leave. I won't cause any more trouble. I'm a horrid person."
Lady Kesseley sat down beside her. "Are you ready for the man waiting for you in Norfolk?"
"I don't know."
"I think you should know, since I doubt he is a man who will be put off."
"I feel some affection for Mr. Van Heerlen, but I'm not sure it is enough for marriage." Henrietta searched Lady Kesseley's face, hoping for a small scrap of motherly wisdom. Given Lady Kesseley's feelings toward her, Henrietta doubted she would be so generous, but she had no one else to help her. "Do you think love can grow over time? That you will come to see how perfect someone is for you?"
"No."
"What should I do?" Henrietta cried. "Please help me."
Lady Kesseley studied her, some emotion Henrietta couldn't make out moved over her pale eyes. "Stay here."
"But no one wants me. And I'm disgraced!"
"Disgraced?" Lady Kesseley said incredulously. She walked to her desk and lifted a large stack of letters. "We've been invited to every card party in London." She gazed down at the invitations and ran her thumb over a blue wax seal. "Your mother welcomed my son into her home and you should stay in mine."
Kesseley made it out of the house without seeing Henrietta. Guilt dragged him down, ruining the beautiful sky stretching over his head. He knew he had to talk to her, but couldn't bring himself to do it first thing in the morning, when he was still so weak. He needed to get away, strengthen his resolve.
But she had kissed him. And there was something true in that kiss, no matter whose name she had whispered.
Can you let go of your sad, pathetic hope? She doesn't love you. When will you learn your lesson, you wretched loggerhead?
Kesseley slunk down Curzon Street like a fugitive, his hat low, coat buttoned up. After the comment from Lady Sara and her friends, he was acutely aware of how different he looked from the fops strolling about him in their gleaming white shirts, unblemished, not even the tiniest stain of preserves or butter from breakfast. And their pants! So tight they could scarce walk. Even the skinny ones. Why would they want to advertise their spindly legs?
Their eyes raked over him as he passed, their lips quivered with amusement. Kesseley felt like the human oddity at the fair-comical by simply existing.
He pulled out Henrietta's list of merchants. Tailors, boot makers, glove makers, hatters. She said he could look better than all of those fops if he tried. And damn it, he was going to try.
Until he got to Schweitzer and Davidson and lost his nerve.
He couldn't do this. He wanted to go home-really home-to Wrenthorpe. Back to his cows and pigs and fields. To the things that were real, not this flimsily constructed pretend world of Lady Sara and her friends that revolved on the cut of a suitor's coat or his fancy words.
To hell with it! He was better than that.
He wadded up the paper in his fist, turned and walked back to the end of the block. Then he stopped, cursing himself.
For God sakes, it's not like you're turning into your father. It's just clothes. Don't you want a lady? Don't you want to forget Henrietta?
He stomped back and swung open the tailor's door. On a ladder, a thin pale man with glasses restored a bolt of cloth. He looked at Kesseley, his face pinched with disapproval, as if a vagrant had wandered into his store.
"Pardon, we do not-"
"I am the Earl of Kesseley. I need some clothes that look better than what I am wearing."
The little man's gaping mouth let out a shrill sound, like escaping steam from one of those mechanical engines.
"You make clothes, don't you?" Kesseley asked.
The tailor rushed forward. "Yes, of course. Please forgive me. You see, I am finishing with a client-it will only be a moment, a small moment. Let me call my assistant-my esteemed esteemed assistant." He ducked his head behind a curtain. A moment later, a tall, blond man stepped out. He froze when he saw Kesseley, his left upper lip raised like a beastly snarl. assistant." He ducked his head behind a curtain. A moment later, a tall, blond man stepped out. He froze when he saw Kesseley, his left upper lip raised like a beastly snarl.
"Ein Mann, ein sehr attraktiver Mann," he said, his bright eyes roaming up and down Kesseley's body with unconcealed admiration. "Magnificent." he said, his bright eyes roaming up and down Kesseley's body with unconcealed admiration. "Magnificent."
Kesseley felt uncomfortable. "Maybe I should come back some other time."
"Nein. Diese ist die perfekte time. You are my destiny." time. You are my destiny."
"I need to be leaving now." Kesseley turned for the door, but the tailor stepped ahead of him, blocking the exit.
"Nein! Bleiben Sie bitte! Stay. I will make you desired by Stay. I will make you desired by allen Manner und Frauen. allen Manner und Frauen."
"Ladies?"
The man put a strong arm on Kesseley's shoulder and spun him around. "Ja, they will drawn to your they will drawn to your Pracht. Kommen Sie bitte. Pracht. Kommen Sie bitte. I show you." I show you."
"If you're sure women will be attracted to my-hmm-Pracht."
Kesseley followed the man up a flight of stairs to a paneled room lined with pictures of pugilists, dogs and hunts. The tailor took Kesseley's hat and gloves, depositing them on the table. Then he removed Kesseley's coats and cravat, pinching them between his forefinger and thumb-like some infant's fouled cloths-and draped them beside Kesseley's hat.
The tailor's fingers moved with an engineer's precision, wrapping the measuring tape about Kesseley's body, then entering numbers into the small ledger, all while he murmured Germanic praise. Schon. Groartig. Vorzuglich. Schon. Groartig. Vorzuglich.
When he had finished, he snapped the ledger shut, then gripped the measuring tape in his palm and circled it around his fist. "I will be a moment. Shall I send for eine Dirne? eine Dirne?"
"A whore?" Kesseley translated.
"Ja."
Kesseley colored. "Nein danke." "Nein danke."
The man raised the edge of his lip. "As you wish."
Kesseley waited, the whole time pondering his tailor's question. His muscles felt tight, especially after last night. Maybe a girl was exactly what he needed. A sweet, fair thing the opposite of Henrietta, who knew only one word: yes. yes. It would make this whole London affair a little more bearable. It would make this whole London affair a little more bearable.
He should add it to his list. Courtesan. Courtesan. He wagered Henrietta hadn't researched that one for him. He wagered Henrietta hadn't researched that one for him.
His tailor returned with two other men hidden under the bolts of fabric they carried. They stacked the fabric onto the table, building a pyramid of tans, blacks and blues.
For two hours the tailor held Kesseley captive, draping fabric down Kesseley's chest- this blue too yellow, this blue too green. What the hell? It's blue! What the hell? It's blue! But after a while, Kesseley just smiled and nodded his head. He might as well have gone to a tailor in Siam for all the sense this man was making. But after a while, Kesseley just smiled and nodded his head. He might as well have gone to a tailor in Siam for all the sense this man was making.
Maybe he shouldn't have been so agreeable, he thought, when he got the bill. Somehow he had managed to purchase four coats, three doeskins, three pantaloons, two evening coats and two breeches. He could build a barn for the same cost!
The tailor restored Kesseley to his previous clothes, although it clearly pained him. "I rush your order! Wir machen Wir machen only your clothes! Come back tomorrow for fitting," he said, as his hands tugged on Kesseley's cravat. " only your clothes! Come back tomorrow for fitting," he said, as his hands tugged on Kesseley's cravat. "Sehr guter Knoten. Remember." He stepped out of the way and let Kesseley look at his work in the long mirror. Remember." He stepped out of the way and let Kesseley look at his work in the long mirror.
"How did you do that?" he marveled. His cravat stood straight up with an elegant knot, like those dandies on the street. But it didn't look so foppish on him. He quite liked it as he looked at it from different angles. Could Baggot and he produce the same between their three hands?
Before taking his leave, he drew out Henrietta's crumpled list and showed it to the tailor. The German scanned the line with his index finger, saying "nein, nein, nein." "nein, nein, nein." He shook his head, crumpled the list and threw it away. He shook his head, crumpled the list and threw it away.
"I tell you where to go." He tore a sheet out of his ledger, wrote a list of merchants and handed it to Kesseley, pointing with his pen to two names and addresses at the very bottom.
"This is my sister," he said. "She makes very good shirts. She will make a dozen shirts and cravats for you. This is my brother, Frans. He is very good valet. Send for him."
Back on Cork Street, the temporary reprieve from guilt was over. Henrietta was probably at home, cursing his name. What the hell was he going to say?