Page 17 of A Rogue's Downfall
The Wrong Door
by
Mary Balogh
Without a doubt it was the most stupid thing he had ever done. He had spent the last ten years of his lifebeing daring, rash, even unwise. But this was plainstupid. And the outcome was that he was in grave danger of having acquired a leg-shackle for himself.
He had always intended never to take on a leg-shackle despite the fact that he already had a viscount’s titleand would one day acquire that of a marquess, if heoutlived an elderly and infirm uncle, and it was expected of him to marry and produce an heir. Now hewould no longer have to worry about disappointingthose expectations. He was in more than danger. Hewas on his way to the altar as surely as if the offer hadbeen made and accepted already.
Alistair Scott, Viscount Lyndon, had been invited to the seaside home of his friend, Colin Willett, for theoccasion of the eightieth birthday of Colin’s grandmother. Elmdon Hall was within a day’s ride of Brighton and the viscount had pictured himself and Colinriding there frequently, it being summer and the fashionable time to be in Brighton. He had not fully realized until it was too late that it was a full-fledged houseparty to which he had been invited and that he wouldbe obliged to stay at Elmdon to participate in the celebrations. The house was filled to the rafters with family members and family friends.
It was not at all the viscount’s type of entertainment. There were altogether too many sweet young thingsobviously on the lookout for a husband, some of themwith a certain air of desperation since the Season inLondon was over and they were still unattached. Viscount Lyndon was not interested in sweet young thingssince he could not bed them and had discovered noother pleasurable use for women in his thirty years.
It was to avoid one persistent miss, who distinctly reminded the viscount of a horse, that he attached himself to Lady Plumtree, a widow, during an afternoonride on the first full day at Elmdon. And then led herin to dinner. And took her as a partner at cards duringthe evening. And made an assignation with her for thatnight. It was a very stupid thing to do. Although hehad a passing acquaintance with the lady from townand although it was clear that she understood the rulesof the game of dalliance and would provide a delightfuldiversion during what promised to be a rather dull weekin the country, nevertheless it was not the sort of partyat which one indulged inaffaires de coeur.
If everything had proceeded smoothly, of course, the chances were that he would never have felt a pang ofguilt over the tastelessness of his behavior. Or over itsstupidity. But things did not proceed smoothly. Thethird door on the left of the inner corridor of the eastwing, Lady Plumtree had told him, dark eyes peeringup at him through long lashes as she issued the invitation. He would be there, he told her, hooded blue eyesgazing back into hers.
But later that night, walking unfamiliar corridors without a candle or the help of moonlight through windows, it was not quite clear which was the inner corridor and which was the outer. And did the doors on theleft include the small door, clearly belonging to somesort of cupboard, that was a mere few inches from thebeginning of the corridor? He did not feel these doubtsat the time, of course, or perhaps he would have beensaved from disaster. It was only later that he realizedhow carelessly stupid he had been.
How disastrously stupid.
Lady Plumtree was small and slender, quiet and elegant. She was, in fact, the picture of respectability to anyone who did not know that she liked to collect loversas other ladies collected fans or jewels. One would notexpect her to behave like any vulgar courtesan. Theviscount merely smiled, then, when he stepped insideher room and closed the door soundlessly behind himto find that she was lying quietly in bed, pretending tosleep. Novelty was always welcome to someone withappetites as jaded as his.
“Laura?” he said, his voice low.
No answer. He smiled again as he drew his shirt clear of his pantaloons and off over his head. He pulledoff his pantaloons and stockings and stood naked closeto the bed, looking down at her slight form, curledinvitingly beneath the covers. Her blond hair wasspread about her on the pillow. Not that he could seeeither her form or the color of her hair with any clarity.Although the curtains at the window were drawn back,it was a very dark night.
He drew back the covers slowly and almost chuckled. She was wearing a nightgown, a very virginal one, covering her from neck to ankles by the look of it. Andshe still pretended to sleep. She was not a particularlygood actress, though. Her breathing was too quiet tobe convincing. But there was something very alluringabout the appearance of innocence she had chosen toportray and about the stillness of her body. The womanknew how to entice. He lay down beside her carefullyand drew the covers back up over them.
He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her. She was lying on her side facing him, her haircovering the part of her face that was not buried in thepillow. He wished he could see her more clearly. Withone finger he lifted aside a heavy lock of hair, loweredhis head, and touched his lips to her cheek. Warm andsoft. He breathed in the smell of soap. Clever. It wasmore enticing than perfume.
“Mmm,” she said with studied drowsiness, bringing back his smile, and she turned her head sufficiently thathe could move his mouth to hers.
He touched it first with his tongue, running it lightly along her upper lip before letting his parted lips restagainst hers. Warm and soft again, betraying her wakefulness by parting very slightly to mold themselves tohis.
“Lyndon,” she said, a mere breath of sound against his mouth.
Firm breasts, small waist, nicely rounded buttocks— there was something surprisingly erotic about lettinghis hand roam over them, a layer of soft, warm cottonbetween his hand and them. More erotic than nakednessat this stage of the game. The woman was an expert.
Perhaps too expert. He was almost painfully aroused. He liked a great deal of foreplay. He liked lengthy playinside his women’s bodies too, but he always feltcheated of some pleasure if circumstances forced himto an early mount. He liked his women hot and pantingand pleading before penetration. This woman was trying to cheat him, even if she did not realize it.
He began to undo the buttons at the front of her nightgown, waiting for her to raise her arms. She didnot do so. Perhaps she intended to carry through thecharade to the end. Perhaps she would feign sleep evenafter he had entered her and while he worked in her.He smiled down at her darkened form and felt hisbreath quicken. There was something almost unbearably alluring about the thought. He hoped that was herplan.
He slid his hand beneath the nightgown along her shoulder and down over one breast to cup it in hispalm. He felt her stiffen slightly as his thumb rubbedagainst her nipple. He took it between his thumb andforefinger, squeezing lightly, willing her to relax andfeign sleep again. He set his mouth to hers once more,opening it with the pressure of his lips, and slid histongue slowly into her mouth, as deeply as he was able.She swallowed and he moaned.
And then all hell broke loose. He found himself fighting a hellcat, who was twisting and punching andscratching and kicking and biting and panting beneathhim on the bed. For one moment—and one momentonly—he thought that she had suddenly and quite deliberately changed tactics. And then he realized thetruth. Too late. Far too late. She had not screamed andthere was perhaps the glimmering of a chance that hewould be able to get himself and his garments from theroom without her seeing the identity of her attacker.But then even the glimmer was snuffed.
There was a light suddenly before he could break free of the unknown woman who was so fiercely defending her honor. And a loud, shocked, scolding voice.A maid, he realized when rationality began to returnand he turned his head sharply. A large, very angrymaid, who must have been sleeping in the adjoiningdressing room. She was carrying a candle in one hand.
“Oh, the devil!” he said with a groan, turning his head back to look down at the woman in the bed, whohad stopped struggling. She stared back at him fromhuge eyes, her face flushed, her auburn hair in wilddisarray about her shoulders and over the one exposedbreast. She was the prettiest of the sweet young things,he saw. He could not remember her name.
But before his mind could even begin to grapple with the impossibility of saying anything that might ease thesituation, the maid was beating him about the head andshoulders with one large fist and he leapt out of bed insheer self-defense.
The maid shrieked.
The sweet young thing dived beneath the bed covers.
“Oh, Lord,” the viscount said, grabbing his pantaloons and dragging them on and then reaching down for his shirt and stockings. “I do beg your pardon,ma’am. Wrong room. I thought it was my own. I musthave taken a wrong turn. I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you.”
