Read Online One Whisper Away by Emma Wildes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Wildes
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saddle their horses? But he’d be damned if he was going to wear a cravat for a midnight gallop, and the wet and cold never bothered him anyway. A ride had seemed the best course to soothe his current state of restlessness.
Perhaps he should have taken up the blatant offer from the very beautiful ebony-haired countess earlier in the evening. Lady Irving had not so subtly pressed into his hand a perfumed slip of vellum with an address and time written in a flowing script as he waited for his carriage to be brought around after the musicale. He hadn’t been all that surprised because he’d been seated next to her at a dinner the week before and she had shamelessly flirted throughout the entire seven courses, to the point that even he had been taken aback—and he did not embarrass easily. Since the woman’s husband had been at the table, Jonathan had done his best to stay polite and yet cool in the face of her heated pursuit.
As he’d mentioned to the duke’s memorable young daughter, he didn’t understand the aristocracy. To allow your wife to have clandestine—and not so clandestine—affairs simply because she’d already given you a son and therefore served her purpose, was far more barbaric in his eyes than the customs of his mother’s people. To them, heritage was traced through the maternal side of the family. Though his aunt had raised him mostly in Boston—where his parents had met—she very firmly kept him in touch with his Iroquois legacy.
Something whizzed past, grazing his arm, and it broke his reverie, especially when there was a sound from the shadows and he was sure that even with the patter of the persistent rain he heard the scrape of running feet on the wet cobblestones.
In any other case he might even have given chase, but Seneca was winded from his run and Jonathan was soaked, and he had no illusions about the London streets at night. Even fashionable neighborhoods were unsafe.
He slid off Seneca, walked him around the small enclosure to cool him off, and then rubbed the big stallion down, enjoying the work, before putting him back in his stall. He let himself into the house through the back servants’ entrance, careful to remove his muddy boots, and padded in bare feet through the dark hallway. At this hour it was quiet, shadowed, and he moved silently, going up the staircase to his suite of rooms. The earl’s bedchamber was a bit grand for his tastes, but since he was in England to fulfill his duty and everyone expected he would take his father’s rooms, he had moved in, albeit a little reluctantly.
So, he discovered when he opened the door, had someone else, but reluctant didn’t apply to her presence. Eager was more applicable and brazen worked even better.
He stopped, arrested by this unexpected development to his evening, and uttered an inner curse.
From his bed, her lush nude body superimposed upon the linens, Valerie Dushane, Lady Irving, smiled. Her long dark hair was loose, her full breasts tipped with dusky nipples, and her legs just slightly, suggestively, parted. The neat triangle of dark hair at the apex of her thighs was trimmed close enough that he could see the definition of her sex. She murmured, “There you are, my lord. I was wondering if I was going to have to go looking for you.”
Get yourself out of this . . . now .
“Your attire—or lack of—might have caused a bit of comment.” He closed the door. Not because he wished to be alone with her, but what if the sound of their conversation carried and disturbed Lillian, for instance, whose bedroom was closest? He doubted they would be overheard, but then again, the house was very quiet and Lady Irving was apparently quite determined. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally Adela had a bad dream and he was needed, and he hardly wanted that scenario either.
Explanations at this hour in particular would be difficult at best, especially since he doubted anyone would believe the naked woman lounging against
Perhaps he should have taken up the blatant offer from the very beautiful ebony-haired countess earlier in the evening. Lady Irving had not so subtly pressed into his hand a perfumed slip of vellum with an address and time written in a flowing script as he waited for his carriage to be brought around after the musicale. He hadn’t been all that surprised because he’d been seated next to her at a dinner the week before and she had shamelessly flirted throughout the entire seven courses, to the point that even he had been taken aback—and he did not embarrass easily. Since the woman’s husband had been at the table, Jonathan had done his best to stay polite and yet cool in the face of her heated pursuit.
As he’d mentioned to the duke’s memorable young daughter, he didn’t understand the aristocracy. To allow your wife to have clandestine—and not so clandestine—affairs simply because she’d already given you a son and therefore served her purpose, was far more barbaric in his eyes than the customs of his mother’s people. To them, heritage was traced through the maternal side of the family. Though his aunt had raised him mostly in Boston—where his parents had met—she very firmly kept him in touch with his Iroquois legacy.
Something whizzed past, grazing his arm, and it broke his reverie, especially when there was a sound from the shadows and he was sure that even with the patter of the persistent rain he heard the scrape of running feet on the wet cobblestones.
In any other case he might even have given chase, but Seneca was winded from his run and Jonathan was soaked, and he had no illusions about the London streets at night. Even fashionable neighborhoods were unsafe.
He slid off Seneca, walked him around the small enclosure to cool him off, and then rubbed the big stallion down, enjoying the work, before putting him back in his stall. He let himself into the house through the back servants’ entrance, careful to remove his muddy boots, and padded in bare feet through the dark hallway. At this hour it was quiet, shadowed, and he moved silently, going up the staircase to his suite of rooms. The earl’s bedchamber was a bit grand for his tastes, but since he was in England to fulfill his duty and everyone expected he would take his father’s rooms, he had moved in, albeit a little reluctantly.
So, he discovered when he opened the door, had someone else, but reluctant didn’t apply to her presence. Eager was more applicable and brazen worked even better.
He stopped, arrested by this unexpected development to his evening, and uttered an inner curse.
From his bed, her lush nude body superimposed upon the linens, Valerie Dushane, Lady Irving, smiled. Her long dark hair was loose, her full breasts tipped with dusky nipples, and her legs just slightly, suggestively, parted. The neat triangle of dark hair at the apex of her thighs was trimmed close enough that he could see the definition of her sex. She murmured, “There you are, my lord. I was wondering if I was going to have to go looking for you.”
Get yourself out of this . . . now .
“Your attire—or lack of—might have caused a bit of comment.” He closed the door. Not because he wished to be alone with her, but what if the sound of their conversation carried and disturbed Lillian, for instance, whose bedroom was closest? He doubted they would be overheard, but then again, the house was very quiet and Lady Irving was apparently quite determined. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally Adela had a bad dream and he was needed, and he hardly wanted that scenario either.
Explanations at this hour in particular would be difficult at best, especially since he doubted anyone would believe the naked woman lounging against
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