Free The Scandal Before Christmas by Elizabeth Essex Page A

gentleman ought, he at least said nothing else inflammatory.
    “Pinkerton, show my father to the drawing room, if you would.”
    “Aye, aye, captain.” Pinky came to attention—or as close to attention as a superannuated old tar dressed in his hodgepodge of checkered waistcoat and calico scarf could do. “This way, sir.”
    Pinky held the door open for Ian’s father, who stalked through and down the corridor, and then turned to speak in a whispered aside to Ian. “Right sorry I am, cap’n. I tried to stop him a-comin’ on through, but … And things seemed to be going so well between you and the maidy.”
    Anne colored crimson, and turned sharply away, back to the warmth of the fire. But as she stood there with her head down, recovering her breath, the light of the fire silhouetted her figure in the high-waisted brown wool dress. And Ian’s eyes were drawn to the outline of her surprisingly lithe frame—the perfect indentation at the bottom of her spine, and the lovely upward sweep of her breasts where they thrust out against the now tightly buttoned material.
    Ian felt himself grow hard again—right there, standing in his book room, in advance of a severe dressing-down from his father.
    Who would have thought that the sight of a high-necked, dark wool gown that covered her as effectively as a nun’s habit would have him straining at his breeches, and wondering how in the earth he was going to navigate himself out of his present crisis so he could marry her, and get her locked into a private room where he could finally remove her drab clothes, and see what lay beneath the little wren’s camouflaging plumage?
    “Thank you, Pinky. Just see to him, devil take him. Get him a drink.” Another thought intruded. “Oh, devil take me. Where are the colonel and Mrs. Lesley? Keep him away from them. Bring my father back in here—we’ll remove ourselves in a moment—just keep the three of them apart until I can think of…”
    But he couldn’t think. Not while the blood that ought to have been in his head was still taking its pleasure in other, more attentive parts of his anatomy.
    “I’ll go.” Anne whispered so low Ian was sure only he could hear her—retreating into her shy, silent shell. “I’ll see to my mother.”
    And before he could say anything else, or apologize, or say he would speak to her just as soon as he had dealt with both her parents and his father, she walked silently out of the room, and was gone.
    Their lovely interlude together was over. But, Ian reflected with a vast deal of satisfaction, she had said considerably more than two words.
    *   *   *
    Her mother was comfortably situated in a very pretty, well-upholstered bed chamber. Anne expected to be given an enthusiastic catalog of the fineness and cost of the furnishings, but her mother, it seemed, for once had other ideas.
    “What on earth were you doing with the lieutenant, Anne, all that time? I should not have let you alone with him. It’s not seemly. I worry that he’ll think—”
    “He thinks we are contemplating marriage, Mama, not just a couple of country dances at an assembly. A greater degree of informality is called for.”
    But a greater degree of intimacy is what had occurred.
    Lovely, marvelous intimacy. Much better than she had ever imagined. And she had imagined quite a bit in her narrow bed at home, and on the long trip from Somerset on the Post.
    But all was not as it should be. And clearly, in the wake of the arrival of his father, the handsome lieutenant had a good deal of explaining to do. And so did she.
    “Mama, did you hear the Viscount Rainesford’s arrival? We didn’t hear anything as we were at the back of the house.” And engaged in an altogether much more engaging activity.
    No question could have pleased her mother more—she was wild to talk about it. “Well.” She sat up on the very edge of her lovely slip-covered chair. “We were in the drawing room. That funny old servant had brought me