Czytaj książkę: «A Rake for Christmas»
A Rake for Christmas
Ann Lethbridge
MILLS & BOON
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England, 1813
After years of struggling against her wicked desires, Lady Eugenie Hardwick is being driven wild by the sounds of unrestrained passion coming from her neighbor’s bedroom. The thought of Lord Richard Townsend, a notorious rake, sets her body quivering with need—even though she’s never yet seen his face.
When they finally meet in person on Christmas Eve, it only takes one masterful kiss to unleash Eugenie’s inner temptress for a night of sensual pleasure with the devilish lord. But Eugenie must ensure their holiday affair remains a secret so she doesn’t get ruined—again….
Dear Reader
It is not often that I can point to one specific thing as an inspiration for a story, but in this case my visit to Keates’ house, on the edge of Hampstead Heath opened the floodgates for the setting of the story. For two years, 1818 to 1820 Keates lived in the one side of Wentworth Place. On the other side lived the girl who proved to be the love of his life Fanny Brawne. It was here he wrote some of his most memorable poetry. Keats died of tuberculosis in Italy and virtually alone at the age of twenty-five. Fanny went on to marry and have a family. She never forgot the love of her life, however.
At the time of my visit, I couldn’t help wondering what it must have been like for the couple to have been separated only by the walls dividing their house. For some reason, the thought came back to me when beginning Richard and Eugenie’s story. While this couple is nothing like the poet and Fanny, it felt good that the house inspired a happy ending.
If you want to know more about me and my books, join me at my website at http://www.annlethbridge.com. Feel free to contact me at any time at ann@annlethbridge.com. I love to hear from readers. On Facebook find me at AnnLethbridgeAuthor
I plotted this book at the gym, while working with an amazing weight trainer, Helen. I dedicate this book to her for her patience in listening to me babble on, and for her laughter and for her moments of utter shock. I think she had just as much fun with the plot of this story as I did.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
About the Author
Chapter One
December 24, 1813
8 o’clock ante meridiem
Dear Lord Townsend,
It is with regret I must once more write to you on the matter of neighborly consideration. I recognize, as you so kindly pointed out in your last letter, that your duties as host required you to ensure your guests enjoy their visit. Nevertheless, I remind you of your responsibility to respect the sensibilities and peace of the individual who has the misfortune to share your walls.
After yet another disturbing night of revelry, I must humbly insist you use your obviously inventive abilities to find a way to muffle the sounds which permeate through to my side of the house.
Your neighbor,
Eugenie Hartwick
P.S. I have only one cat and if your gardener would simply repair the gaps in the hedge I am sure he would not stray onto your side of the garden.
Richard eyed the neatly penned missive delivered by a footman at some ungodly hour that morning. The cat lady who occupied the other half of his rented Hampstead accommodation and therefore shared a wall with him, clearly had not a scrap of Christmas good cheer. What bad luck.
And they were paper-thin walls as he knew to his cost.
In the early hours of each morning, around seven o’clock as near as he could judge, sounds of her life began drifting through his walls. Often he lay in bed, with one lady or another fast asleep on his chest, and listened in some odd haze of fascination to those peaceful ordinary sounds. The quiet quick tap of her footsteps. The modulated voice used for servants and the warm tones as she spoke to her infernal cat. Tones which stirred interest in his blood.
At night, though, after a bout of sensual acrobatics with his latest mistress, in that moment of silent satiation between waking and sleeping, the sounds from the other side of those walls were quite different. Thumps on a pillow. Sighs. And finally muffled moans. Then silence. In that silence, he imagined the flushed skin and pounding heartbeats of release.
And every damned time, he became hard as steel. It was like making love to a woman with none of the benefits. No touch or sight and worst of all, no culmination. Sensual torture. He was beginning to think she did it on purpose.
And it was getting worse. Now, in the throes of making love to his mistress, he’d started thinking about the spinster who lived next door. The cat lady’s imagined responses to what she was hearing, anticipating how she would sound when he was done. Distracting to say the least.
Once or twice, he’d toyed with the idea of inviting her over, but Sonya was far too jealous to allow another woman in his bed. He sighed. Sonya was no fun at all, anymore. In fact, she bored him to tears.
And he could not look to his neighbor to enliven his nights. She was a lady, not a light skirt. One slip and he’d be taking the road to hell. A forced marriage.
So he satisfied his urge for congress through their acrimonious correspondence. The fine art of written sparring. He found her acerbic wit amusing and her intelligence an unexpected challenge.
He reread the note. How to respond today? The clock struck the hour. He lifted his gaze from the precise elegant script to stare out of the window overlooking the lawn, gazing over the low privet hedge between her house and his with a sense of anticipation and, dammit, a growing arousal.
Right on time, the orange cat slunk from her side to his through a break in the greenery.
Pen in hand, Richard leaned back to watch. Daytime voyeur instead of nighttime eavesdropper.
Clad in a dark blue gown he could only describe as drab and sensible, her shoulders wrapped in a gray wool shawl, her head enveloped in a wide-brimmed bonnet, Lady Eugenie tripped down her garden path. He hated that shawl and that bonnet. They hid her hair and her face and much of her figure. If he could only get a look at a sharp spinster face, or perhaps a stick-thin body, he might not have this throbbing ache in his groin.
An ache neither his hand, nor even another go with Sonya would entirely dispel.
The thing was, while he tried to imagine her as a crone, the sway of her hips, the lithesome stride of her long legs, made every hair on his body stand to attention. Along with his other unruly part. She walked like a woman in tune with her body. She moved with the sultry grace of a siren.
And that sent his thoughts right back to the sweetly soft sounds she made on the other side of his chamber wall.
His erection demanded a meeting. It insisted he seek an introduction. It didn’t care if turned out she had the face of an old boot. It wanted those legs wrapped around his hips. It wanted that slender body beneath him.
At a break in the hedge she halted, her annoyance quite evident in her posture and the tilt of her head.
He leaned forward.
Her head turned, sending a quick glance at the back of his house. He grabbed up the telescope he’d placed, handy. He cursed foully. Too late. She’d already fallen to her knees, stretching her arm through the break in the hedge, her delectable bottom suggestively raised.
His cock swelled more than ought to be possible inside his clothes. He glanced down. “I know,” he rasped. “But it isn’t good form to approach a lady without a proper introduction.”
He fixed his gaze back on that delicious derriere, his ears imagining her calling in the low throaty tones he heard at night, but could not possibly hear from this distance.
The cat strolled back, rubbing its length under her hand, undulating with pleasure. Richard groaned softly.
The cat leapt up on her shoulder and curled around her neck like an orange swansdown scarf. She shot to her feet and, head down, scurried indoors.
Damn it all. He pulled a sheet of vellum towards him and dipped his quill in the ink.
December 24, 1813
2 o’clock post meridiem
Dear Lady Eugenie,
He paused to flick the tip of the quill across his bottom lip, then smiled.
I wish you all the joys of the Christmas season. Your condescension in communicating with your humble neighbor, to wit myself, is, as you may imagine, deeply appreciated.
I am gratified by your confidence in my abilities. Sadly, since it is my duty, nay my extraordinary pleasure, to ensure my visitors receive only the most exquisite enjoyment while in my company, it must come as no surprise to you that such expressions of delight are music to my ears. To silence such harmony would create a most unpleasant discord. I am sure you must agree such an act could only be considered cruel.
I am, therefore, devastated that I am unable to fulfill your request.
With deepest regards,
Yours truly
Townsend.
He paused for a moment, gazing out of the window at his lawn. Then bent his head to finish the task.
P.S. My gardener is most pitiable in his laments at the loss of yet another rosebush in my lawn’s central flower bed. Humbly, I seek your assurance that you will restrain your animal from depositing any more of his gifts amid the plants.
P.P.S. If you would care to take a dish of tea to discuss these matters in person, it is possible I could be convinced to accommodate your desires.
P.P.P.S. You are right, I can be extraordinarily inventive given the right incentive.
That should do very nicely. Not that he expected her to accept his invitation to tea. But it was pleasant to fantasize.
On her way up the path to her front door after Christmas Eve services, outrage at her neighbor’s impertinent reply once again filled Eugenie’s person.
Accommodate her desires, indeed. Heat blossomed in places she should not be aware of. Places she had tried her best to ignore these past few years. She almost groaned aloud from the ache.
How dare he imply… Or did he know? But no. It wasn’t possible. Everything had been kept so very quiet by the enormous sum paid by her brother to stem any hint of scandal.
In the distance, St. John’s bells continued to announce the first day of Christmas to the village of Hampstead. In Lady Eugenie Hartwick’s opinion, they heralded twelve of the worst days of the year. Twelve days of Christmas. Empty days and lonely nights. There would never be a partridge in a pear tree for her. Because she would never have a true love.
The brave garland of evergreen on her front door failed to raise her spirits. But she hadn’t expected it would. This was always the time of year she missed her family the worst. Knowing her banishment was her own fault did not make it any easier to bear.
Squaring her snow-dusted shoulders against a rush of self-pity, she turned on the top step with a smile pinned to her lips. “Good night, Tobias. My best wishes to you and your family.”
The footman who had escorted her to church and back looked up at her, his face anxious. Anxious about leaving her. Worried she might change her mind. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, my lady?”
“No, Tobias. Your mother is expecting you. Ginger and I will be fine. Run along, do.”
The boy whirled, ran down the short path and disappeared through the front gate into a curtain of swirling snowflakes. With a wry grimace, she glanced at the green-painted door beside her black one. A brass plate reflecting the light of the porch lantern declared it to be number 2A Plane House. No lights showed in the windows as she walked up the path. Her licentious neighbor must be out. Apparently, even a disgraceful rake had family obligations on Christmas Eve. She stepped inside and closed her door.
Ginger mewed a welcome and twined around her legs, reminding her she was never completely alone. She bent and picked him up, burying her face in his silky fur. “Well, puss, it is time for bed. Are you ready?”
The bang of a door reverberated through the wall partitioning the two halves of the house, little more than wooden screen in case the landlord should ever need to make it one house again.
Ginger tensed, flexing his claws against her coat. She sighed. It seemed her neighbor was home after all. She scratched the cat behind the ears. “No peace for the wicked, I see.”
“Bastardo,” a female voice yelled, followed by a string of incomprehensible Italian.
Eugenie closed her eyes. “One,” she counted. “Two. Three. Four. Five.”
Crash.
Ginger struggled. To avoid his flailing claws, Eugenie set him down. Tail stiff, the cat shot upstairs. Another crash shattered the silence. Eugenie huffed out a breath. The horrid man next door and his equally horrid opera singer mistress were having another argument. It was a wonder he had any china left.
It wasn’t the noises from the other half of the house she objected to so much as the unbridled emotion resonating through the wall, vibrating the very air she breathed. After years of struggling against her wicked desires, night after night she was assaulted by the sounds of their ungoverned passion.
The faceless image of the man next door making love to his paramour set her body quivering and aching until she thought she would go mad with need. Always she succumbed to the ache at her core. Pleasured herself until she could finally sleep.
It was a sin, what she did alone in her bed. Embarrassing. Wrong. And terribly unsatisfying compared to the fulfillment she’d once known with a man.
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