Chapter 22 #3
Alix laughed softly and turned in his arms. Placing her hands against his chest she looked seriously up at him. “Do you dare drowning for a kiss?”
“For much more than a kiss,” he said, slanting his lips across hers.
His mouth was warm and soft, but as she kissed him back, it became more possessive.
His tongue probed deeper, and his arms tightened around her.
Alix felt the coolness of the evening melt away as she pressed against the consuming heat of his body.
“But a kiss will have to do for now,” he said huskily.
Rafe sat astride his horse outside the Duchess of Melbourne’s home staring at the window he knew to be Alix’s.
It had been a foolish thing, kissing her on the Percys’ veranda.
He could still taste her sweetness on his lips; he ached for more.
Minton was a fool and his poetry pure drivel, but he was right about one thing. Alix could drive a man to madness.
Jervis followed his gaze up to the lighted rectangle on the third floor.
“It’s not a good night, my lord. The house is full of people.
Lady Melbourne’s entertaining some of her political friends and Lord Melbourne’s playing cards in the library.
” He touched Rafe’s arm. “Cheer up. December’s not so far away. ”
Rafe nodded but said nothing.
“Ginny’ll let me know if there’s anything to be concerned about,” Jervis added.
“She says her ladyship doesn’t pay any attention to them other gentlemen what sends her flowers, barely glances at the cards before tossing them into the trash.
And you know I’m always loitering about, checking on who comes and goes, making sure she stays put.
A fly couldn’t buzz in that house without me knowing it. ”
“I appreciate that, Jervis.”
“My pleasure. Why don’t you go on off to White’s, have a drink and jaw with Cole.”
Rafe smiled slightly. “It never ceases to amaze me, Jervis, how you seem to know what everyone in the West End is about.”
Jervis smiled and tapped his nose. “Well, I do have my ways, Captain, and I does my best.”
“I think a drink at White’s will do me good,” Rafe said, turning his horse away from Melbourne House.
“And if it doesn’t,” Jervis called after him, “I’ve got some sure-fire remedies.”
Jervis began to whistle as he headed towards the Melbournes’ servant’s entrance.
He felt sorry for Rafe. People thought the quality had it all with their houses and jewels and such, but they complicated their lives something awful with all their rules.
What Rafe needed to do was sweep Alix up and carry her off for a bit of a romp and a talk to straighten things out.
He’d have done it in Paris, but never in London with the eyes of the ton chewing on his every move.
He swung the door open and was immediately enveloped in plump arms and a round bosom.
“You’re late,” Ginny chided him. “I was about to give up on you. I was beginning to think I’d be climbing into my bed alone.”
He gave her lips a hearty buss. “Sorry, love, I had a few things to see to before I came by. But don’t you fear, Jervis Jones is not a man to let you down.”
“That’s what I was counting on,” Ginny said with a giggle, and she nestled her rosy head against his shoulder as arm in arm they climbed the stairs.
Rafe handed his coat and hat to a servant and made his way up the marble staircase of White’s.
He stood for a moment on the threshold, his eyes searching the crowded tables for a familiar dark head.
Cole Davenport was leaning into a group of hazard players, gesturing with his brandy glass as he recounted some story.
There was a roar of laughter from the men seated at the table and he straightened, smiling.
As he did so, he turned and caught sight of Rafe.
Cole made his excuses to the gamblers and headed towards his friend.
“My God,” he said, slapping Rafe on the shoulder. “You’re beginning to haunt this place. Still, I daresay we should enjoy your company before you’re swept from our midst by that captivating little Frenchwoman.”
Rafe cocked an eyebrow at Cole. “I don’t see that marital bliss is keeping you home.”
Cole laughed. “I should be safe at home in bed with my lovely wife, but for the fact that her brothers are visiting.”
“Which ones?” Rafe inquired.
“All of them,” he answered with a mock shudder. “And though we’ve been married fifteen years, the sight of all those great glowering colonials in my drawing room still makes me a tad uneasy. So what’ll it be?”
“Brandy,” Rafe answered.
Cole signaled for a bottle and two glasses.
“Are you drinking with an old friend tonight, fleecing the lambs, or...” He stopped, his dark eyes twinkling.
“Perhaps you’d like to step over to that table,”—He gestured towards a table filled with young men in scarlet uniforms— “And hear Minton’s latest ode, To a Silver Siren? I hear it’s quite good.”
Rafe glared at him and Cole laughed again. “Don’t despair, old boy, if it’s any consolation, I hear the betting’s on you to win the lady’s hand, by at least three to one.”