Chapter One #2
“He was still fighting those first few years he worked for the viscount. It seems Lord Easton enjoys wagering on a good mill and gave Gormley unusual freedom to pursue his pastime.”
“Why is he leaving Lord Easton?”
“I spoke to a couple of the stable lads, who say Lord Easton’s fifteen-year-old daughter has been loitering around Gormley lately and, well—”
Alicia took mercy on the blushing man. “I understand. She took a fancy to our Mr. Gormley.”
“Aye, my lady. He could hardly tell his lordship, so he applied for this position.”
His actions indicated wisdom, morals, fear, or perhaps all three.
“Does our paragon of virtue have a lady friend?”
“None that I saw, my lady. Viscount Easton gave Gormley his evenings free, but the man no longer fights and he only left his lodgings twice at night in the two weeks I followed him.” Shelly had grimaced, an unprecedented display of agitation, before adding, “His destination both times was a very exclusive and rather unusual, er, brothel.”
Alicia’s pulse had sped up at that information. “Indeed?”
“It’s so exclusive no amount of bribery could gain me access. Nor could I bribe or purchase reliable information as to what or with whom Gormley spent most of his evening, not departing until the early morning hours.”
Alicia’s interest had been caught by the introduction of such a prurient, taboo subject. “Continue.”
“The brothel is operated by a Mrs. Melissa Griffin, a woman who is known to be exceptionally selective when it comes to her lovers. It is rumored she even declined the great Wellington. It seems unlikely that Gormley could afford such a place, so he was probably visiting somebody who works there—a maid or somebody on the kitchen staff.”
“You mentioned the place was unusual—how?”
The poor man had looked like he’d wanted to melt into the floor. “Er, it caters to, er, well,” he’d scratched his head, his face flaming. “Well, it caters to birching and the like.”
Alicia’s heart, which had already been beating fast, had raced at his information.
She had burned to ask more questions, but had let the matter rest, unwilling to expose her prurient fascination to a man who was essentially her employee.
Alicia had entertained herself more than once wondering what Mr. Gormley did at the exclusive brothel.
Just what would a sexual encounter with such a dour hulk of a man be like?
He was the farthest thing from attractive, his features rough-hewn, his nose bent and re-set at least a few times, his heavy-lidded eyes a non-descript muddy shade of green and brown. And his mouth an impassive slash with thin lips that never smiled.
But his body ….
Alicia allowed herself a quick look at his well-clothed form now: he was one of the biggest men she had ever seen.
Even in America, where the people tended to be larger, she couldn’t recall seeing a man so huge. He should have looked laughable in the expensive, well-cut clothing she’d had made for him—like a gorilla dressed in a suit—but instead he looked powerful and menacing.
She remembered him closing his book earlier and shoving it into his pocket. He was a butcher’s son/boxer/groom who liked to read. The man was something of a curiosity.
÷Y?
Joss surveyed his mistress from beneath heavy lids. She had an odd expression on her beautiful face. He’d seen the look more than once—usually when she came away from one of these trysts.
He felt his face shift into a slight, self-mocking smile. Tryst. Just listen to him, using a fancy word for knocking off a piece, for making the beast with two backs, for fucking.
He’d been around toffs for years, in one form of service or another—but never an American toff.
Since coming to work in her house he’d heard all the rumors about her—and there were wagonloads.
Joss wasn’t sure which ones he believed. Not that it mattered what he believed. She was so far beyond his reach that she might as well be one of those exotic, tropical islands in the Caribbean he’d read about.
Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t think about her. She might own his time, but his thoughts still belonged to him.
Well, that was a bloody lie.
The truth was that all Joss’s thoughts had belonged to the countess since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Seeing her for the first-time reminded Joss of when his brother Gordon had accidentally struck him in the head with an entire side of hog.
But there’d been no Gordon in the Countess of Selwood’s study to slap Joss’s slack-jawed face back to awareness, so he’d gaped at her like a yokel.
Joss knew he wasn’t alone in his stunned reaction to her. But to still be in awe of her months later and—he had to be honest—to be obsessed with her? No, his fellow servants appeared smarter than that.
Only a romantic fool like Joss was stupid enough to wander down that fork in the road. Yes, romantic foolery—yet another crime he could lay at his mother’s door.
But he didn’t want to think of his mother.
Instead, he took the opportunity to drink her in.
Never had he seen a woman so physically perfect—and Joss knew plenty of beautiful women.
She was tall enough to come up to his shoulder and had a waist so tiny a man’s hands twitched to span it.
Her hips and breasts would make an hourglass envious.
Skin like cream, red, full lips that promised dark, sinful things, and hair an impossibly pale, silky blond, like the rich silk of some of the gowns she wore—garments that shrieked wealth, status, and unattainability.
But it was her eyes—fringed in sooty, rather than blond lashes—that were the real shock. They were a pale sapphire blue unlike anything he’d ever seen: crystalline, perfect, and as remote as the moon.
Not that Joss often looked directly into them. No, it wasn’t the place of a groom-cum-footman-cum-whatever-the-hell-he-was to meet the eyes of his mistress.
But in his dreams and fantasies those eyes had looked at him times beyond counting as he slid into her body.
They’d been hooded and heavy as he’d taken her from behind, taunting him over her shoulder. And they’d gazed down at him in queenly hauteur as she straddled him—posting him the way she rode her fine hacks.
Yes, he’d done things to her in his imagination that would get him jailed, hanged, or transported if anyone could see the contents of his head.
A man couldn’t look at a woman like her without primal, lustful thoughts; even a man like Joss: a mere servant who was expected to never even look, not to mention think about touching.
Just catching a glimpse of her on the way from the house to her carriage was like the taste of something expensive and elusive—a brief holiday from the mundane, drab realities of life.
But it was a holiday that never lasted more than a few minutes. Right on its heels was the gut-churning despair of knowing a man like him could never possess her. Except in his dreams.
Each and every male in her London establishment had fantasies of their glorious employer just like Joss did. Well, perhaps not the very same.
The general consensus among the male servants was that Lady Selwood was as cold, untouchable, and icy as the name the nobs gave her: The Ice Countess.
But Joss knew better.
Only Joss among her servants knew what she was really doing when she was supposed to be attending routs or balls or whatever rubbish rich folk spent their time doing.
There was no denying her facade was cool, but beneath it was something else entirely.
And Joss’s body responded instinctively to what lay buried under all that ice.
He knew, without her telling him, what she craved and he knew he could give her exactly what she needed.