Ethan: Lord of Scandals

Thirteen

This was not what Ethan had planned when he’d brought Alice here, though it was what his body had planned the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Ethan closed his hand over Alice’s and taught her the easy, loose stroke that pleased and aroused in equal measures.

“But not faster or tighter, or I’ll spend.” He was going to spend, but he’d rather not lose control until he had the privacy of his rooms. Alice was a lady, not some doxy, and while not a virgin, she apparently lacked experience.

“This feels good to you?” she asked, shifting her grip slightly.

“Divine, but slow down, Alexandra. It can be too good.”

A considering silence, while Ethan’s arousal strained at the leash of his self-discipline.

“There is no such thing as too good. Let me pleasure you, Ethan. I want to.”

“Shouldn’t,” he muttered, letting his head fall back and his hips move in counterpoint to Alice’s strokes. “Kiss… Please, kiss—” He opened his eyes, searching for her. Thank all the gods of the night, she knelt up beside him and gave him her mouth. More roughly than he intended, he palmed the back of her neck and opened his mouth beneath hers, devouring her as his free hand cupped her breast.

She returned his kiss fiercely, growling at him as she knelt above.

That growl sang like an angel chorus through Ethan’s body.

A man gave up hope sometimes, because it was the only way to preserve his sanity. Ethan Grey had long since given up hope that desire might ever again be driven by not just his body, but also his heart.

When he kissed Alice, when he gloried to feel her hands upon him, he kissed hope itself. She was not simply a woman to him; she was Alice. She was all manner of pleasures and possibilities long since forsworn, and her touch said he could be that for her too.

“Holy…” His hand fell away, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Perishing… Almighty… Alexandra…” His hips shoved hard against Alice’s grip, and his fingers closed over hers, forcing her to hold him snugly. His last coherent thought was that he should have tried harder to make this moment last.

“Oh, God… love.” His hips went still, but he kept his hand wrapped around hers, while his forehead fell to Alice’s shoulder. “Forgive me.”

“Hush.” He felt her lips against his hair. “Just hush.” She used her free hand to locate his handkerchief. Male passion was not a tidy business, and it took her handkerchief as well as his to deal with the aftermath.

“Was that comfortable, to be held so tightly at the end?”

Ethan gave her a weak smile. “Pray God you hold me that tightly often and soon.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Do you forgive me?”

Her expression shuttered as she folded up the handkerchiefs. She wasn’t overly fastidious—one more thing to treasure about her. “Forgive you? I do not comprehend the transgression.”

“I was selfish and vulgar and grossly… ungentlemanly,” Ethan began. “I did not plan this, Alice.” His hand traced her jaw. “I want it to be perfect for you. I want to be perfect for you.” That was a troubling realization, for he was doomed in every attempt at the goal.

“Perfect would be boring. This wasn’t boring.” She slipped her hand over his cock where it lay meek and receding against his groin. “I coupled with Mr. Durbeyfield once,” she said, her voice detached. “It did not stir me. He hiked my skirts and pushed around a bit while breathing leeks on my person. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was awkward, and hardly worth marrying for.”

He should be incapable of responding, given how she’d sated him, and given this peculiar turn of conversation. He was a brute, a boor… a man sharing the summer moonlight with his lady. “If you keep that up, you’ll be stirring me.”

“I would like to stir you.” Alice gripped him more firmly. “For it stirs me to see you so… overwrought.”

Spare me from determined women, Lord, but not quite yet. “I should have more control next time,” Ethan said, “and you should have less.”

“Less?” Alice cocked her head. “Control over what?”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Ethan said, bringing her closer for a kiss. “At least let me pet you a little.”

“Pet me?” She drew back. “I’m not a cat.”

“No, but I want you to purr like one. Put away your toy for now, and let me have some time with mine.” Even in the shadowed moonlight, Alice’s features were fraught with misgiving.

Ethan spelled it out for her. “You wanted to give me pleasure. Will you allow me the same?” Fairness apparently won him what coaxing might not have, because Alice nodded once then drew in a breath, as if he’d called upon her to recite.

“What must I do?”

Trust me. “You must be honest with me. I want to learn what touches you like more, which you like less. I want to learn how to please you, and how to not offend you.”

How to pleasure her. He wanted to learn that more than he’d wanted to learn anything, ever.

“Offend me?” Alice regarded him curiously.

“Leeks,” Ethan said. “Leeks can offend.”

“I see.” She shifted and rested her back along the wall of the gazebo. Ethan sat beside her, his genitals half-exposed in his rumpled clothing. He started to tuck himself up, when Alice’s hand on his stayed him.

“I didn’t really look at you before. Mr. Durbeyfield wasn’t so obliging.”

“I can be very obliging.” If it killed him, he could be as obliging as she needed him to be. Slowly, Alice drew him from his clothing again. “If you tell me Mr. Durbeyfield taught you how to bring a man off, I’ll kill him. I won’t call him out, I’ll flat murder him.”

And this was not hyperbole.

“You taught me to do that, to bring a man off.” Alice stroked over him with curious, delicate touches. He was rapidly growing hard again, despite his every attempt to think of… the smell of wet chickens, tomato aspic, the feasibility of growing peaches commercially.

“Where are you in your cycle, Alice?”

He should not have asked that. Should not. Next he’d be asking her if she knew what a sheath was.

“I would need to consult a calendar. Did you like it when I brought you off?” She used the vulgar term as if trying to decide how it translated into Latin.

“Did I like it?” Ethan looped an arm around her shoulders and stilled her hand by virtue of closing his fingers around hers. “No. I did not like it. If I live to be a hundred… Stop squirming, woman. I did not like it. I have no words for the degree to which I will humble myself for the honor of repeating that intimacy with you. No one has seen fit to bestow it on me, and really, Alice…”

“Are you lecturing me?”

Ethan gave up on a sigh. “I am goddamned babbling. You have reduced me to babbling. You’ve pleasured my brains out. Kiss me.”

She did. By God, she did, and not with the sleepy contented passion of a woman whose desire had been sated.

“You astound me, Alexandra.” Ethan pushed her head to his shoulder and withdrew a small silver flask from his waistcoat pocket. “My pocket pistol is loaded with peach brandy, so sip carefully, and spare a nip for a poor undone fellow, if you please.”

She took a cautious sip. “I like it.”

“The brandy, of course.” Ethan took a heftier swallow and passed it back to her. “One more, for you anyway.”

Her gaze went to the part of him most pleased with life at the moment. “I like touching you, but you seem upset.”

Precious, perceptive woman.

Ethan took the flask from her, capped it, and returned it to his pocket. “I am simply stunned you would be so generous, so bold, so unbelievably… ah, love.” He gathered her to him, burying his face against her hair as inspiration struck. “Thank you. It isn’t enough, but I mean it. Thank you.” And to himself he added a vow that she’d know equal pleasure from him, and soon. He would have said as much, but his throat had developed a tickle, and his eyes were stinging from the brandy.

When those annoyances had receded, he managed to ask, “More brandy?”

“Not just this moment.” She settled more comfortably against his side. “For this moment, I have all I want and all I need.”

Ethan could not have agreed more, so he closed his eyes and sent up a prayer of thanks. Tomorrow he’d start worrying over how selfish he’d been; tomorrow he’d consider the news Heathgate had given him; tomorrow he’d deal with sending his brother back to Belle Maison; tomorrow he’d brace himself for Alice’s inevitable second thoughts and regrettable bouts of common sense.

Tonight, Alice had bestowed such a gift of pleasure, trust, and intimacy on him, he could only be grateful and at peace.

Dealing with illiterates was inconvenient, requiring that a man frequent awkward locations after dark. A baron should not have to trouble himself thus, but it seemed Ethan Grey—yes, the same Ethan Grey who had authored much of what discommoded Hart Collins to this very day—had grown wealthy and respectable in recent years.

Collins was inclined to renew his acquaintance with dear Ethan, or at least with a substantial portion of Ethan’s money, and so he waited for Thatcher in the trees behind the village green.

When that worthy came lumbering out of the shadows, bringing the scent of horse and ignorance with him, his question was predictable. “You’ve the money, then, Baron?”

Always the money.

“You’ll get your money when I see results. Now, tell me about these little boys and how I might best avail myself of one of them.”

“By God, they got up.” Nick’s tone was pleased as he spied his nephews coming down the path to the stables.

Ethan was not pleased. “I was hoping they’d sleep in. They were up quite late last night. Miller”—Ethan turned to find his stable master at hand—“if you’d saddle up the ponies and Argus?”

“The ponies are saddled up, and Argus is already groomed, but he’s fresh,” Miller cautioned.

“He’s always fresh. I’ll take the boys for a hack this morning when we’ve seen Nick off. It will take their minds off the departure of their dear uncle.”

Nick turned a glower on his brother. “And who will comfort me? I’ll be traveling clear to Kent all by my little lonesome.”

“Leah,” Ethan retorted. “It’s part of those vows, best as I recall. Gentlemen, good morning. Can we assume you want to ride as far as the village with me and Uncle Nick?”

“Can we?”

“May we?”

“Of course, and we’ll keep an eye out for the foxes coming home from their night of hunting. Of course, Argus might want to stretch his legs a little.” Miller’s cursing could be heard peppering the morning air.

“Or stretch his legs a lot,” Nick surmised. “Does he bite, Ethan?”

“Of course not,” Ethan scoffed. “But he and Miller have a certain good-natured antagonism that involves threatening to bite, and nearly stomping on feet, and narrowly pulled punches with cursing and dirty looks all around. If I die, Miller gets the horse.”

“I understand,” Nick said. “And if Miller died, the horse would be inconsolable.”

“Who’s dying?” Jeremiah asked, leading his pony out.

“I’m dying to get home,” Nick said, “but I will miss my favorite nephews. When next I visit, I expect to see a tree house or two gracing the property.”

“When will you come again?” Joshua asked, leading his pony.

“Soon. My friend Lord Val has asked me to attend the opening night of the symphony, and that’s little more than a month away. Up you go.” He swung each boy onto a pony, checked his mare’s girth one more time, then climbed aboard Buttercup. “Ethan, you’re holding us up.”

“Apologies for the inconvenience,” Ethan replied as Argus curvetted around on the end of his reins. “My boy is feeling frisky today.”

“A coincidence,” Nick muttered. “This boy misses his countess, and he’s feeling frisky too.”

Ethan took the reins, slipped them over the gelding’s head, and swung up in the single instant during which Argus held still. Immediately, the horse began to prop and spin and misbehave.

“Nicholas”—Ethan’s tone was bored—“lead us down the driveway. If he thinks his audience is leaving, he’ll settle right down.”

Nick obliged; his expression was disgruntled.

“I like a horse with spirit, Ethan,” Nick said as Argus settled down to merely passaging, “but that one looks like a lot of work.”

“He is,” Ethan said, sitting the prancing horse easily, “but he’ll jump anything, he’s never taken a lame step, and when it comes down to dicey moments, he makes sensible choices.”

“Still, I’ve no doubt your grooms won’t ride him, so he likely gets rank as hell when you’re gone for any length of time.”

“Uncle Nick said hell,” Joshua crowed from behind them.

“I sure as hell did.”

“Damn, my ears are good,” Joshua recited his part of the litany.

“My grooms won’t ride him.” Ethan ignored an uncle’s willingness to corrupt his nephews’ manners, because revenge was a certainty when Nick’s children were old enough. “Greymoor has taken note of him and offered to keep him for me if I need to travel. If I can stick on this horse, Greymoor can do it while taking tea.”

“Generous of him, and the horse would benefit.”

“Your friends are being kind,” Ethan said quietly, because the village was only a few minutes’ ride, and some things needed to be said. “To me and to mine.”

“My friends, your neighbors. They’ll be your friends if you let them, Ethan.”

“We’ll see,” Ethan replied as Argus finally settled into an honest trot. “Friendships take time.”

“And you’ve such a busy calendar?” Nick pinned his brother with a look. Right there in front of the children, he pinned Ethan with a visual dire warning.

“No, but I had a thought for you to ponder.”

Nick turned his attention back to his mare. “I’m listening.”

“The Bellefonte earldom owns a vineyard in France, as I recall, and properties in both Spain and Portugal. I suspect George would look in on them for you, if you asked. I own either land or businesses in Switzerland, Germany, and Denmark, as well as France, and I’m thinking of asking him to add them to his itinerary.”

“You own land in all those places?”

“They all make very good cheese, the German states have access to terrific stores of lumber, the Danes sail to every known port, and I’ve a little vineyard of my own in France, though I’m thinking of converting it to peaches.”

“Peaches?” Nick looked impressed. “Just how wealthy are you, Ethan?”

Ethan looked around uncomfortably but saw his sons were engaged in a rousing argument, and named a figure.

“More or less.” He shrugged. “Values are always fluctuating.”

Nick gave a low whistle. “My brother is a bloody cheese nabob.”

If they were boys—and they would never be boys again—that epithet would have become Ethan’s moniker for at least a span of weeks.

“When one hasn’t much else to do, and one is willing to travel in times of war, profit seems to happen. I didn’t mention my holdings to impress, Nicholas, but to point out that between us, we could keep a foreign agent busy more than full time. And George is acquainted with several languages.”

“It’s a good idea. A very good idea, in fact. I’m guessing Lady Warne might put him to use too. She has holdings of her own.”

“I’m to see your grandmother this weekend,” Ethan said as they approached the village green. “She’s to be my dinner partner at Heathgate’s on Saturday.”

Nicholas’s blond brows drew down in an expression much like Joshua’s fleeting bouts of thoughtfulness. “Give her my love if you have to admit you’ve seen me. Let’s get Buttercup a drink, shall we?” Nick swung down and led his mare to the communal trough on the village green. It was an excuse to prolong their parting, but Ethan was grateful for it. He’d said good-byes to Nick before, and even a few in the recent past, but this one felt more… personal.

Nick turned to his nephews, who sat on their ponies looking uncertain. “You gentlemen will behave for your papa and Miss Alice. You will build a tree house or two and send me sketches of them. You will take your baths and eat your vegetables and go to bed when you’re told, so you grow up as big and strong as I am.”

“I only want to be as big as Papa,” Joshua said, “but I don’t want you to go.”

“Joshua Pismire Grey,” Nick intoned sternly, “if you make me cry in front of my older brother, I will tickle you silly.” He feinted with his fingers, causing Joshua to giggle and curl away. “That’s better.” Nick carefully hugged his smallest nephew then turned to Jeremiah.

“You have a special mission,” Nick said, leaning down and whispering something into Jeremiah’s ear. “You can tell Joshua when I’ve left. You’ll need his devious-little-brother assistance.”

“Don’t worry, Joshua,” Jeremiah assured him. “It’s something good.”

“And you.” Nick turned to his brother, who’d dismounted to watch the partings. “Come here, Ethan Grey.” He held out his arms, and Ethan stepped into his embrace. “Don’t be a stranger.”

For the first instant, Ethan endured the embrace. This was a skill learned of necessity, an ability to temporarily vacate whatever aspect of the mind catalogued and experienced bodily perceptions: the sandalwood scent of Nick’s soap, the soft thump of a leather-clad hand between Ethan’s shoulders, the exact contour of his brother’s muscular body.

And then something… let go. Something emotional sighed along with Ethan’s body, and the endured embrace became a quick, shared hug.

“My love to the ladies,” Ethan said, stepping back, “and safe journey home, Nick.”

“Thanks for the hospitality, and look after my nephews.” He was on his horse and cantering away before Ethan could say anything more, and really, that was for the best. The morning air had put the damned tickle back in Ethan’s throat.

“Will you miss him, Papa?” Joshua asked.

“I’ll miss him silly,” Ethan said. “I can still see him”—could still feel the echoes of that hug—“and I miss him silly already.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

Argus did not miss Uncle Nick, silly or otherwise, and reminded his owner of that by tossing his head so Ethan almost lost his grip on the reins.

Ethan scowled at the horse. “Bad pony. Spoiled rotten, you are.” He was in the saddle before Argus could comment further. “Gentlemen, shall we let them stretch their legs?”

“You mean trot?” Jeremiah asked.

“Canter?” Joshua’s tone was hopeful. “Gallop?”

“We’ll play master and field,” Ethan said. “Joshua, you’re the master, and we’ll follow you. You can’t go anywhere Argus can’t follow, so no low-hanging branches, and mind you don’t lead us into danger. We’re silly, drunken gentlemen out from Town for a little hunting, and we can hardly sit our horses, because we’ve had too much of Mr. Grey’s famous peach brandy.”

Both boys looked fascinated at this spate of paternal nonsense. In the distance, Ethan heard Buttercup’s hoofbeats fade away.

“I can decide how we get home?” Joshua clarified.

“Anywhere on the lanes and paths,” Ethan said, “or on Tydings land. Take us across a planted field, though, and the steward will want me to thrash you.”

“I know that,” Joshua scoffed. “Hey, Jeremiah—remember when we were chased by pirates?”

The next thing Ethan knew, he and Argus were watching eight little pony hooves disappear at a furious gallop. Ethan let Argus bring up the rear, glad the horse seemed to understand his job was to trail the ponies. Joshua led them over stiles and banks, across ditches and logs, over the stream, back over the stream, and into the bridle paths crisscrossing the woods.

“Hold up!” Ethan yelled to his sons, but they’d seen Heathgate’s mare as soon as he had, and pulled up so hard their ponies were practically sitting. Heathgate had angled the mare right across the path, but turned her when he saw the ponies come to a stop.

“And here I thought I was saving a couple of runaways,” the marquis drawled. “Fancy riding, gentlemen. My boys would be envious. Morning, Grey.”

“Good morning, your lordship,” the boys replied politely enough.

“We were out riding with Papa,” Joshua added helpfully. “I was the master, and he and Jeremiah were the field.”

“I see. My compliments, Grey, for I’ve neglected to introduce my children to that particular means of scaring the hair off a parent. Shall we let your horses blow a little?”

“Papa?” Jeremiah looked uncertain.

“His lordship means to walk them,” Ethan said, “and since your ponies are heaving like bellows, it’s a good idea.” Even Argus had settled down over the course Joshua had chosen. Ethan let the boys pass him, then fell in beside his neighbor.

“I almost didn’t get my ride in this morning,” the marquis began. “Too much peach brandy. You’ll want to provide a few flasks to the Regent and get his imprimatur on it. Have you considered what I told you last night?” Heathgate asked, quietly enough not to draw the children’s notice.

“Not much. Hart Collins is a subject of the Crown. He was bound to return to England someday.”

“You could bring charges,” Heathgate suggested.

“Right. And have the whole world know I was incapable of defending myself? Only to have one of his cronies testify I enticed the man, or Collins was nowhere in the vicinity, and as I was facedown over the top of a barrel, how could I know for certain who was violating my person?”

Discussing the matter in the pretty summer morning seemed blasphemous, but the topic had lingered in Ethan’s imagination—a reptile lurking in the muddy marshes of his memory—since the moment Heathgate had called him aside the previous night.

“You bring the charges,” Heathgate said. “You don’t expect to prosecute them.”

“He’s a member of the bloody Lords, Heathgate.” Ethan spoke tiredly. “I’m a bastard who married my mistress. Bringing charges would be a joke, and as far as my family is concerned, a joke in poor taste.”

“It’s your choice, but you will likely run across him sooner or later, or Nick will, because he’s a member of the bloody Lords too—as am I, come to that.”

Ethan shot Heathgate a look, but the man was impossible to read. “No offense intended.”

“Likewise. I thought you should know he’s back.”

“My thanks for the warning.”

“You never told your family, did you?” Heathgate pressed. “Not even Nick.”

“Especially not Nick.” Heathgate had kept his peace on this most unfortunate subject for nearly twenty years. It was a relief, in a way, to have it in the open, but the old humiliation was there as well.

“Why not? He’s your brother, the head of your family, and he loves you cross-eyed.”

“He loves me. I love him.” Hence Ethan would never bring up at least two very personal subjects with his brother.

“If I had a bottle of whiskey for every time I’ve heard him brag on you or reminisce about his perfect childhood with you, I could get the Royal Navy drunk.” Heathgate paused and eyed the children.

“Your point?” Ethan inquired, very politely.

“You are trying to protect your brother,” Heathgate said gently, “because it will hurt him to know what you’ve suffered. It will hurt him more you didn’t think him worthy of your confidence. I have a younger brother, you will note, and speak from experience.”

Ethan sighed, not sure if being a marquis gave one the right to divine minds or hearts. “The incident in question left me more deeply ashamed than I care to discuss.”

Heathgate watched the ponies before them. The boys were concocting another scheme involving pirates on horseback. “Do you have any idea how much shame a man can build up when he has the wealth and the temper to pitch a nine-year-long tantrum? There were times I got some toothsome, titled young idiot drunk and indulged in all manner of foolery on a bored whim. Or I’d take women to bed, knowing they would not guard their hearts, and liking it better for being able to strike at them that way. I won fortunes from men too drunk to hold their cards and was only too happy to collect on their vowels, regardless that it would beggar them and put their women on the charity of relatives.”

“This recitation doesn’t flatter you, Heathgate.” Ethan could not take his eyes from his horse’s neck. “Why burden me with it?” Though Ethan suspected he knew—there were many situations in life that yielded a harvest of regret and shame.

Heathgate let out an exasperated sigh. “I have lifetimes of regrets I should be ashamed of, and I am. But you are ashamed of being a victim. If somebody did to your Joshua what was done to you, would you be disgusted with Joshua? Would you want him to be ashamed of himself?”

“For God’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a boy, and of course I would not want him ashamed of being the victim of a crime.”

“You were fourteen,” Heathgate said, “and set upon by six boys older, bigger, and stronger than you. They laid in wait, they plotted this violence, and they carried it out against you, knowing you had none to aid you. And yet you don’t feel compassion for the boy you were. You feel ashamed of him. One can only wonder, Ethan Grey, what your own father might have done had he learned of your fate.”

Heathgate urged his horse forward, having mercifully had his say. He engaged the boys in a pleasant discussion of foxhunting, climbing trees, and what it must be like for poor young Lord Penwarren to have a twin sister. Ethan was so lost in thought he didn’t hear his children laughing at something Heathgate said, or realize his horse was for once being docile, until he was almost hit in the face with a low-hanging branch.