Bronwyn Scott - Secrets of a Gentleman Escort

Nicholas moved to the bed and stretched out his long form, tucking his hands behind his head. He had two hours before dinner and he needed to use them to think. He mapped the evening in his head like a general before battle. Tonight’s arena would be the dinner table. That was easy enough. There were myriad ways to stroke the stem of a goblet, to cup its bowl, to eat one’s food and drink one’s wine that stimulated sexual interest, all the while talking, drawing her out, getting her to relax, to think of him more as a man than a machine who’d been sent to fulfil a need.

His goal tonight was twofold. For her sake, he wanted to dispel any sense of artifice about their association. For his, he wanted to figure out what had driven Annorah to write such a letter. More than that, why had such a letter even been necessary?

A request of this nature was not made idly. He thought of the pistols packed in his bags and ran through the usual reasons. Was this an act of revenge on her part? Would there be people who would resent her decision? It would not be the first time a woman had tried to avoid an unwanted marriage in this way. These arrangements were seldom straightforward.

The letter itself had been unremarkable. He’d studied it line by meagre line on the way here. There had been little to offer in the way of clues. The line about enjoying the countryside had made him laugh at the irony. The word quiet was a bit more insightful. What did it signify? Was she a recluse? Did she actually prefer the solitude of the country, unimaginable as such a concept was? Simple deduction made that an easy scenario to discard. It was hard to imagine a recluse, someone who deliberately shunned the company of others, requiring a conversationalist. Upon arrival, he’d been proven correct. He had to discard that notion even if the logic hadn’t fallen short. She might have been nervous, but she wasn’t a recluse.

Nick considered another option. Had she been forced into seclusion? Was she someone who had been abandoned to anonymity? Someone craving human contact? Perhaps that was too extreme. Sussex was hardly the ends of the earth. It was a mere five hours from London. Surely a woman with a thousand pounds to spend on five nights of pleasure could afford to come to London if she so chose.

That was the other thing that niggled. Motive. London had its own plans for women possessed of a fortune. It was called the Marriage Mart and it would certainly resolve any penchant for intimacy by providing an heiress with a husband; especially London in June. The city was teeming with men looking for money and marriage. It called to mind the line from the Austen novel his female acquaintances were so fond of: ‘A single man in possession of a good fortune must also be in want of a wife’, or something like that. In this case, a woman in possession of a fortune was an odd thing indeed without a husband.

If she was not naturally reclusive or forced to seclusion, that left option three: she was in the country by choice. Of all the scenarios, this was the most mysterious. Why would anyone choose the countryside if they didn’t have to? Why would someone choose to engage in paid intimacies with a stranger when a potential marriage awaited just five hours down the road?

There were only so many reasons a rich woman would refuse London and none of them was good, especially when the major reason would have been looks and that was clearly not the case with Annorah. He could rule that out.

Ugly would have been a problem for him. It was a selfish, petty wish, he knew, but he was used to beautiful. Most of the women who could afford him hadn’t been ugly. They’d merely been curious about what should have been theirs by right of marriage, something a conscientious husband should have provided Fortunately, Annorah Price-Ellis had turned out to be attractive with a quiet, understated beauty. She’d drawn his eye immediately, a splash of colour amid the elegant austerity of the entry hall.

She had struck him as a nature goddess when they’d strolled in the garden. He’d used the time to take in her features: the soft curve of cheek giving her face a delicate cast, the sharp mossy green of her eyes, reminiscent of a rich field of summer grass, and the wheat blonde of her hair, which argued to be the colour of wild honey when wet, a hypothesis he wouldn’t mind testing. There’d been curves, too, beneath the muslin with long legs, narrow waist and a high, full bosom. No, Annorah Price-Ellis was definitely not a hag. Which only furthered the mystery. How did a lovely, rich woman arrive at this point?

There was only one way to find out. Nicholas rang for the valet. It was time to dress for dinner and tonight he wanted to give his toilette thorough consideration. The man assigned to him was a young fellow named Peter, who had some talent for the job, if not experience. If the valet thought it was odd for a librarian to linger over his toilette, then so be it. In the end, the two of them turned him out quite finely in a dark evening suit, paisley waistcoat of rich lavenders and blues and a well-tied osbaldeston knot in his cravat that had taken only two tries.

Nicholas dismissed Peter and took a final look in the mirror, checking to see that the diamond stick pin in his cravat was exposed enough to catch the light, that his coat was smooth across the shoulders, that his hair was neatly tied back with a subtle black ribbon. Longer hair might not be the trend preferred by society in the ballrooms, but it was amazing how many women loved it in the bedrooms.

Satisfied with his appearance, Nicholas closed his eyes and drew in a breath. Let the seduction begin. No matter what ghosts the country raised against him, he could do this. He would make love to Miss Price-Ellis as if everything depended on it. Because it did.

* * *

He was waiting for her in the drawing room, having followed the gentleman’s dictate that no lady should have to remain alone in anxious anticipation for a guest’s arrival. He was casually posed, elegantly dressed, the dark evening clothes a marked contrast to the white of the marble. A pre-prandial drink, partially consumed, dangled negligently in one hand, his gaze fixed on the windows and the display of green gardens beyond. He turned at the sound of her entrance, the quiet click of her low-heeled slippers and the soft whisper of skirts giving her away.

‘You have a lovely home. I was just admiring the view.’ The hand holding the glass gestured towards the long windows to indicate the gardens, but his eyes held hers, suggesting he was appreciating another view entirely.

A delicious shot of warmth spread through her at the frank assessment. She’d spent an hour agonising over which gown to wear before summoning her maid and deciding on the lavender chiffon. Apparently the effort had been worth it. ‘Thank you. Hartshaven was designed to be appreciated. It was meant to be a showcase for beauty.’

‘It certainly is.’ His smile deepened, exposing the dimple at the left corner of his mouth.

Good lord, could he turn every comment into a veiled compliment? What could she do but forge ahead and take it all in her stride? Annorah moved to the window and motioned for him to join her. She tried to redirect the conversation on to more neutral ground, ground that would be less likely to leave her feeling flushed and so focused on the night to come that her tongue was tied. ‘My great-grandfather had the initial gardens laid out by Kent and Bridgeman.’

‘I recognise the styling.’ He stood close at her shoulder. She could smell the faint undertones of his cologne; the lemon and fougère creating the scent of a summer fantasy, perfect for a night like this. She did not think a man had ever smelled this good. She was so intent on smelling him, discreetly of course, that she nearly missed his conversation.