“Certainly,” she murmured, watching in fascination as he doled a precise portion onto both of their plates.
Disdaining fork and knife, he picked up his own spoon and began to eat. “So am I to assume the gown meets with your satisfaction?”
Samantha smoothed her skirt. “It’s nearly as lovely as it is impractical. How did Meg manage to size it so perfectly?”
“She has a good eye for such things. She said you weren’t much taller than my youngest sister, Honoria.” A smile flirted with his lips. “Of course, had I gone by Beckwith’s measurements, you could have worn the garment as a tent.”
“What of the slippers? Am I to assume you have an equally gifted blacksmith?”
“There are advantages to living so close to London, you know. It does Beckwith’s heart good to make the occasional trip to the shops on Oxford Street. And it wasn’t difficult for Mrs. Philpot to sneak into your room and trace one of your boots while you were dining downstairs.”
“The servants at Fairchild Park are a crafty lot, just like their master. You must know that I can’t possibly keep these lovely things. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Oh, come, now. I didn’t flaunt convention that badly. You’ll notice that I didn’t include a single undergarment.”
“That’s just as well,” Samantha replied sweetly, tucking a tasty morsel of chicken between her lips. “Since I’m not wearing any.”
Gabriel’s spoon clattered to the table. He took a huge gulp of the wine, but still seemed to be having difficulty swallowing. “I must say that I’ve never regretted my infirmity more,” he finally managed to rasp out. He cleared his throat, his expression sobering. “I hope you’ll accept more than my gifts. I hope you’ll accept my apology for behaving so abominably the other night.”
As Samantha watched his hand pat the tablecloth, patiently searching for the spoon, her smile faded. The spoon was only a few inches from his searching fingers, but it might as well have been in the next room. “I’m afraid I’m the one who should be begging your forgiveness. I hadn’t realized how challenging such a simple task as eating must be for you.”
He shrugged. “A knife and fork are rather tricky to manage. If I can’t feel the food, I can’t find the food.” A thoughtful frown creased his brow. “Why don’t I show you?”
Shoving his chair back, he rose, napkin in hand, and circled behind her chair. Samantha’s pulse quickened as he leaned over her. His claret-warmed breath stirred the tiny hairs at her nape, making her regret sweeping her hair up into a frivolous topknot.
Before she could protest, he had reached around to draw off her spectacles. Working strictly by feel, he rolled the napkin into a band and gently draped it over her eyes, securing it behind her head with a loose knot.
Without the candlelight to guide her, Samantha had only Gabriel to rely on—his warmth, his scent, his touch. As the backs of his fingers grazed her throat, inciting a helpless shiver, she realized just how vulnerable she was to him.
“Are you to have your revenge by making me eat chicken fricassee with my fingers?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t be so cruel. Not when we have the blind feeding the blind.” She heard the scrape of platters as he reached around her to push one dish away and draw another one near. “Try this,” he said, pressing a fork into her hand.
Feeling more than a little ridiculous, Samantha took a stab toward the dish in front of her. She wasn’t sure what her target was supposed to be because it kept rolling away from her. After chasing it around the dish several times, she finally managed to impale the elusive thing. As she lifted the fork, the succulent aroma of fresh strawberry drifted to her nose. Her mouth started to water. The hard-won morsel was only an inch from her lips when it tumbled off of her fork to land with an impudent plop on the table.
“Blast it all!” she swore, waiting for Gabriel’s mocking laughter to ring out.
But he simply reached around and gently removed the fork from her hand. “You see, Miss Wickersham, when one is deprived of one’s sight, one is forced to rely on other senses. Such as scent…” As the tart fragrance of the strawberry flooded her nostrils, Samantha would have almost sworn she felt Gabriel’s nose graze the side of her throat in a whisper-soft caress. “Touch…” His warm fingers curled possessively around her nape as he brushed the strawberry back and forth across her tingling lips, coaxing them apart. His voice deepened. “Taste…”
Seized by a delicious languor, she could not stop herself from opening for him. Not since the serpent approached Eve in the Garden had a woman been so tempted by forbidden fruit. Accepting her unspoken invitation, Gabriel slid the plump strawberry past her parted lips, where its sweet flesh exploded on her tongue. A low moan of satisfaction escaped her.
“More?” he offered, his smoky voice as enticing as the devil’s in her ear.
Samantha wanted more. Much more. But she shook her head and pushed his hand away, afraid he might arouse a hunger that could never be satisfied. “I’m not a child,” she said, deliberately mimicking him. “And I won’t be fed like one.”
“Very well. Suit yourself.” She heard him shuffling dishes again, smacking his lips as he tasted each one in turn. “There,” he finally said, returning the fork to her hand. “Try that.”
Although the silky note in his voice should have warned her, Samantha boldly plunged the fork toward the dish, determined to prove she could capture whatever it contained on her first try. She gasped as her arm sank wrist-deep into a bowl of chilled goop.
“Étienne’s syllabubs are quite legendary,” Gabriel murmured in her ear. “He’s been known to spend hours whipping the cream until he gets it to just the right consistency.”
“Why, you sneaky wretch!” Samantha dragged her hand out of the sticky treat. “You did that on purpose.”
She was fumbling for her napkin when Gabriel’s hand closed over her wrist. “Allow me,” he said, bringing her hand to his mouth.
Samantha was unprepared for the shock of her forefinger sliding between Gabriel’s lips. The moist heat of his mouth was a stark contrast to the chill of the syllabub. He licked and sucked the rich cream from her finger with a sensual abandon that melted her defenses. It was only too easy to imagine him employing that same skillful tongue on other, even more vulnerable, parts of her body.
Samantha snatched back her hand, her cheeks burning beneath the blindfold. “When you invited me to sup with you, my lord, I wasn’t aware that I was to be the main course.”
“On the contrary, Miss Wickersham. You’d make a much more delectable dessert.”
“Because of my sweet nature?” she could not resist asking in her most withering tone.
He laughed aloud. Unable to resist witnessing that rare occurrence, Samantha dragged off the makeshift blindfold. Gabriel was sprawled back in his chair, a crooked grin deepening the beguiling crinkles around his eyes.
For the rest of the evening, he was the ideal dinner companion, giving her a glimpse of the legendary charm that had tempted so many women to vie for his affections. After they’d finished off the rest of the syllabub, using their spoons instead of their fingers, he rose and offered her his hand.
Samantha dabbed at her lips with her napkin, afraid that she might follow wherever he would lead. “It’s getting rather late, my lord. I really should retire.”
“Don’t go yet. I’ve something to show you.”
Unable to resist that earnest plea, Samantha rose and slipped her hand into his, her wariness increasing. Using his walking stick to guide them, he escorted her from the dining room and down a long, shadowy corridor to a pair of gilded doors she had never noticed before.
Groping for the brass handles, he threw open both doors at once.
“Oh, my!” Samantha breathed, gazing upon a vision straight out of her imagination.
It was the ballroom she had discovered during her very first exploration of the mansion. But instead of looking down upon it from the gallery, she was poised at the very heart
of its splendor. Every candle in the brass chandeliers had been lit, casting a shimmering glow over the blueveined Venetian tiles. A row of French windows crowned with the graceful arches of glazed fan-lights overlooked the moonlit garden.
Gabriel propped his walking stick against the wall. He would have no need of it here. There were no cumbersome pieces of furniture to fall over, no delicate figurines to shatter.
“May I have the pleasure of this dance, my lady?” he asked, offering her his arm.
“You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?” Samantha said in an accusing tone, remembering the mysterious strains of music and the puzzling thumps she’d heard coming from the drawing room. “I thought Beckwith and Mrs. Philpot were having a midnight rendezvous.”
Gabriel laughed as he led her to the center of the gleaming floor. “I doubt I left them with the necessary stamina. Beckwith and I knocked heads more times than I care to recount and Mrs. Philpot’s poor toes never would have recovered if I hadn’t been wearing stockings instead of boots. It didn’t take us long to discover that I’m a miserable failure at both minuets and country dances.”
“If you can’t feel your partner,” she began, remembering his earlier words.
“…I can’t find my partner. Which is why I spent most of last night waltzing with Beckwith.” He sighed. “It’s such a pity Mrs. Philpot doesn’t waltz.”
“Waltzing?” Samantha echoed, unable to hide her shock. “Why, the archbishop himself has denounced it as the height of debauchery!”
Gabriel’s eyes sparkled with merriment. “Just imagine what he would have thought if he’d have seen me waltzing with my butler.”
“Even the Prince of Wales claims it’s utterly indecent for a man to hold a woman so close. That such proximity between partners can only lead to all manner of improprieties.”
“Indeed?” Gabriel murmured, sounding far more intrigued than scandalized. He laced his fingers through hers, drawing her even closer.
Samantha’s breath grew short, as if she’d already taken several turns around the ballroom. “Such a progressive dance might be acceptable in Vienna or Paris, my lord, but it’s been banned in every ballroom in London.”
“We’re not in London,” Gabriel reminded her, taking her into his arms.
He nodded toward the gallery. As a lone harpsichord manned by an unseen servant began to play, Gabriel splayed one hand at the small of her back and swept her into motion, accompanied by the tender strains of “Barbara Allen.” The wistful ballad, with its tale of squandered opportunities and lost love, had always been one of Samantha’s favorites. She’d never before heard it played as a waltz, but it lent itself perfectly to the gliding cadence of the dance.
As his body settled into the irresistible rhythm, Gabriel felt his natural grace returning. He closed his eyes, other, even more delicious sensations coming back to him as well—the thrill of holding a warm, female body against his, the silken whisper of her skirts, the trust with which she gave herself over to his lead. For the first time since Trafalgar, Gabriel did not mourn the loss of his sight. Whirling about the deserted ballroom with Samantha in his arms, he felt whole again.
Throwing his head back with an exultant laugh, Gabriel swept her into several swirling turns around the ballroom.
By the time the last strains of “Barbara Allen” had faded, they were both breathless with laughter. As the harpsichord launched into “Come Live with Me,” a winsome tune more suited to an allemande than a waltz, their steps slowed to a halt. Gabriel held fast to Samantha, reluctant to surrender both her and the moment.
“If you’re trying to convince me how civilized you are, you’re failing miserably,” she pointed out.
“Perhaps beneath our polished manners and fancy silks, we’re all just barbarians at heart.” Bringing her hand to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to the very center of her palm, allowing his lips to linger against her silky skin. “Even you, my prim and proper Miss Wickersham.”
There was no mistaking the husky tremor that ran through her voice. “If I were possessed of a more cynical nature, my lord, I might suspect you of setting this stage not for an apology, but for a seduction.”
“Which would you prefer?” No longer able to resist the temptation, Gabriel lowered his head, seeking his answer directly from her lips.
Samantha closed her eyes, as if by doing so she could deny any culpability in what was about to happen. But there was no denying the shudder of longing that went through her as Gabriel’s lips brushed hers in a feathery caress. This was nothing like the kiss they had shared in the library. That had been a passionate assault on her senses. This was a lover’s kiss—a leisurely sample of all the pleasures he had to offer, even more tempting and dangerous to her lonely heart.
He caressed the plump curves of her lips beneath his own, coaxing them to part, to accept the honeyed persuasion of his tongue. As its velvety heat swept through her mouth, delving deeper with each stroke, Samantha felt herself melting against him, felt the last of her resistance being scorched away. Suddenly she was the beggar at the feast—a feast of the senses her body had been denied for far too long. She wanted to gorge herself on him, sate her every craving with the fulsome delight of his kiss.
As her tongue joined the primal dance, savoring the claret-sweetened taste of him, he groaned deep in his throat. He didn’t require his sight to slip his hand into her bodice and find the softness of her breast through her silk chemise, to flick his thumb lightly across her distended nipple until she moaned into his mouth, awash in a pleasure as intense as it was forbidden.
Shamed by that helpless moan and afraid of where his greedy fingers might venture next, Gabriel tore both his hand and his mouth from Samantha.
Fighting to steady the hoarse rasp of his breathing, he rested his brow against hers. “You haven’t been entirely truthful with me, have you, Miss Wickersham?”
“Why would you say such a thing?”
Assuming the note of panic in her voice was the result of his indiscretion, he nuzzled his way to the delicate shell of her ear and whispered, “Because, much to my dismay, you are most definitely wearing undergarments.”
The song came to a close in that moment, the abrupt silence reminding them that there was an audience in the gallery.
“Shall I play another tune, my lord?” Beckwith’s cheerful voice came floating over the gilded railing, assuring them that the butler was still oblivious to the drama being played out on the ballroom floor.
It was Samantha who summoned the fortitude to disengage herself from his arms, Samantha who called out, “No, thank you, Beckwith. Lord Sheffield requires his rest. He’ll be resuming his lessons tomorrow promptly at two o’clock.” Her voice was no less crisp when she turned back to Gabriel and said, “Thank you for dinner, my lord.”
Amused by her transformation back into his stern nurse, he sketched her a formal bow. “And thank you, Miss Wickersham… for the dance.”
He cocked his head to listen to her fleeing footsteps, wondering, not for the first time, what other secrets his nurse might be hiding.
Beckwith returned to the servants’ hall to find Mrs. Philpot sitting all alone in front of the fire, savoring a warm cup of tea.
“How did the evening go?” she asked.
“I’d say it was a smashing success. Just what they both required. But we weren’t quite as discreet as we’d hoped. Apparently, Miss Wickersham overheard us in the drawing room last night.” He chuckled. “She thought the two of us were having a midnight rendezvous.”
“Fancy that.” Mrs. Philpot lifted her teacup to her lips to hide her own smile.
Beckwith shook his head. “Who could imagine a fussy old bachelor and a sedate widow fumbling in the dark like two lovestruck children?”
“Who indeed?” Resting her teacup on the hearth, Mrs. Philpot began to tug the pins from her hair one by one.
As the skeins of black silk came tumbling around her shoulders, Beckwith reached down to sift his fingers through t
hem. “I’ve always loved your hair, you know.”
She caught his plump hand and pressed it to her cheek. “And I’ve always loved you. At least since you worked up the courage to call a lonely young widow ‘Lavinia’ instead of ‘Mrs. Philpot.’ ”
“Do you realize that was almost twenty years ago?”
“It seems like only yesterday. So what songs did you play for them?”
“ ‘Barbara Allen’ and your favorite, ‘Come Live with Me.’ ”
“ ‘Come live with me and be my love,’ ” she said, quoting Marlowe’s timeless poem.
“ ‘And we will all the pleasures prove,’ ” he finished, drawing her to her feet.
She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling like a girl’s. “Do you think the master would dismiss us if he knew?”
Beckwith shook his head before kissing her gently. “From what I witnessed tonight, I think he would envy us.”
Chapter Fourteen
My darling Cecily,
How dare you suggest that my family would consider you beneath me? You are my moon and stars. I am but dust beneath your delicate feet…
Promptly at two o’clock the following afternoon, Samantha came marching through the foyer in her sensible half-boots, her expression so resolute that the other servants scurried to get out of her path. Her hair had been drawn into a severe knot at the nape of her neck and her lips were pursed as if she’d been sucking on lemons instead of perfuming herself with them. The unflattering cut of her dark gray morning dress managed to obscure any hint of a trim ankle or shapely curve.
She paced the drawing room as she waited for Gabriel, her old-fashioned petticoats rustling as if they had been soaked in starch. It hardly improved her temper to know that all of her efforts to appear respectable would be wasted on Gabriel. For all he knew, she could be waiting for him wearing nothing but her stockings and silk chemise. She fanned herself with her hand, her wicked imagination supplying a dizzying array of images of what he might do to her if she was.
He finally came sauntering into the drawing room at half past two, sweeping his walking stick in a jaunty arc in front of him. Sam trotted at his heels, clutching a battered boot in his mouth.