Chapter Eight

Geoffrey, Henry and his guests bid each other good night and retired to their chambers. He counted the minutes it took for everyone to go to their respective rooms, and paced an additional twenty. The house settled into silence. Geoffrey peered out the door and neither saw nor heard anyone. He left his room, descended the steps in utmost quiet, and went out the kitchen door leaving it unlocked for his return.

A three-quarter moon lit the path. Geoffrey stayed in the shadows and, when out of sight of the main house, quickened his pace. It occurred to him he had a collection of bits by which to remember her—the ribbon, hairpin, and barrette. They made for a good reason to visit her several times, one decadent night at a time.

Or keep them in order to obtain more? The graphic visions that came to mind of pillow talk lying on the four-poster bed; they would for certain get him incarcerated.

He entered Serena’s home through the unlocked door and closed it quietly. He ascended the stairway with soft steps. The door to her studio was ajar. Soft candlelight wafted into the hallway.

He entered, closing the door. “What have we here?” he whispered. How could one woman be more adorable in a pinafore apron than a glittering ball gown? Serena slept curled on the settee. He would wake her, but not before he took a few moments to savor the sight. She’d changed from the red gown into a more comfortable dress that he presumed allowed better movement to sketch.

His picture sat on the easel, awaiting her finishing touches. Charcoal pencils lay on the tray. She was serious about his sitting for her. That hadn’t been his intent at all.

Serena, part little girl and part female deity, held an appeal like none other. What man didn’t dream of a wanton goddess at his beck and call? He gazed at her peaceful face; her breasts rose and fell as she breathed in quiet repose. She slept deep in the arms of Morpheus. His arms ached to hold her. Geoffrey kissed her forehead with a gentleness new to him. She stirred, but didn’t wake. On the tableside sat a decanter of wine and two fluted glasses. He poured a drink, sat back and relaxed.

A cozy fire warmed the room. The firelight caught the blue-black of Serena’s hair. It occurred to him the Italian Grappa could be the reason for the deep sleep that disturbed both their plans. He choked on a quiet laugh. Geoffrey went to her escritoire and took a quill to write a note for her.

Sleeping Beauty,

I came, but you were not awake. I should have warned you not to trust Italian liqueurs. My years in Italy could attest to that. I will leave a recipe for your maid to make your recovery easier. Send word when you are ready to continue our sitting.

Your faithful rake, Geoffrey

Despite his foiled plans he found the situation humorous. “Not tonight, sweet Serena, but I will make you mine and I know just where and when.” He thought to stay and watch her slumber. What he could do with such a woman in his bed. Would he gaze upon her in sleep and not awaken her with his touch, with his need, with his aching desire?

What secret did she withhold from him? He covered her with an afghan that rested on the arm of the small couch. He placed the note and the recipe in envelopes, sealed them. He wrote Serena’s name on one, Emma’s on the other. He slid the message beneath her hand where it lay against her stomach. Geoffrey took one final look at his sleeping beauty. A smile curled around his heart.

As he passed the maid’s quarters, Geoffrey slipped the instruction for the recovery recipe under her door. Tomato juice with pepper and a bit of the hare that bit her, he’d recommend, if she’d brought any of the Grappa home with her. If not, second best was a generous swig of straight dill pickle juice. Either would settle her stomach.

Geoffrey walked in silence, his mind muddled, and his body in full arousal, only to find himself at the lake. The moonlight undulated over the ripples like ballerinas in pirouettes as they tiptoed on one foot. With great care, he stripped his clothes, waded to the center, and treaded water. The effort it took for him to accomplish all this eased his physical discomfort. He swam back. To his good fortune, the sultry night air dried most of him within minutes.

He donned some of his clothing, including his boots, and held his jacket and cravat over one arm as he walked in darkness back to the manor house. Should he encounter anyone, it would be obvious he took a midnight swim. His hair was still wet.

He entered the way he’d left and the house remained quiet.

Back in his room, he removed all his clothing. He sat in front of the fireplace deep in thought. The decanter of brandy on his side table beckoned, and he filled a snifter.

“I don’t want to be fogged by lust and brandy.”

Did the lovely lady know how much she tormented him?

Geoffrey wanted her as much as he believed she wanted him, even though she hadn’t yet admitted it. Electricity in the air, akin to lightning just before the strike, surrounded them whenever they were together.

Next time, my lady. There is always a next time.

****

Serena awakened with a headache pounding like ten marching battalions. She called to Emma as she slipped off the settee rubbing her neck.

Emma came in holding a glass of liquid in a revolting green color. “Good morning, mistress. I have something to help you recover. His Grace gave me the remedy and swears it will work.”

“Goodness, he did come last night?”

“He must have, my lady. There was a note with the recipe beneath my door.”

“What is it? No, I do not want to know. Maybe it is best I just drink it.” She took a small sip, scrunched her nose. “Do I have to finish it?”

“Yes, mistress. It will make you feel better.”

Serena managed to drink it all without cashing in her accounts.

When she set the glass on the table, she noticed an envelope bearing her name in the folds of her coverlet. His words touched her heart. Serena lifted her hand to her mouth, emotional at the salutation—Sleeping Beauty—and the closing—Your Faithful Rake. “Mistress, Lord Geoffrey was so kind last night to realize your weariness from the long day and not wake you. His thoughtfulness in leaving the recovery recipe with me makes me think well of him.”

“Indeed.” Serena walked to her art supplies, still as she’d prepared them. “I shall not breakfast at the main house. My stomach begs me to take caution.” Her hand went to her abdomen, her other hand poised at her head, rubbing away the pain.

Serena sat at her desk and penned two notes. One to her brother to explain the reason she couldn’t attend breakfast. I met with the Italian spirit, Grappa, whom I could not resist. I slept like the dead, but awoke with the headache of a beaten rowdy. Forgive me, dear brother, for not being at the morning fest. I will, however, join you for the evening meal.

Lord Geoffrey’s note followed asking him to sit for her in the afternoon.

Dear Geoffrey, I regret I slept through our liaison last evening. I shall always wonder how our time together might have been spent. Please honor me with your presence at my studio this afternoon at two, so we might conclude your portrait.

“I’ll arrange for your letters to be delivered, mistress.”

“Thank you, Emma, and if possible, see to it that his Grace receives his discreetly. No need to alarm Henry to think Geoffrey and I are exchanging secret notes. Serena smiled and handed the monogrammed stationery to her maid.

Secret Notes? She suspected she and Geoffrey would share many other secrets. One might be bed sport.