The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [67]
“It was a close thing,” Lord Beecham said. He wasn’t about to add that Helen wasn’t with him because he needed time alone to come to grips with himself about her. He had made up his mind. Since he did not yet want a wife, since Helen was a lady, since he could not continue making love to her three times a day, he had to remove the lustful part of himself from her beautiful premises. He had to become her partner, pure and simple. He had thought about it a lot. He knew he could do it.
Well, damn. He had been gone from Helen for nearly two weeks now, and no matter how busy he kept himself, he still felt, at odd moments, like he had left part of himself back in Court Hammering—possibly the most important part, which was ridiculous. He was simply suffering withdrawal pains, and that didn’t mean a thing in the long stretch of things. Still, it was disconcerting. He would avail himself of an opera girl, perhaps this very evening, and take her until he fell down dead. It wouldn’t be three times either, it would be five, perhaps even six, which would surely ensure any man’s demise, including his.
It was the newness of Helen, the splendor of her magnificent legs and—he had seen her breasts only once, in that rotted relic of a cabin when he had helped her to strip off her wet clothes. He nearly swallowed his tongue remembering that day. He had been so frantic he hadn’t even kissed her breasts. He had to stop this. Tonight, he would sate himself with someone new. Three times at least, in fifteen minutes, no more.
Lovemaking, once a favorite sport, was fast losing its joy. Lovemaking should not be hard work, and suddenly he realized he wasn’t looking forward to any new girl, to taking her three times. He sighed, dropped his chin onto the top of his cravat—not so perfectly tied today, since Nettle was distraught over losing Teeny and wanted his master to be well aware of it.
“Spenser, what is the matter with you? You’re looking off at that lamppost and there is this strange expression on your face.”
“He is probably just thinking about his latest conquest,” Douglas said.
“Actually, he’s right,” said Lord Beecham. “Now, I have an appointment with Reverend Mathers at the British Museum. Since the good reverend talks in his sleep, it also might be wise of me to send him to Grillons’ Hotel, so if he babbles in his sleep his brother won’t be anywhere near to hear him. Douglas, Alexandra’s gown doesn’t need hoisting. If you wish, I will see you two later and tell you more about that bloody lamp.”
“Oh, no, you don’t, Heatherington. You move one step and I’ll flatten you.”
17
ALEXANDRA CLEARED HER throat. “Actually, Spenser, what Douglas would like to say is that he and I would both like to accompany you to see Reverend Mathers. We would very much like to insert ourselves into your adventure.”
Douglas raised a dark brow at his wife. “Of course he knows that’s what I said. Yes, we would rather come with you, Heatherington, than go to Richmond. Lady Blakeny may cast me her sloe-eyed looks another time.”
“Lady Blakeny is tall,” Alexandra said. “Not as tall as Helen, but still tall, curse her.”
Douglas beamed at his wife, assisted her into the carriage, stepped back for Lord Beecham, then swung himself inside.
Lord Beecham looked out the carriage window to see Reverend Older still standing there in the walkway just outside of White’s, staring after them. He did not like the look on the man’s face.
“Perhaps you should find another scholar,” Alexandra said as she arranged her skirts around her.
“He is the best,” Lord Beecham said. “The very best. He and my mentor at Oxford, Sir Giles Gilliam, were excellent friends. I can remember sitting quietly on a stool in a corner of Sir Giles’s rooms, listening to them argue over some ancient text. It was fascinating.” He could remember not wanting to leave even to relieve himself.
“I don’t like seeing this different side to you, Heatherington, one that smacks