Page 39 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Once safely in her cabin, Estela took up a cushion from the chaise, buried her face upon it, and gave vent to a long and heartfelt scream.

Rockley had dropped into her lap like a glorious treat—and just when she needed it most. It was too horribly disappointing for him to turn out to be a cold fish, spouting all that chivalrous nonsense about saving himself for marriage to his dead brother's betrothed. She'd lay odds on his dumping his bride back on the family estate within a month of the honeymoon, before kicking up his heels to hit the fleshpots. For all that men liked to believe themselves noble, the baser instincts tended to win out. There were exceptions to the rule, she would allow, but they were rarer than hen's teeth.

A gentle knock at the door heralded Antoinette's arrival and Estela was obliged to contain herself again. There was plenty that she did share with her maid, but she was in no mood to admit to her failure. The sooner she was disrobed and in the little bath that filled one end of the en-suite facilities, the sooner she'd have the chance to relieve some of her frustration.

Once in her wrapper, Estela opened the brandy she'd been hoping to share with the insufferable Rockley, and poured herself a large measure. Antoinette saw to the bath, adding the orange blossom oil her mistress favored. With a bob, she then departed, leaving Estela to wallow in peace.

A full half-hour submerged beneath the scented water, coupled with some self-love and the warmth of the brandy running through her veins, placed Estela in a slightly better mood. Rockley was absent, but she did an adequate job of conjuring an image of him lying naked in his own cabin. She pictured a finely muscled torso, a nice dappling of chest hair, thickening below the navel, and a solid piece springing ripely to attention from his thatch.

Enjoying the sense of power the little game gave her, she carried on. He was thinking of her with a large dose of regret, realizing that he'd bollixed things up. Now he was reaching down, giving himself a steady fisting, growing harder and increasingly lubricated, all the while wishing that she was with him.

Having achieved her aim, Estela put aside the daydream and climbed from the bath. There were limits to how far she wished to dwell on the undeserving Rockley.

Pouring another brandy, she sat down with the pile of correspondence that had been gathering. Taking up her pen at the current moment wouldn't be wise, but she ought to remind herself of what was waiting. There was something from her brother, she recalled.

Charles was inviting her to Yardmore Court—the family seat in Hampshire—for the usual festive gathering. It had been several years since she'd attended, but he always asked, which was gracious. It wasn't his fault that Estela found he and his wife rather dull and thought similarly of the company they kept. Even their children were shockingly docile. Esther, her far younger sister—who'd recently found wedded bliss in the arms of Yardmore's own country vicar, was clearly cut from the same cloth.

Goodness only knew how her siblings had ended up so staid and sensible. It seemed that only Estela had inherited the madcap ways of their parents, bouncing from party to party and place to place, not to mention lover to lover.

It was perhaps why she'd invited Mathilde to join her the previous summer. One couldn't help admiring the girl's adventurous spirit.

Taking another draught of the brandy, Estela savored its mellow richness upon her tongue. She only hoped that Mathilde's vitality was not quashed by the confines of marriage—assuming the match went ahead.

Where were those letters now?

Burnt in the grate of a fire, and no more than ash, Estela hoped. If Conte Sforza was behind their disappearance, it would be the best outcome. Time would tell, and there was nothing more she could do about it.

The next envelope bore handwriting with which she was less familiar. The rear, where her knife had already opened the paper, bore the stamp of Dalreagh Press. Withdrawing the notepaper, she skimmed through the proposal once more. Written in the neat script of the owner of the tiny publishing house, the missive was refreshingly to the point, much as she remembered the author having been, when they'd first met—at a Bloomsbury soirée some five weeks prior.

* * *

Dunrannoch Castle

Perthshire

August 30th, 1905

* * *

My dear Estela — I know you shall not mind my familiarity,

What a great pleasure it was for us to meet at Vanessa and Virginia's residence the other night. As promised, I am writing with a favor to ask.

It was a surprise to discover our happy connection, if only distantly through your great-grandmother. I hope you may visit us at the castle before long, where you shall be very welcome, and are sure to enjoy the company of my grandson and his new wife.

Now, to the matter in hand!

As a sister of our illustrious line, I call upon you to add your expertise to the volume which it has been an honor for the women of our family to keep in circulation these several hundred years.

I refer to ‘The Lady's Guide to All Things Useful', a pocket edition of which I passed to you upon the night of our meeting.

While the book continues to sell in pleasing numbers, I'm reluctant to admit that almost two decades have passed since the text was substantially revised. Naturally, times change, and it falls to me to ensure that the guide begun by Flora Dalreagh—our legendary forebear—remains pertinent.

Our interaction convinced me at once that you are a suitable candidate to tackle a particular segment of the chapters: namely, those relating to sexual congress.

You shall not mind my candid speaking, for you are not a woman who shrinks from naming a spade.

I hope, most sincerely, that both your inclination and your schedule will allow you to take up the gauntlet and bring our modest little book into the 20th century.

* * *

With all regard, and in anticipation of your reply,

Lavinia Dalreagh

Countess Dunrannoch

From her nightstand, Estela flipped open the small leather-bound book, which Lady Dunrannoch had pulled from the depths of her capacious handbag to press upon her new acquaintance.

In fact, it was not the first time she'd seen the strange little collection, which seemed to comprise largely of remedies for warts and chilblains and other unsavory conditions. Hadn't that peculiar young woman, Miss Mortmain, been reading it? Or had it been delicious Mr. Burnell? Estela's memory failed her.

In any case, she'd perused it for an hour or so during the interminable rail journey on her way to Venice.

The whole thing was dry as dust and could certainly do with sexing up a bit. Some frank advice in that department was severely lacking. Knowing how to lance a boil was all very well, but there were more advantageous skills. She hadn't landed herself four extremely wealthy husbands by knowing how to treat carbuncles.

There were a few promising sections, but far too vaguely written to be of any real use. If one had the boldness to name a chapter ‘Seduction' one ought to favor the reader with at least a few little somethings to make the mouth water.

As for the chapter entitled ‘Bedroom Matters', Estela could only roll her eyes.

For those who lack warm feelings towards their husband, bedroom sports are more to be endured than enjoyed. However, allow him as many freedoms as you can bear, even where his practices may be against your own inclinations. Only ensure that he does not injure you and, in time, you may take pleasure in what first seemed abhorrent.

There was some truth in it, she supposed. Estela's last husband, being well advanced through his winter years, had been confined to his bed for the majority of their seven months of marriage. She'd performed her wifely duties to the extent required, considering the frail state of his health. Fortunately, Ephraim had largely preferred to have her read to him and had been content to have The Iliad recited in translation rather than the original Greek. Fittingly, he'd drifted off somewhere in the thirteenth book, just as Zeus was at last taking leave of the battlefield.

She'd discreetly attended to her own physical needs during that time, largely aided by two of the more handsome footmen employed at their London residence. Estela knew she was bad—if not quite to the bone. Husbands were useful for many things, but it was foolhardy to rely upon them to satisfy sexual needs—especially when marrying men so much older.

There was a snippet which mentioned lovers, but she'd scoffed to read it.

A lover should never be chosen like a tidbit at a supper buffet. The brief pleasure of conjoining flesh is nothing to the deeper satisfaction of a lover who speaks to the mind and the heart. Where physical passion meets emotional and intellectual compatibility, a couple may enter into a lifelong partnership without regret.

Really, as if one entered into a fling with the intention of keeping the object of one's lust around for more than a few months—at the utmost. Lovers fulfilled a specific purpose. There was not a single one of her own with whom she'd have wanted to prolong matters.

As for husbands, they fell in a different category altogether, and could be discounted. She considered herself fortunate that all her marriages had been brief—even if she had been fond of each groom, to an extent.

And what did it mean to ‘speak to the mind and heart'?

Sentimental twaddle!

The young women of today would be better served to know how they could have their cake and eat it, taking pleasure as they desired while avoiding any unpleasant repercussions. Estela had plenty of experience on that front.

Her first inclination had been to decline Lady Dunrannoch's proposal, but something about the project appealed to her. If the Countess wanted the book brought into the new age, she would certainly do her best to oblige, and have a little fun in the process.

Oh yes. We can certainly improve upon this!

Estela tossed the book across the bedspread.

And if Rockley is as impressive in the bedroom as I'm confident he will be, it will provide just the sort of inspiration I need.

Estela squeezed her eyes shut against the morning sun penetrating the drapes. The day was going to be another fine one and the sea was calm, but her head spun, nonetheless. It was still early, with no voices carrying from the deck—only the occasional caw of the ever-whirling gulls.

She'd drunk more than was wise the night before. The brandy had been a particular mistake.

If Rockley had only played along and returned with her for what would have doubtless been an enjoyable romp, she'd be waking up now feeling becalmed and wonderfully herself. As it was, she had a low thump in her temples, her stomach was gurgling uncomfortably, and objects she knew to be stationary were swirling at an off-putting velocity.

She vaguely wondered if Rockley was nursing a similar headache. She rather hoped he was, except that she didn't recall him drinking much the night before. He'd been depressingly sober. The prig! If he'd loosened up a bit, he mightn't have been so sanctimonious regarding her proposition.

Gingerly, she sat up and poured some water from the carafe on her nightstand. Drinking it down, she felt marginally better. She pushed the pillows into a more accommodating position, closed her eyes, and drifted off again.

There was a rapping sound. For the briefest moment, she had the notion that it was Rockley—as if their altercation of the night before had never happened and he'd come looking for her at last.

"It's me, dear. Are you awake?"

Margaret's voice carried through the door.

"Just a moment."

Estela swung her legs out and threw on her robe. What time was it? Her head was immensely better. The spinning motion had altogether improved. Only her tummy still felt a little peculiar. Unlocking the door, she stepped back to allow her godmother entry.

"Thank goodness."

Margaret looked at Estela critically. "We wondered whether you might be unwell. That maid of yours is sitting on a deckchair out here, sunning herself. She tells me she tried three times to stir you without success. I see you're fine, though you don't look greatly rested."

Margaret clapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. "You didn't—?"

Her imagination was clearly moving at an accelerated pace. "We could see you had eyes for each other. It was part of the reason Oona and I left you alone, but we didn't anticipate…"

Her gaze darted about, as if expecting to see Rockley surprised from mid-coital action.

"Margaret!"

Estela gulped back her laughter. "What are you thinking!"

Margaret pinked. "I may be a spinster but I'm not utterly green to the ways of the world. Rockley is very handsome, and clearly enamored. I was only shocked to think you might have leapt into shenanigans on such short acquaintance."

"That would be shocking."

Estela framed her features into some semblance of seriousness.

"Although, impulsive actions can sometimes encourage a man into expressing his feelings,"

Margaret added quickly. "I wouldn't discount such a course of action entirely."

"I've simply overslept, and I'm very much alone. As pretty to look at as Rockley is, he doesn't interest me as a long-term prospect, and the feeling is mutual, I can assure you."

As open-minded as her godmother was appearing, Estela didn't think she'd condone luring a man into bed for no reason beyond the unashamed seeking of pleasure.

Margaret arched one eyebrow. "Tush! I don't believe it for a minute. An eligible gentleman with a dukedom! Yes, it's true. I checked in the ship's library directly after breakfast—which we were most surprised you missed. There's a brand new volume of Debrett's and there he is, Lord Theodore Rockley. Such a romantic name, and lands near Monmouth. 'Tis bonny country, though lacking the majesty of the Highlands."

"You have been busy."

Estela folded her arms.

How had she not known the name? Was it because the estate was close to Wales, which was not somewhere she'd bothered to travel? Either that or her memory was slipping. In any case, it was inconsequential. Margaret's claim that he was ‘enthused' was a product of her godmother's wishful thinking.

Margaret seemed to have regained her composure. "I'm merely saying what I see. You're not in your dotage yet, wee Stella, and if a perfectly nice duke is wanting to pay his compliments, I hope you won't be turning your nose up."

She gave a sniff. "Anyway, I shall say no more. I came to let you know that Oona and I have made some friends while you've been sleeping the morning away: Mrs. Titby-Titton, and her daughter Tabitha. They've asked if we'd like to join them in taking a look at Bari. They're experienced travelers, from all I can tell, though not in Flora's league, naturally. I hope you shan't mind us going without you. I guessed you mightn't be disposed to escort us yourself."

Estela's conscience pricked. She'd promised to take her godmothers ashore. Instead, she'd drunk herself silly and forgotten all about the excursion. It wasn't her finest hour.

"Of course, you should go."

She took Margaret's hand, giving it a small squeeze. "I'm sorry to have been so thoughtless. I'll make it up to you. We moor at Port Messina tomorrow. Sicily isn't to be missed."

"Think nothing of it."

Margaret returned the pressure of Estela's fingers. "I did wonder if you might prefer to spend your afternoon in the company of someone closer to your own age. So don't be worrying about us. We'll be having a grand time."

She dipped her chin, looking pointedly at Estela. "Now, do get dressed, dear. One never knows what the day may present, and it does no harm to be looking one's absolute best, does it."

Estela felt strangely cheered.

When she did ‘happen' to bump into Rockley, she intended to show herself to full advantage.