He didn’t bother to point out that they were most likely already an on-dit, having been seen together on at least two occasions. If they arrived back in town with her unceremoniously cradled in his lap the gossips were going to go wild with conjecture. He considered whether it might hurt her silly charities. If so he’d insist they stop—he wasn’t going to be responsible for taking her raison d’être away from her, even if he thought it was a lost cause.
But people were more likely to see Charity Carstairs as human, with all humanity’s frailties, and they would be more sympathetic to her efforts. At least, he hoped so. Because truth be told, he liked riding with her bum up against him, his arms under her luscious breasts. He liked the fact that the gossips were going to link her with him, inextricably, so that she couldn’t look elsewhere.
Of course, that would affect him, as well. If the ton was certain he was having an affaire with Sweet Charity then he might have difficulty forging an alliance with an eligible young female. But society was a great deal more liberal when it came to men’s foibles, and he didn’t think a mistaken rumor would interfere with his plans.
Even if the rumor ended up being true.
He wanted her in bed. Quite badly. It could be as simple as proximity, and the erotic atmosphere of the caves. Indeed, as a man he tended to find caves automatically sexual, and it was no wonder he’d reacted, particularly when he’d been rubbing up against her in the tiny room.
Once he was free of her, back in his own house, he could turn his attention to more congenial company. Despite Melisande’s best efforts there were still a great many beautiful and willing Cyprians available, and he would have no trouble filling his bed tonight.
But he didn’t need to think about that with Lady Carstairs cradled against his cock. She’d already become too closely acquainted, first, in her sleep, when she’d unknowingly caressed him, and then later when they were hiding in the cave and he couldn’t help his response.
But he was going to think about cold rain and war and piglets and anything else that could get his mind off sex.
He took a circuitous route back to her house on King Street. The likelihood of avoiding being seen by at least one nosy person was not good, but at least they wouldn’t have to make conversation with anyone. By the time they arrived at the Dovecote it was late, and clearly her gaggle had been watching for her. To his horror, they all came flooding out her front door, some twenty strong.
He slid down from the saddle, then reached up for Melisande. “Someone take the damned horses,” he said, and carried her up the stairs, hoping one of the women knew enough about horseflesh to deal with them. The door was still open and the woman he had once known as Emma Cadbury, owner of one of the finest brothels in town, came rushing toward them, her face free of paint, her hair and clothes plain, her beautiful face creased with worry.
“What happened?” she demanded breathlessly.
“I fell,” Melisande spoke up for the first time.
“Where’s her bedroom?”
“You’re not taking me to my bedroom!”
“Yes, I am. And have someone call for a doctor. I don’t think she’s broken her ankle but I could be wrong. She’ll definitely need it elevated and bandaged,” he said, overriding her objection.
“I can elevate it downstairs!” she shot back.
Mrs. Cadbury wasn’t the kind of woman who was easily intimidated, but he was a man who knew how to get his own way. He looked at Emma Cadbury.
“Her bedroom is on the second floor,” she said after a moment. “First doorway on the right. I’ll send someone for a doctor.”
“Traitor,” Melisande said bitterly as Benedick started up the stairs.
He ignored her. A couple of the younger girls met him at the top of the stairs, rushing ahead to open the door for him. Melisande was fuming now, rigid and silent and outraged, and he wondered what kind of tongue-lashing she was dying to deliver. And whether she’d let loose if her doves were around.
He glanced around the room in surprise. It was utilitarian but a far cry from the kind of place a wealthy widow like Lady Carstairs should live in. No chaise, so he set her down on the plain