How I Met My Countess (13 page)

“Lucy, I—”

She pressed a finger to his lips to stop his words. At worst he was about to cry off or, even more frightening, he was about to declare himself.

And she knew she’d probably kill him over the former and give him her heart over the latter.

Both disastrous considerations.

“Sssh,” she whispered, kissing his lips, nuzzling at his neck. “I know, I know.” Then she paused, looked directly into his eyes and smiled, a wicked, enticing tilt to her lips that was about the only useful thing her mother had ever given her.

Besides those French instructional manuals.

“Please, Gilby,” she said, her voice throaty and full of passion. She rocked her hips up against him, let his manhood slide between her legs. “Love me. Please, I beg of you, take me now.”

His answer was a kiss, deep and hard, while his arm slid beneath her, hauling her close, raising her hips so she was completely open to him.

“You are mine, Lucy Ellyson. Mine,” he said, in a dark, dangerous voice. “Mine always. Never forget it.”

Lucy opened her mouth to promise, but it was then that he entered her, taking her innocence in one quick stroke, fulfilling his vow.

She gasped at the brief flash of pain, but it faded quickly, for he seemed to have known what was to happen and began again to kiss her, his thumb rolling over the hard nub of her nipple, his mouth moving down to suckle the other one. All the while his body moved inside her, at first with slow, even strokes, then, when she moaned softly, her hips rising up to meet him, he began to move faster.

He filled her, inflamed her, made her insides molten as she eagerly matched him stroke for stroke.

She arched back, let him drive into her as she clung to him and found herself getting closer and closer to her release.

The room, the moonlight, everything whirled around her dizzy vision as she found herself pulled and tormented.

Clifton’s thrusts grew harder, more frenzied, and Lucy welcomed them, for they only drove her higher until suddenly she was there—one moment she was on the precipice, and the next she was tossed over the edge, her body exploding with pleasure.

“Oh, yes! Oh, yes,” she called out, arching upward to get every last inch of him inside her, to be filled completely.

And as she rose up, he thrust hard into her and groaned deeply, his body shuddering as he found his completion.

His mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but he hadn’t the breath to form the words, so lost was he in his pleasure.

But Lucy knew exactly what he was going to say.

Mine. Never forget it. You are mine
.

And she knew it now that she would always be his. Marked this night by his lovemaking, her heart etched now and always.

Some time later, Lucy found herself awakening from an all-too-short doze. Beside her, Clifton slept.

Between Notton’s brew and the last few hours spent in vigorous lovemaking, the man was lost in a deep, contented slumber.

Glancing at the window, she saw the slight hint of light starting to illuminate the sky, the moon having gone to find its rest some time ago.

It was nearly dawn, and there was little time for her to get home before she was missed.

Lucy slipped from the bed and began to gather up her clothes, dressing quickly and slanting smile-filled glances at the man in the bed.

She loved him. That much she knew.

And he loved her. He’d proposed to her. Promised to come back to her.

“It cannot be, Goosie
,
”
she could hear her father saying. “
He is from another world
.
”

“Who is to say we can’t find our own place?” she whispered. As she went to slip out of the room, she spied the flower he’d picked for her the night before. A token of this glorious night.

Retrieving the wilted blossom, Lucy left, making her way quietly down the back stairs. Somewhere in the inn Mrs. Turnpenny was rousing the maids to answer some pounding at the front door, and Lucy escaped as only an Ellyson could, without being caught.

Navigating the still streets and keeping out of sight, she was all the way home, feeling quite smug, when she carefully opened the door to the kitchen, plotting the rest of her course …
up the back stairs and into her room and no one would be the wiser
.

At least so she thought.

That is, until she closed the kitchen door and turned around and found her father sitting at the table with a pot of tea in front of him and a look that could have sent an entire brigade scrambling for cover.

“Lucy Louisa, what the devil have you done?”

“I-I-I-,” she stammered and stopped when he held up his hand to stave her off.

“Don’t tell me. I know demmed well what you’ve gone and done.”

She stood her ground. “He loves me, Papa. He wants to marry me. You’ll see when he comes this morning. He’ll ask for your permission, and I beg of you to give it.”

“He won’t come,” her father declared.

“Of course he will, why wouldn’t he?”

A shiver of gooseflesh ran down her arms. There was something about the set of her father’s brows, the line of his jaw that said he knew more to this business than she did.

“He will,” she insisted, though she didn’t feel as sure as she had a few moments ago.

Her father raised his hands and revealed a packet of papers, bound in blue paper and tied with a gold ribbon.

The air rushed out of her lungs, out of the room. She didn’t need to see the seal to know what her father had before him.

Orders.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “It is too soon. He isn’t ready.”

“Actually, he is quite ready. You’ve seen to that. And if all is going according to plan, the earl and Mr. Grey are being roused as we speak.”

The knocking on the door. Mrs. Turnpenny’s strident cries demanding to know who was calling so early.

That had been for Clifton. Even as she’d gone tripping out the back, he’d been awakened and his orders relayed.

She turned to the door and began to open it, her hand trembling so badly that she could barely hold the latch, yet she had to catch him, to follow him.

But her father crossed the room and closed the door before she could escape.

“It is too late, Goosie. He’s gone. By now he will be in a carriage going to the coast. You cannot hope to catch him.” He paused and looked at her. “His orders are to get to Dover without a moment’s delay, for they must catch the evening tide.”

She shook her head, even as she sank into the chair beside the door. “No, this cannot be. Whatever have you done?”

“What is best for you, Goosie.”

“And if he doesn’t come back? Have you thought of that?”

Her father’s brow furrowed deeper. “That is exactly why he is leaving. I won’t have you left a widow. Where would you be then?” He rose from the table and shook his head. “You’d be at the mercy of his world, and that is a fate I will not allow.”

But as Fate was ever a fickle, wily creature, it was exactly the state Lucy Ellyson Sterling found herself in years later.

Lost and lonely in a world she didn’t belong to.

Not one to stand on ceremony, Lucy Ellyson Sterling, the Marchioness of Standon, shook off the recollections of her past and pulled the bell at the door before her. She hoped, nay prayed, that whatever matter this summons to meet with the Duchess of Hollindrake was for, it would be less unsettling than running into the Earl of Clifton.

He’s changed, Mariana
, she would have told her sister.

But Mariana was gone now, as was her father. Lost to a fever that had swept through their quiet village, taking so many with it.

Taking everything Lucy had known. Upending her life.

As much as Clifton had. For he hadn’t come back to her. Hadn’t written. Not even when Malcolm had been killed.

Lucy pressed her lips together and willed the moisture in her eyes not to give way to tears.

Oh, Mariana, how he looked at me! As if we were barely friends, as if he’d never loved me. As if I was the last person he ever wanted to see.

What had he said? He’d come to Hampstead to thank her father for all he’d done?

And not one word for all she’d done to ensure that he came home? No thanks to her?

Arrogant, ungrateful bastard.

To give herself something to do other than ordering her carriage after the earl and running the man down in broad daylight, she reached for the bell again and would have given it another good yank if, to her surprise, Mr. Mudgett, the duke’s former batman, hadn’t opened the door just then.

“There you are, my lady,” he said in that familiar curmudgeony voice of his. Then the man glanced over her shoulder, his thick brows furrowing together. “Brought the child along, have you?”

Lucy flinched. For unfortunately, as dear as Mickey was to her, he was not all that beloved throughout the Sterling households.

But when she’d agreed to marry Archie Sterling, she’d wrenched a promise from him that she would not have to give up Mickey—that he would never be taken from her. Ever. And so the boy had remained with her, no matter how deplorable the Sterlings found the scandalous situation.

Lucy Ellyson Sterling and
that child
.

“Ever consider leaving him at the wayside, would you now?” the man asked, looking past her like a watchman instructed to guard against the barbarian horde. Or small, rambunctious lads.

“Of course not, Mr. Mudgett,” she answered, trying to sound not the least bit put out by his less than charitable greeting.

“Well there, you might as well come in and join the lot of them.”

“The lot of—” she began to ask until she saw what he meant.

The marble floor was carpeted in luggage— hatboxes, trunks, traveling bags and cases. And standing on either side of the entry were the other two dowager Lady Standons, Minerva and Elinor.

She didn’t know why she was surprised to see Minerva, for hadn’t Clifton said as much …

“The lady just sent me packing with a flea in my ear.”

Yet here was Elinor as well, and from their corners across the way, neither of the ladies looked none-too-pleased at her arrival.

Lucy glanced back at Mr. Mudgett to see if he had any explanation for this.
All three of them? Summoned here? But to what end?

Oh, this didn’t bode well at all. She should have known that running into Clifton had been just a harbinger of the disaster yet to come.

Before she could map a plan on how to meet the coming apocalypse, her entire party came trooping up the steps like the loyal companions and servants they were.

Mickey arrived first, tumbling into the foyer and immediately setting off Elinor’s collection of dogs, who yapped and barked with excitement.

“Dear God, not the child,” Lucy heard Minerva mutter under her breath.

True to form, Mickey couldn’t just enter the house and take his proper place. No, he looked around until he found the quickest route to trouble.

“Aunt ‘Nirva!” he called out, making a beeline for the lady, wrapping his arms around her waist and giving her a big hug. He glanced over his shoulder and winked at Lucy.

Little devil, he knew how much Minerva hated having children underfoot, let alone one attached to her.

But before Lucy could pluck him to safety, for Minerva looked to be in a mood—not that she wasn’t most days—Mickey was off.

“Tia!” he cried out as he spied Elinor’s young sister across the way. Pushing off Minerva and leaving the lady teetering to find her footing, he bolted over the trunks like a little monkey to gain a spot next to his old friend.

Once again Elinor’s terriers set up a deafening cacophony of yips and barks.

Not so much that Lucy couldn’t hear Minerva’s muttered complaint. “At least the dogs can be put on a leash and sent to the stables.”

“Mickey!” Tia exclaimed, her pretty, fresh face brightening with a wide smile, until a nudge from her sister brought a renewal of her previous composed stance. The girl drew a steady breath, then said in even tones, “How nice to see you again, Michael,” holding out her hand to him, instead of the hug and kiss he expected.

He stared first at the outstretched hand, then glanced over at Lucy, puzzled by the change in his old friend. Sadly, it appeared that Tia had grown beyond joining Mickey in his exuberant rambles of going fishing in the pond and merrily chasing Elinor’s dogs about the meadow.

But before Lucy could explain things to him— that girls become young ladies—she had to negotiate with the rest of her party.

“Come now, Mr. Otter,” she said to the tall, thin fellow as he poked his head through the door, blinking as he surveyed the cluttered foyer, a place filled with ladies and their belongings. Lucy took him by the arm and pulled him inside as one might when one ran out of patience with a timid maiden aunt.

Then came Clapp. Dear old Clapp. “Oh, goodness!” she exclaimed in that wheezy sort of way of hers that burst out like the notes from a hand organ. “Lucy, this cannot be correct, for here is Lady Standon—” There was a pause as Clapp, too, took in the entire foyer. “Oh, and Elinor as well. All three of you? Heavens, this cannot be right, Lucy, I just know it.”

“This is the right place,” Lucy told her, guiding Mickey’s beleaguered nanny into the fold.

A woman of a good number of years, Clapp, like so many of her elderly lot, held a resigned expression of being perpetually put upon. “Oh, my! Did I muddle the invitation? For it hardly seems like the duchess meant for all of us …” The lady paused and took in the strained expression on Elinor’s face, but before she could comment further, she finally took notice of her charge. “Mickey,” Clapp scolded, “do not bedevil Tia another moment. I doubt she has any sweets in her reticule—she’s grown to be a proper lady now. Why, she’s quite filled out.”

Lucy cringed at this indelicate remark, while Tia blushed at having everyone notice that she was no longer a child.

Elinor, for her part, looked ready to clobber Clapp with the nearest valise.

Lucy closed her eyes and prayed that mayhem wouldn’t ensue before the duchess arrived and she would be blamed for it.

Yet again.

Quickly she went to work, taking stock to ensure that everyone had come inside. “Mr. Otter, Clapp, and yes, there you are, Thomas-William.” Her father’s loyal manservant had to duck his head to enter, for he towered over everyone, an imposing, implacable statue of a man.

His entrance gave Lucy a measure of comfort— for besides Mickey, Thomas-William was her only remaining link to her former life. How she would manage without Thomas-William’s steady presence, she knew not.

Even now, he stood silently surveying his surroundings with an expression that needed no explanation.

“Yes, yes, it isn’t what we expected,” Lucy told him. “But there is no reason to frown. Come along and close the door before Minerva gives us all one of her infamous looks.”

Minerva, from the furrow on her brow, had been about to send the entire lot of them one of her most scathing glances, but Lucy’s statement had brought all eyes upon her and she forced a smile to her lips to appear the gracious lady, the product of proper breeding.

“So I wasn’t the only one summoned,” Lucy commented as she adjusted the shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“How very apt you are,” Minerva said in return. She took a long, measured examination of Lucy’s ensemble, then sighed heavily, as if Lucy’s lack of fashion sense was just another trial yet to be borne. Minerva would never be called an Original or one of Society’s great beauties, what with her nut-brown hair and eyes that didn’t lend her the kind of starry blonde splendor that was Elinor’s claim. But Minerva knew how to dress and hold herself like a queen, giving herself a regal appearance that overshadowed many of the more reputable Diamonds. “Yes, we’ve all been summoned. But to what end, I cannot imagine.”

“No, indeed, it seems very odd,” Lucy said, winding her way through all the trunks and watching with a wary glance as her ward made his gamboling way up the stairs with Elinor’s dogs in hot pursuit. “I went to the duke’s residence first—that is why I am late.”

She glanced around the crowded foyer and realized that it and the sitting room beyond sported only a few meager pieces of furniture—a rose-colored settee and a couple of high-backed chairs. No pictures or decorations brightened the entry-way, and the paper on the walls curled in several places—and not inconspicuous ones. “Rather a dismal place, don’t you agree?”

Neither of the other ladies replied, for once again, the answer was all too obvious.

The strained detente that enveloped the foyer continued, while up a few flights there was Mickey’s echoing laughter, accompanied by a chorus of barks sifting down the stairs.

And then there was a long silence above as well, one all too unnerving to ignore.

A quiet Mickey was a portent to calamity.

Everyone looked in that direction. Then all eyes turned toward Lucy.

Mickey, she had no doubts, was already in trouble. “Clapp, Mr. Otter, will you see what amusement Mickey has discovered?” She shot a baleful glance at Thomas-William as well. “You might be needed.”

The man snorted, as if that was the most obvious statement that had been uttered so far. He followed Clapp and Mr. Otter up the stairs.

Elinor nodded at her sister. “Tia, be a dear and go see that Lucy’s little devil hasn’t brought on Isidore’s litter prematurely.”

Tia looked to be about to open her mouth and protest such a thing, but then she heaved a sigh and went up the stairs, reluctantly following Lucy’s servants like one condemned.

And just as the last of Tia’s white muslin hem disappeared up the stairs, the bell jangled, and in unison they turned toward the door wondering what was to come next.

Mudgett, who huffed in dismay at having to pick his way through the overflowing foyer for a fourth time, muttered as he went, “This ought to be herself, ’iffin I’m not mistaken.”

And it was, for once the door opened, the Duchess of Hollindrake swept inside.

Lucy watched the duchess warily, for she found the former Miss Felicity Langley a formidable lady—a bustling, calculating, bundle of nerve and determination who could have marched single-handedly across the Continent and contained Napoleon in a fortnight, with time to spare for shopping in Paris.

Hadn’t her father, Lord Langley, been infamous in the Foreign Office circles for his daring?

The duchess came by her audacity naturally.

Instead of waiting for proper greetings, she launched right in with her usual military fashion. “Excellent! You’ve found your way to your new home without any problems, I see.”

Even from across the room, Lucy swore she could feel Minerva stiffen. For she was having much the same reaction as Lucy.

What the devil had the duchess just said?

“Our new what?” Minerva managed, for she of all three of them seemed the least bowled over by the woman who wore the title that each of them had once thought would be hers.

The duchess turned sharply and eyed her for a second. “You heard me. Your. New. Home.”

“Ah, Minerva, you seem to have found yourself a fine establishment,” Elinor said smugly, picking up her skirts and moving toward the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, Your Grace, I would like to remove myself and my sister to Grosvenor Square. My rooms are still in order, are they not?” This last question she asked with the same manner and tone one might use with a housekeeper or any other hapless servant.

The duchess studied Elinor with a gaze that sent a shiver of dread down Lucy’s spine.

Again, as the daughter of a man who was neither a nobleman nor, even, a gentleman, Lucy knew her place and had enough sense not to aggravate the woman before them.

This lady, she would like to remind Minerva and Elinor, held their future well-being in her tan kid-glove-clad hands.

The duchess, for her part, wasn’t about to suffer any sort of rebellion, and she stepped into Elinor’s path even as she shot the lady a withering glance. “Lady Standon, this is your new home as well.”

“This?” Elinor sputtered as she regarded her surroundings like one might a dirty stable yard. “That cannot be. For you have just told Minerva this is
her
house.”

The duchess nodded. “It is. Her house. Your house. And Lady Standon’s house,” she said, tipping her head toward Lucy. “You three are to share it.”

Lucy shot a glance up toward the stairs, hoping to find Thomas-William standing there.

What had he said earlier?

“I don’t put it past her high and mighty to be up to something.”

Oh, yes, she was … she was, indeed!

And while Lucy could see the writing on the wall as if it were one of her father’s old codes, Elinor and Minerva were having a bit more trouble deciphering the situation.

“Yes, that is all well and good,” the second Lady Standon continued with a dismissive wave of her hand, “but while Minerva is living here, where shall I live? Or for that matter, Lucy and her mob? You cannot mean to suggest that we …” She studied the duchess with an unblinking expression, one of pure stubborn triumph, and took a step back. “Dear heavens, you aren’t suggesting that all of us … that we are to …”