Improper Gentlemen (13 page)

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Authors: Diane Whiteside,Maggie Robinson,Mia Marlowe

Tags: #Historical romance, #Fiction

BOOK: Improper Gentlemen
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His cock was hot and velvety in her hand. It, like the rest of him, seemed to have grown from what she recalled. But she couldn’t see for herself, as Simon’s shaggy dark head obstructed her vision. So she went on sensation alone, thumbing the raised vein from root to tip. It jerked in response and Simon’s tongue twinned with it in a desperate thrust around her nipple. Lucy fitted her hand around his cock and drew it up, then down in the dimly-remembered dance they’d perfected in their snatched moments. She had not lost the knack—Simon expressed satisfyingly anguished sounds as she glided slowly around his member. His hand abandoned a breast and sought her center, replicating what he’d done in the theatre, using a thumb instead of a tongue to press against her pubic bone. A few short, hard strokes and she was crumbling again, fragmenting, shattering, breaking apart and grateful for every scattered shard.
Her breathless cries didn’t stop him. Simon had said something about too many orgasms. She had lost count already and she was as good with numbers as he was good with his hands. As Simon continued the onslaught, Lucy quite forgot to touch him, so witless was she.
But he soon remedied that, easing his fingers away. Before Lucy could come down from her heights to miss him, he settled himself over her and inched inside her.
She was tight. It was slow going, but he was patient, his shadowed face a study in concentration. He was too beautiful to look at, so she turned her head. His arms corded at her sides, muscled and entirely masculine, his hands splayed near her shoulders. His blackened fingernails fascinated her—he was so clean everywhere else. The nails were clipped short and buffed—by a MacTavish, no doubt, if Simon sat still long enough. He seemed like a tightly-coiled spring, bursting with energy and industry. It was only at the opera he’d been physically quiet, mesmerized by that outrageous woman who played Orpheus. Lucy supposed after Percy she should be used to people switching genders, but she was still not entirely comfortable with the idea. The thought of it all would send her strict aunt into a state of permanent vapors.
Lucy chided herself for thinking of her aunt at a time like this, when Simon was doing his damnedest to connect himself to her. But perhaps she should distract herself—not think about how perfect he felt as he entered her and withdrew, how hard and hot he was, how—oh! that twisty thing he still did that touched her just where she needed most to be touched—how liquid and loose she felt as she lay under him, like a pond that still rippled from a rock being tossed in.
But Lucy felt the ocean coming, crashing waves and lunar pull, and thoughts of aunts and opera dissolved in the storm that was Simon, his face in exquisite agony—she had to look up now—his blue eyes beseeching. There was perfect understanding between them. No barrier. No hesitation. No regret.
“Yes,” she whispered. Yes and yes and yes. He swept down to kiss her when he came, an uncontrolled kiss and clash of teeth and tongue that took her along with him. Her hips rose to meet the last deep thrust and she wrapped her long legs around him, drawing him in and keeping him safe.
They shuddered together, damp, disheveled, exultant. Simon still kissed her, moving his lips from hers to her nose, her eyelids, her forehead. She felt like a child blessed at church.
Lucy had wondered all those years ago what this would be like—to love Simon in a proper bed, to not be afraid of discovery, to allow him to spill within her. They had been remarkably careful as youngsters, not wanting to bring another poor baby into the world. If she fell pregnant after tonight, she expected Simon would see to it that she and the child were provided for.
A child would be a miracle—she’d not allowed herself to think along those lines for years, watching her youth vanish along with her reputation.
Simon’s baby. Lucy envisioned a dark-haired busy boy whose pockets would be filled with clockworks and coils of wire.
Och, she was a sentimental fool, dreaming of a future that was not to be. This was just one night—it meant nothing. Would lead to nothing, and shouldn’t. What would she do with a child, bringing it up alone? Simon thought she was a whore, would probably take the child from her. Even if she told him the truth, he was not apt to believe her. What woman who lived on Jane Street for six years could be innocent?
Lucy shut her eyes, smoothing a cheek on Simon’s shoulder, the scent of his skin as familiar to her as her own reflection. Some things never changed. She’d fallen victim to him again but she couldn’t blame him. Lucy had been hungry for a man’s touch for too long. The fact that Simon seemed to be the only man who made her heart stutter was not his fault.
She should say something to him as he held her tight, but she didn’t trust herself to speak. He was equally reticent, the only sound in the room the steady hiss and hum of burning coals in the fireplace. They lay entwined until Lucy’s heart slowed and the sweat chilled her skin.
Simon noticed her shiver and hugged her. “Are you cold, Luce?”
She nodded. He reached for the edge of the blanket and wrapped it around them, but it was still not enough to warm the ice within. She would have to leave tomorrow—today. Where would she go? She hadn’t a friend left in the world except Percy.
Percy. Perhaps he’d take her on his staff. She could be his secret lady’s maid. A hopeless chortle erupted.
“What’s so funny, Luce? Dinna tell me you find this pickle funny.”
Lucy pulled away. “This pickle?”
“Aye. I’ll not be fighting you tooth and nail every time I take you to bed. We need to set some ground rules. I’m that fond of my chin.”
Lucy was too. Right now it was dusted with the beginnings of his dark beard and he looked like a delicious pirate. “Just because—” Lucy swallowed. “This was a one-off, Simon. I still plan to leave.”
His lips quirked. “This meant nothing to you? You needn’t lie to me, Luce. I know women. I know you. You were every bit as engaged as I.”
“Are you expecting me to sing your praises? You’ll have a long wait. I’ve had better.”
Lie, lie, lie.
It was the only thing that would free her.
Simon didn’t seem in the least perturbed. He stroked her flushed cheek with a fingertip. “Perhaps you can teach me a trick or two from your repertoire. I’m always interested in learning new things, especially if they add to my pleasure. If I could teach myself to read, I don’t doubt you could teach me to fuck you with greater finesse.”
Finesse
. He
had
been reading the dictionary. The look on his face told her he didn’t think it was possible for him to improve his amatory skill, and he was right, damn him.
“You are revolting.” She wriggled in his arms but he wouldn’t let her go.
“I hear the courtesans on Jane Street are unsurpassed in the sexual arts. So, what’s your first lesson? I’m an eager pupil.”
She resolutely shut her eyes. “I’m tired, Simon. I want to go to sleep.”
“All right.”
Lucy waited for him to let her go, but she was still clamped in his arms. She poked his chest. “Go home, Simon.”
“Nay. I’m perfectly comfortable right where I am.”
“Well, I am not! I can’t sleep with you here, all over me. I can’t breathe.”
“You seem to have enough breath to yell at me. Hush now.” He kissed the top of her head.
Unbelievable! She writhed a bit, but it was clear Simon would not give way. Lucy would just have to hope he forgot to hold her once he fell asleep.
But it was dawn before he disentangled himself from her, and that was only so he could stoke the fire and kiss her body awake in warmth.
Chapter 11
 
T
here was much an important man like Sir Simon Keith had on his plate this day, but at the moment he could not recall a single appointment or obligation. In fact, he really never wanted to leave the bed again to do anything but make love to Lucy, now that the chill had been driven from the room. The fire roared merrily, the October sun streamed in between the chintz curtains, and his mistress lay dazed and dazzled in a patch of light. Her hair was the color of the fine copper wire he used in his electrical experiments, a lovely rose-gold. He wrapped a strand around his finger, almost feeling its own current to his heart.
They’d shared a connection years ago, when she was coltish and shy but the most beautiful girl he knew. Lucy was beautiful still—in her own particular, out-of-the-ordinary way. Or would be if she weren’t scowling at him, her bronzy eyebrows beetling. Had she already forgotten what he’d done to her this morning? Twice.
At some point he’d have to devote a portion of his brain to rescuing Lucy from this life of debauchery and make her his wife. For there was not a question in his mind after last night and this morning that he wanted to marry her. The idea of her sleeping—and not sleeping—beside him filled him with intense, obstinate desire.
Simon didn’t care how many men she’d slept with. He’d been her first, by God, and he would be her last. If having Lucy meant giving up his tenuous hold on London Society, well then, so what? He’d still have his money and his ideas. He could work from anywhere. Wouldn’t it be restful if he spent more time at his Cotswold estate? The fresh air would put roses in Lucy’s cheeks, and the country was a better place to raise children anyhow.
Simon’s blurry vision of domestic bliss was interrupted by a sharp elbow to his ribs. “Get off me.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “What’s the magic word?”
“Now,” Lucy ground out.
He glanced at the china clock. She had a point. If he stayed here much longer his secretary and the MacTavish boys would not forgive him.
He nuzzled her long white neck. “I’ll leave after breakfast.”
Lucy whuffed her disapproval through flaring nostrils. “Surely it’s too late for breakfast.”
“That may be, but I’m hungry nonetheless and my staff will have food warming for us. Shall we eat here or go downstairs?”
She sat up, nearly breaking his nose. “Eat in
bed
?” She sounded fair horrified. What kind of imbecile was Percy Ferguson that he didn’t eat in bed with his mistress? There were any number of things that could be done with a pot of strawberry jam.
“Never tell me your maid doesn’t bring you a pot of chocolate to your bedside.”
“
Your
maid does. But I sit in my upstairs parlor with it and read the news sheets. I’m not a lazy slugabed. I have things to do.”
Odd. He thought mistresses lolled about until their protectors came each night. “What are all these things?”
“I read. I still make all my own hats. The girls on the street have their entertainments. Card parties and such.”
“It sounds like a grueling schedule.”
“You may mock me, but it’s not as though we women have as many choices as you men. You belong to some silly club, don’t you? I expect you read and play cards there, too.”
“Not often. But I’ve got to be where the important men are.”
“The
rich
men, you mean.”
Simon laughed. “You make being rich sound like a crime. Perhaps you missed your century. You should have been born French fifty years ago.”
“I don’t want anyone to part with their head. Only you,” she muttered.
“Luce, tell me you’ve not enjoyed being Ferguson’s mistress all these years, here in the lap of luxury. It may have been a little lean these past few months, but you had a nice long ride while it lasted.”
Damn it. There came her fist again. He ducked just in time. “Be reasonable, woman! Can you honestly tell me you’d rather be hunched over making hats in your aunt’s backroom, lucky to get a few farthings when she thought to pay you? I know I wouldn’t want to go back on the streets, cadging for my crusts of bread.”
“You could have found a steady job.”
“I was willing to do honest work, but there was so little of it.” And he
had
done all he could, legal or illegal, to keep his old gran in medicine and food. It still grieved him that his soldier’s pay was not enough to keep her alive longer. He’d sent every bit of it home.
“You’re still a thief. You’re robbing me of my time.”
Simon laughed. “And what is so pressing today that you must leap out of bed?”
“Have you forgotten? I’m leaving. I need to pack.”
Simon felt a deep stirring of anger. He’d gone long enough without what he needed in life. Lucy was
not
going to leave just when he’d found her again.
“The devil you say. I forbid it.”
“You forbid it? That makes me even more determined.” She squirmed in his arms, rubbing up against him in a delightfully vexing way.
“We have an agreement. In writing.”
“And who can read it with your dreadful penmanship? I signed it under duress. With a false name. You couldn’t possibly hold me to it.”
“I can hold you to anything.” To emphasize his point, he squashed her to him. All of him. She made him randy as Pan, bless her. Lately he’d been reading up on Greek mythology to pass the time. Terrible, violent stuff. Those gods were capricious, they were. “And the duress was strictly on my end. You were, I believe, blackmailing me.”
“And you’ve broken our bargain! You are in my bed!”
“In
my
bed. I own every stick of furniture in this place.”
“But you don’t own me.”
Simon sighed and relaxed his grip. “Aye. That I do not. You are your own woman, Lucy Dalhousie.”
She punched him in the shoulder feebly. “Stop calling me that! It’s a ridiculous name.”
He could change that. If he could change Lucy’s mind about leaving. What she needed was a proper wooing. With strawberry jam.
“Be sensible, Luce. You have nowhere to go now, do you? What harm can befall you by staying on Jane Street a wee bit longer?”
“I wish I’d never come here,” she mumbled into his chest. Her breaths tickled a bit. So she
was
sorry she’d lived a life of sin. That was a start to getting her back on the straight and narrow. How strange that a lad such as he had turned out more respectable than she. Lucy had been one long lecture in the past, when he wasn’t kissing her to shut her up.
What an excellent idea. He lifted her stubborn chin and swept his tongue against the seam of her lips. She didn’t make it easy for him, but she didn’t draw back. He toyed with the corner of her mouth, lifting it to a lopsided smile, then skimmed his way to the other side.
Simon felt tentative fingertips exploring his jaw. He didn’t want to burn her delicate white skin with his beard, so he flipped her on top of him, giving her more control. He was rewarded with her opening mouth and the silken warmth of her long body. By all the saints, he never wanted to stand up again. Possibly couldn’t. He thumbed her pale nipples until they pebbled beneath his touch, wishing he could kiss her there as well as her soft, sweet mouth. Wishing he could kiss her everywhere all at once. Devour her with kisses. Every sharp angle. Every gentle curve. Taste her from tip to toe and make her come again and again.
He opened his eyes to see Lucy’s closed, her gilt eyelashes fanning the blue flesh beneath her eyes. She had not slept well, then. He had not let her. It had been impossible not to take her at dawn as she drowsed in his arms, and then again just a scant half-hour ago, when she was wide awake and prickly. But he’d smoothed her the best way he knew how. She was temptation incarnate, and he was as starved for her as he’d been as a callow youth.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her hips and impaled her on his cock. She shuddered around him, liquid and lush. She slid up as he raised her, came down as he sank into her, so deep they were one being. How could she think of leaving?
Was her responsiveness just an act? His Lucy had never been a good liar. But many years had passed since she’d fibbed unconvincingly to her aunt and snuck out with him. She was a famous courtesan now, a woman Lord Ferguson bragged about throughout London. Did she kiss Percy like this, so hungry and angry? Did that fop ever cause that flush to her cheeks and the hammering pulse at her throat? It was torture for Simon to think of her with anyone else, for all that he’d been no saint himself.
But there would be no other woman. No woman but Lucy. All he had to do was make her see their future the way he did. He was a persuasive fellow—he’d managed to wangle his way all the way up to the king. One mere commoner should be no problem.
Ha. There was nothing common about her. He thrust up one final time, his seed spilling where it was meant to be. Lucy was his. For the next three months. For a lifetime.
She struggled out of his arms and flopped on her back, her heated body fragrant with lilac scent. “You canna keep doing this, Simon.”
He held back his chuckle. He was rather proud of his performance, not that he was about to take all the credit. “Doing what?”
Lucy waved a limp arm. “This. I canna be your mistress. ’T’isn’t right.”
“ ’T’was right for me, Luce. No more nonsense, now. It’s only for three months. Then you’ll have your money and go your own way.”
Over his dead body
.
Lucy’s chin jutted skyward. Simon was beginning to dislike the ambition of that chin. But she said nothing, just huffed a little and pulled up the covers to rob him of seeing her beauty.
He sat up. “I suppose I should leave you then. I have things to do, too.”
“What, no breakfast in bed?” she asked, her tone sarcastic.
“Not today. But tomorrow. Definitely.”
He was rewarded with another huff. Simon got up and went to the pile of neatly folded clothing and dressed without the benefit of a valet. Today he’d have fresh sets of clothing sent around so he wouldn’t be seen in yesterday’s dirt and opera attire again. But so what if he was spotted unshaven and in evening wear in the daylight? That would only add to his reputation.
It was Lucy’s reputation that concerned him. He hoped she wouldn’t wander all over town claiming to be his mistress.
Not likely. She did not seem completely won over to the idea, but he had to make sure.
“You are not to leave the house today. I’ll instruct MacTavish to see to it.”
Lucy flashed him an incredulous look. “I am to be kept prisoner here?”
“It’s a pretty prison, Luce. We’ll discuss my plans for you when I return tonight.”
“I won’t be here!”
“Aye, you will, if Mac has to tether you to the bed.”
“You bluidy bastard!”
Simon grinned. “Tis true my mum wasn’t married when she had me. Everybody knows that.”
Lucy gave a strangled cry and hurled a pillow. Simon deftly stepped out of its path and into his shoes.
“You canna keep me here against my will!”
She was sitting up now, blankets dropped, chest heaving. Lucy’s nipples were raspberry-hued and looked as if they’d taste even sweeter. If he kept staring he was never going to get any work done. He fiddled with his gold cufflinks.
“As I said, we’ll talk tonight. Have a nice day, Luce.”
Simon shut the door behind him. The thuds and shattering of objects and rather violent oaths were somewhat muted as he descended the stairs.
MacTavish awaited him, looking understandably nervous. “Good morning, Mac. Please see to it that Miss Dellamar is confined to the house today. She’s in a bit of a temper, so do whatever you think is necessary.”
The butler paled. “Is she not amenable to this arrangement, Sir Simon?”
“Don’t worry. She will be.”
Mac opened the front door for him, and Simon took a deep breath of Jane Street air. The other eleven houses were quiet, their mistresses probably sleeping the day away. Maybe Lucy would nap too, if she wasn’t too cross. Simon wanted her awake tonight, however. He was going to do more than talk to her.

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