Leslie Lafoy (16 page)

“Simone!”

Oh, how sweet. She wasn’t where he’d left her and he was worried. “I’m over here,” she called softly.

At the edge of her vision she saw him come around the building. His stride faltered for a second. But only for a second. “What are you doing?” he asked quietly as he stepped to her back and wrapped his arms around her midriff.

Home. She was home. Settling into him, she laid her arms over his and sighed dreamily. “Watching the fog rise and roll along the Thames. It’s been forever since I’ve seen it. Odd how it’s the littlest things we miss, isn’t it?”

She felt him ever so slightly shift his stance and draw a long, deep breath. “It’s not safe for you to be down here alone, Simone.”

“I’m not alone,” she pointed out in a whisper. “I’m with you.”

His chest softened against her back and the tension in his arms ebbed away. Tucking her head under his chin, he stood with her for a long moment before he asked, “When was the last time you were down to the river?”

The morning of the day that her world had been turned upside down. The tide had been low, but she hadn’t found anything in the foul mud worth selling. Others had, though, and she’d gone back to the brothel thinking she was going to be hungry another day and resenting that others would get to eat. Essie had been furious that there was no larking money to supplement her madam’s share and … Simone deliberately closed those moments away. “It was years ago,” she supplied simply.

“Something unpleasant must have happened. Your heart’s racing and your body’s tight.”

He didn’t know the half of it. Or even a sliver. She willed her body to relax, reminding herself that the past was over and that Tristan wouldn’t let harm come to her from anyone. “The better memories seem as though they’re from another lifetime and they’ve become a little faint and fuzzy,” she explained. “The bad ones, though … They’re still as close as yesterday and I try very hard to pretend they aren’t.”

“Then I’m sorry I asked you to look back.”

Regret rippled sincerely through his words and tugged strangely at her heart. “I was born down here, along the Thames,” she said, feeling an inexplicable need to share her story with him. “Where, exactly, I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows. Or much cares, for that matter.”

“Why?”

“My mother was a prostitute.”

“And your father?”

“The Duke of Ryland.” She smiled and shrugged within the confines of his embrace. “Or so they say. I’ve never really believed it, but my opinion doesn’t carry any weight. The queen declared it so, waved her scepter, and I was hauled away to a life of considerable wealth, comfort, and privilege.”

“And your mother? Where is she these days? Do you know?”

“She was murdered when I was ten. Someone cut her throat in an alley.”

He hugged her long and hard, tucked her closer under his chin. “Who took you in?”

“It was more a case of who was willing to hand me a bucket and a rag mop in exchange for a corner by the hearth. Who was willing to trade what I found larking for a few bits of food. For the next four years.”

“Bless the queen for eventually waving her scepter.”

“As mistakes go, I came out well on it,” she admitted. “And Caroline and Drayton have been very understanding of how difficult it’s been to become someone else.”

“A person can’t ask, or hope, for much more than that.”

No, they couldn’t. That Tristan knew that … “Tell me about your life, your family.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” he answered easily, lightly. “It wasn’t much of a family. My father was a drunk who married three times. My brother Giles was by his first wife. My brother James was by his second, my mother. And Emmaline by his third, Lucinda.”

Simone frowned and quickly ran the words through her head again. “He wasn’t your father?”

“By name and law and rights of inheritance, yes. But not by actual seed.”

So they were both bastards. “Did he know that you weren’t his?”

“Oh yes. And it was never forgiven or forgotten. The day I turned eighteen I sailed for America, and we never saw each other again. That I’m the one who inherited his title … He’s spinning in his grave. Around and around and around.”

“Do you know who your real father is?”

His chin brushed over her hair as he shook his head. “My mother refused to name him.”

Possibility bloomed. Simone arched a brow. “God, I hope it wasn’t the Duke of Ryland. Otherwise…” She shuddered and Tristan chuckled. “Let’s not think about that,” she suggested.

“I have an even better idea,” he offered, nibbling her ear.

“Let’s not think at all?” she guessed while shivers of delight rippled through her and her knees went weak.

He eased his arms from around her and took her hand. Saying, “It’s damp. Let’s go inside,” he drew her toward the door of the warehouse.

She let him lead her, her brain dutifully, calmly, recording realizations as they went. She’d never in her life docilely let a man lead her anywhere. And considering why Tristan was guiding her into a dark warehouse … She really ought to be a great deal more nervous than she was. Or, at the least, a tad reluctant.

But then again, she knew the basic mechanics of lovemaking; growing up in brothels had been quite instructive. Not that she’d ever put all that knowledge to any sort of actual personal use until now. Hopefully there weren’t any great secrets to impressive lovemaking that she’d failed to hear. It had all seemed fairly straightforward and relatively simple. Not that she’d been paying attention
that
closely. Although she might have found it all more interesting if there had ever been a man like Tristan involved.

Lord, he had the most incredible smile, the most expressive dark eyes. Just the sight of him made her warm all the way to the center of her bones. And his touch … Even now, her fingers laced through his was enough to make her pulse quicken in anticipation. Right or wrong didn’t matter. And the costs be damned. Even if it was only for a few hours, tonight she was his. She was wanted.

Tristan resisted the urge to sweep her up into his arms and stopped just across the threshold of his warehouse. “Careful,” he admonished, letting go of her hand. “There are crates everywhere. Let me light the lamp.”

She waited in silence, a shapely shadow of clove-scented temptation as she carefully eased out of her jacket and laid it aside. Determined to hold his course, he found the match and struck it.

“Oh, Tristan,” she whispered in reward.

Leaving her to fantasize amid the mountains of brightly colored silks and satins, he removed his jacket and tossed it aside as he made his way along the path he’d laid out. “It gets better as we go,” he cajoled as the second lamp cast its light over stacks of gleaming brass and well-oiled wood.

“It’s perfect right here,” she called from behind him as he lit the third and final lamp. He smiled and, waving out the match, went back to see which of the treasures had captivated her attention. He stopped at the edge of the light, his heart tripping in the most surprising way. He’d put the sword where he was sure she’d see it as she passed. He’d hoped she’d be intrigued enough to pick it up and give him a chance to gift it to her. And with the exception of the final part, it had gone perfectly according to plan. But as he stood there, his brain refused to think beyond how marvelously unique Lady Simone Turnbridge truly was.

“The balance is incredible,” she said, grinning and stepping forward to thrust the point toward an imaginary opponent. She jumped back, brought the blade up in a quick arc to parry, and then danced forward two steps, her grin broadening with each. “I’ve never wielded anything as finely made.”

And he’d never had a woman so freely and naturally physical. He swallowed and desperately tamped down his anticipation. “The first time I held your hands, I wondered how a lady could have calluses in both her palms. The left are from reins, of course. The right, I see, are from a hilt. You’ve been formally trained. By someone very good at close arms combat.”

She stopped and held the blade up to study the light gleaming off the finely honed edge. “That would be Haywood and Drayton.” She looked past the weapon to meet his gaze. “Do you fence?”

He nodded slowly as a fantasy of a rough victory played through his mind. He cleared his throat softly and came off the crate, shifting his stance to accommodate his sudden hardness. “We’ll have to have a match sometime.”

Her gaze went slowly up and down the length of his body. “But not now,” she said softly, the light in her eyes deepening.

“I didn’t see any épées in the inventory,” he offered, watching her reverently place the sword back into its carved box.

She closed the lid and turned to him, her smile easy and knowing. “And we have better ways to spend our time?”

“Yes.” He held out his hand and she stepped to the edge of light and took it without hesitation. He gazed down into smoldering dark eyes and, with every measure of restraint he possessed, slowly led her to the last pool of light.

“It’s lovely, Tristan,” she whispered, easing her hand free and stepping past him. She stopped halfway between him and the canopied bed he’d fashioned of silk and satin pillows and lengths of gold-embroidered saris. “Truly…” She shook her head and then eased her hip against the crate on which he’d placed the lamp.

“Opulent?” he suggested as he watched her bend down.

“Oh yes,” she agreed, pulling off her boot. “Decadent, too.” She bent over again to remove the other boot. “And wonderfully inspirational.”

“Ah, yes, inspiration.” He surrendered to it and stepped behind her to place his hands on her hips and ever so lightly draw her backside against him. “It’s so important, isn’t it?”

“You’re distracting me,” she accused, her breath ragged as she tossed her boot aside and straightened.

He held her hips in place and bent his head to nip at her ear and murmur, “It’s only fair. You’ve been distracting me since I saw you across the ballroom.”

“Did you want to do this even then?”

“Yes.” He released her hips to slide his hands boldly over her ribs and up to cup her breasts. “And at least a dozen times since,” he admitted, scraping his thumbs over the hardened crests.

She shuddered slowly and deeply, then, with a satisfied sigh and sensuous wiggle, eased out of his loose embrace. She took only two steps, turned to face him, and began undoing the buttons of her shirt, saying, “I haven’t made you wait very long for your dreams. Barely a full two days.”

A full day too long as far as he was concerned. “Which makes you the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known.” And if he didn’t get about the business of stripping off his clothes, he’d have no one but himself to blame for any more time wasted.

“Am I the most wanton, too?”

“The most honest, Simone,” he assured her as he blindly pulled off his own boot and threw it aside. “I am in awe of your honesty.”

She made a little humming sound and undid the last button on her shirt. Leaving it hanging open just enough to slacken his jaw in stunned realization, her fingers moved down the line of her trouser buttons. His head was already light and his boot was halfway off when her pants slipped down over her hips and pooled at her ankles. His breath caught when the shirt fluttered down atop the pants a second later.

No chemise. No corset. No pantaloons. No stockings. Just creamy satin skin and lusciously sweeping curves.

“Sweet Jesus,” he moaned, his balance faltering as his hands tightened around his boot. He yanked it off and pitched it blindly off into the darkness as he planted both feet on the wooden floor and seized a steadying breath.

Even as he struggled for control, she stepped out of the fabric and advanced on him with a soft, delightfully wanton smile. “You’ve forgotten all about my honesty, haven’t you?”

Honesty was nice, but at the moment he was far more appreciative of her high, perfectly shaped, perfectly sized, perfectly crested breasts. “You … are…”

“What?” she drawled, reaching out to open the buttons of his shirt.

“Every man’s dream come true.”

“Really,” she said to his shirtfront. “I always thought men’s fantasies required a bit more of a woman than simply standing about. If I’d known satisfying them involved so little effort, I would have happily and thoroughly met yours yesterday morning in the conservatory. And again this morning.”

Naked in the greenhouse? “Well, there’s always tomorrow morning,” he offered, grinning as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders.

She nodded and skimmed her hands down over his chest. “True. But only if I enjoy it enough tonight to want to do it again.”

His breath caught painfully in the center of his chest as her fingers trailed down to the top button of his trousers. She was magnificent. Beyond all of his dreams. “The
if,
my brazen beauty, is in whether you’re going to be able to want again that soon.”

Her eyes sparkled and her grin was wide and bright as she looked up to meet his gaze. “Oh, you think you’re
that
good, do you?”

“Want me to prove it?”

“Yes, please.” She winked at him and then turned and walked off to the bed, saying, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

He stood there as though rooted to the planking, watching her, marveling at her grace, her aplomb, her sense of confidence. And her marvelous backside. She stepped carefully into the mass of pillows, stopped, turned, and then slowly sank to her knees and sat back on her heels.

Good God Almighty. He was the luckiest man in London. In England. Hell, in the whole damn British Empire. Or he would be once he got himself over to the bed. And shed of his clothing.

He looked down to see what degree of disrobing she’d accomplished for him and grinned. What a quick and efficient little thing she was. Undoing the buttons on his shirt cuffs, he shrugged and sent it to the floor. His pants followed, one button and a scant second later. Stepping out of them, he paused only long enough to turn the lamp down slightly and then made his way to the makeshift bower.

Her heart skittering madly, her nerves tingling, Simone watched him walk toward her and willed herself to breathe, to keep from gaping. She’d hadn’t seen a naked man in quite some time, but she had glimpsed a fair number of them over the course of her earlier years. They hadn’t been all that impressive. And certainly not the least bit inspiring.