The Truth About Lord Stoneville (14 page)

“Or a prospective lover,” he said hoarsely. He cupped his hand between her legs, and she squeezed them together in shock. “Maria . . .” he breathed, her name like a prayer on his lips. “Open for me. Let me caress you, angel.”

Angel?
Angels didn’t sit on the laps of wicked scoundrels—not unless they were the fallen kind.

“I just wish to caress you,” he choked out, “nothing more.”

A strangled laugh escaped her as she fought the sensual spell he was winding around her, the one that made her ache to have his hands wherever he wanted to put them. “I’d make you swear to that, except I know how little you can be trusted when you swear.”

He looked torn between protest and laughter. “I tell you what.” He drew his hand from between her legs and shifted her on his lap. Then he placed her own hand on the bulge in his tight trousers. “Since you clearly know how to make a man suffer, I give you leave to do what you must if I dare go further than caressing.”

As he curved her hand around his thinly clad flesh, his voice grew thick. “Of course, given the choice, I’d prefer that you caress
me
while I’m caressing you.”

“I don’t know how,” she whispered, fascinated by how his flesh seemed to leap beneath her hand.

“Just rub it.” He released her hand so he could delve beneath her skirts once more. “Up and down along the length.” When she did, he sucked in a harsh breath. “God, yes. Like that.”

Meanwhile, he’d found the slit in her drawers and had slipped his hand inside. But this time he didn’t only cup her, he rubbed her right on what her aunt had always called her “special place.” When she released a moan, his eyes blazed hot. “That’s it, angel. Open for me . . . let me feel your pleasure . . .”

Heavens alive, what he was doing to her . . . there were no words. He dipped his head to nuzzle her temple as his palm pressed her down there in a motion that made her want to squirm, then push against it.

“You like that, do you?” he rasped, moving his mouth over her hair in a series of feather-light kisses.

She buried her hot face in his shirt.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he whispered. “Women were made to have the same pleasures as men, no matter what the prudish in society say.” His clever fingers combed through her damp curls as if in search of a prize.

When had she become damp there? Aunt Rose had said naught about that, just that her “special place” would grow ready for a man, and then the man would put his “thing” inside her.

Only it wasn’t his thing that Oliver was putting there now. It was his finger, teasing, taunting, stroking her so silkily she wanted to cry. Who knew that a finger could feel so . . . very . . . amazing . . .

“My God, angel,” he murmured, “you’re like hot velvet to the touch.” His breath grew labored, and he thrust his flesh against her hand in much the same way as she undulated against his palm.

It reminded her that she’d meant to stroke him, too.

When she did, he seized her mouth in a fierce, heady kiss that sent her head spinning. Now there were two fingers thrusting inside her, and his thumb was pressing her in a way that made her absolutely insane. The strokes of his thumb grew rhythmic, insistent, pulling at her, dragging her from the heavens down toward the black waters that called to her from below, that had always called to her, always fascinated her.

Before she knew it, she was falling, spiraling, her wings riding the wind as her body swooped and twisted and rushed toward the dark, secretive water. And as she plunged into its churning depths, a wild joy like nothing she’d ever known shattered her apart.

She tore her mouth from his, gasping, straining against his hand, her knees shaking and her body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure rocked her.

“Oh, God, yes . . .” he murmured, “yes . . . keep doing that . . .”

Doing what? Oh. Right. She was still pressing the bulge in his trousers, except that for the last few minutes, she’d been using the same rhythmic motion he’d used on her. Suddenly a hoarse cry escaped his throat, and his flesh spasmed beneath her fingers. Within seconds the fabric grew wet, dampening her hand.

She jerked her hand away, not sure what she’d done. But when he threw his head back, a ragged sigh escaping him, she realized that it had pleased him. A smile hovered on his lips, and his features wore a look of utter bliss.

“Angel . . .” His eyes were heavy-lidded as he stared down at her. “You’re . . . amazing.”

I’m fallen,
she thought.

Not literally. He hadn’t ruined her, but she’d still fallen. Because he’d been right. Now that she’d tasted passion, she didn’t know how she’d bear never tasting it again.

The coach abruptly halted, and the coachman above called out, “Mrs. Tweedy’s Fine Dresses, milord.”

Maria froze, then jerked upright in a panic. Heavens alive! Her bodice was undone, she was sprawled across his lap like some doxy, and the footman would be opening the door any moment!

“It’s all right,” he said soothingly as he helped her scramble from his lap. “There’s no need to rush. The footmen know not to open my carriage door if the curtains are closed.”

It took a second for the words to sink in, then her blood ran cold. He did this all the time—she was just one of many. The words he’d said about showing her passion, the offer to make her his mistress—they were calculated to soften her for his seduction. If not for their arrival at the dress shop, what might have happened?

He reached to help her with her bodice, and she pushed his hand away. “Don’t you dare! I can do it myself.”

A stricken look crossed his face, making her briefly doubt her conclusions. Then she saw the closed curtains, and any doubts fled.

“Maria,” he said in a low, aching voice, “what’s wrong?”

Tears sprang to her eyes and she ruthlessly squelched them. She might have behaved like a fool, but she wasn’t about to let him see her cry. Not here, not now . . . not
ever
. “Nothing’s wrong,” she lied.

Thank heavens her hair had stayed pinned. As she tied on her bonnet and looped the pelerine about her shoulders, she gave a silent thanks to Betty, who’d stuck enough pins in her hair to keep it in place for an eternity.

But when she tried to struggle into her redingote alone, Oliver cursed and grabbed it from her, insisting on helping her into it.

As she fumbled with the ties, he laid his hand over her fingers. “Come now, my angel, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Don’t call me that.” She shrugged off his hand so she could finish fastening her ties. “I’m not an angel. I’m certainly not
your
angel. Though I thank you for the lesson in passion, it isn’t something we should repeat.”

Turning the handle, she pushed open the door before he could stop her.

“Deuce take it, Maria—” he growled, but caught himself as the footman came running to put down the step.

Only then did she venture a glance at him. He was watching her with something dangerously feral in his eyes.

She forced herself to ignore the tiny swell of regret that rose in her. “I think it’s best if you go to fetch Freddy. By the time you’ve returned, I should be done shopping. It won’t take me long to select a few dresses, and you’ll find it boring.”

“I doubt that very much,” he bit out.

She had to get him out of here! She wouldn’t survive another tête-à-tête ride in the carriage with him. She forced an imploring note into her voice. “Please, my lord? If you stay, you’ll make me nervous.”

That seemed to give him pause. “It’s dangerous for a woman alone.”

“I’ll stay,” the footman surprised her by saying. When Oliver turned a scowl on him, he squeaked, “But only if you wish it, milord.”

Oliver shifted his gaze back to Maria, then sighed. “Very well, John,” he told the footman. “If that’s what she wants. Tell the shopkeeper I’ll pay for the gowns on my return.”

She stiffened. The closed curtains . . . gowns he bought for her . . . That might be acceptable for a fiancé in English good society, but he wouldn’t be her fiancé for long. If she kept letting him do these things, she’d be ruined in the eyes of the world by the time she could break off their engagement.

But she said nothing; right now, she just wanted him away.

“You’re sure you’ll be all right,” he said, concern in his voice.

“Yes.” She pasted a smile to her lips. “Really, my lord, there’s no reason for you to stay.”

The words “my lord” made him stiffen. “As you wish.” He called up to the coachman, “Return me to the Blue Swan posthaste.”

The coach drove off, and she released a breath. At least she’d escaped another ride alone with him, where he would tempt her into doing what she ought not.

She paused outside the shop to face the footman. “If you please, John, I’d rather you not mention the issue of payment to the shopkeeper. I want to deal with it myself.”

“But his lordship said—”

“I know what he said.” She steadied her shoulders. “This is what I want.”

John nodded, a strange expression crossing his face. “Very well. But I should warn you, this shop ain’t one of those low secondhand shops. Mrs. Tweedy prides herself on having clothing of the highest quality, so it might be costly.”

She hoped it wasn’t
too
costly.

The shop did look rather lofty. Jaunty bonnets of expensive satin and silk were perched on hat trees, while brocaded and heavily embroidered ball gowns were draped over bureaus and linen presses to show their fine qualities. The everyday attire sat folded neatly in open cupboards, and even the day dresses were made of fine muslin and wool. There were half-boots and dancing slippers, scarves and shifts—anything a woman might need to outfit herself for society. She’d seen nothing like that in Dartmouth, to be sure.

As she roamed the shop looking at the goods, the shopkeeper introduced herself. After a short chat in which Maria explained that she needed a few gowns, she added, “I happen to own some very fashionable mourning attire in a variety of fine designs and fabrics. Might you be interested in trading yours for mine?”

The woman looked at Maria’s well-made redingote and said, “If it’s good quality, miss, I certainly would. There’s always those ladies who need mourning clothes, and fashionable ones are harder to come by than most.”

Maria hated to part with them, but once this bargain with Oliver was done, she could dye the gowns she acquired here if she had to. She only had two more months of mourning—by the time she left England, she might not need mourning clothes anymore. And she still had the one gown she’d carried away with her from the brothel.

She made arrangements with the woman to have a clerk accompany John to the lodging house where she and Freddy had been staying, so the two young men could fetch her trunks. Before John left, she took him aside.

“I’d appreciate it very much if you’d keep quiet about my mourning gowns, especially with Mrs. Plumtree. I know his lordship would appreciate it as well. I have a ring I could offer you in payment—”

“No, miss, I won’t take aught from you for my discretion. That’s my job—to be discreet about his lordship’s coming and goings. And his fiancée’s as well.”

She cast him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Working the brim of his hat furiously, he looked toward the shop front, then back to her. “Tell me, miss, did his lordship do aught to upset you in the coach?”

“No,” she lied.

John looked skeptical. “It ain’t like him to harm a young lady, but perhaps he got carried away, with you being his fiancée and all. I just want you to know that if you wish . . . if I could help you in any way—”

“That’s sweet of you,” she said, truly touched. “But you have no reason for concern. Your master has been very kind.”

“All right then.” With a quick bow, he went off to join the clerk and they left on their errand.

Oliver
had
been kind to her in many respects. He’d kept his word and hired Mr. Pinter. He’d offered to buy her gowns, and he’d treated Freddy with more indulgence than could be expected of any man.

But his actions in the carriage hadn’t been a kindness. Because now she knew exactly what she’d be missing if she married Nathan and settled for his mild kisses.

As she went about the shop selecting gowns, she told herself that maybe passion could develop between two people over time. Maybe once she was married to Nathan, it would come out all right in the end.

Deep inside, however, in the naughty part of her that had reveled in Oliver’s fervent kisses, she knew she was lying to herself. Because right now, the only man she ever wanted to kiss again was Oliver.

Chapter Thirteen

As Oliver and Freddy pulled away from the Blue Swan, Oliver paid little heed to the lad’s chatter about his spectacular meal. All he could hear was Maria calling him
my lord,
as if she hadn’t just been trembling in his arms.

And the look on her face! Had she been insulted? Or just ashamed? How the devil had she stayed so collected, when he’d felt ready to explode after seeing her find her pleasure so sweetly in his arms? He’d actually come in his trousers, like a randy lad with no control over his urges. Now he had to keep his cloak buttoned up until he could reach Halstead Hall and change his clothes.

She’d made light of their encounter, damn her.
Though I thank you for the lesson in passion . . .
Had it meant nothing more to her? Apparently not, since she’d said,
It isn’t something we should repeat.

Though the idea grated, she was right. They should stay apart, for his sake as well as hers. He’d actually offered to make her his mistress!
He
, who’d never kept a mistress in his life, who’d joked to his friends that mistresses were more trouble than they were worth since one woman was as good as another.

He’d always been driven by the fear that a mistress might tempt him to let down his guard and reveal his secrets. Then even his family would desert him, and he couldn’t bear that.

Even with his friends, he kept the strongbox of his secrets firmly closed. But with Maria . . .

He stared out the window, trying to figure out at what point in their conversation he’d lost all good sense. Had it been when she’d said she didn’t believe the gossip about him? Or before that, when she’d chastised Pinter for telling it to her?

No. Astonishing as those things had been, what had prompted his rash offer was the lost look on her face after he’d pointed out that Hyatt might not wish to be found. Even now he could see the fear rising in her eyes, much like the fear he’d seen in Mother’s eyes—of being inconsequential, unwanted.

And suddenly he’d desired nothing more than to make Maria feel wanted.

Not that he’d succeeded very well. She could hardly be flattered that he wanted her only for a mistress. He hadn’t meant it to insult her—he’d just been utterly swept up in the idea of her and him in a cottage together somewhere, without the rest of the world to muddy their lives.

Marriage meant jointures and pin money and siring an heir to continue the dynasty. A cottage meant just him and Maria.

What a fool he was. Even a woman with Maria’s low connections wanted more. And he couldn’t give it. The very thought of attempting it made him ill, because he could never make her happy. He would muck it up, and the legacy of misery would go on.

But he’d be damned if he’d watch her throw herself away on that fool Hyatt. She deserved better than an indifferent fiancé who had no clue how to make her eyes darken in passion as she shuddered and trembled and gave her mouth so sweetly . . .

He groaned. He shouldn’t have gone so far with her. It had frightened her. Worse yet, his reaction to it bloody well terrified him—because he’d give a great deal to be able to do it again. He’d never felt that way for any other woman.

Freddy was still blathering on, and suddenly a word arrested him.

“What was that you said?” Oliver asked.

“The beefsteak needed a bit more salt—”

“Before that,” he ground out.

“Oh. Right. There was a chap in that club claiming he was your cousin. Mr. Desmond Plumtree, I think.”

His stomach sank. When had Desmond gained member-ship at such a selective club? Did it mean the bastard was finally becoming accepted in society?

“Though if you ask me,” Freddy went on, “with family like him, who needs enemies? Insulting fellow. Told me a bunch of nonsense about how you’d killed your father and everybody knew it.” Freddy sniffed. “I told him he was a scurrilous lout, and if he couldn’t see that you were a good sort of chap, then he was as blind as a town crier with a broken lantern. And he didn’t belong in the Blue Swan with all those amiable gents, neither.”

For a moment, speech utterly failed Oliver. He could only imagine Desmond’s reaction to
that
little lecture. “And . . . er . . . what did he say?”

“He looked surprised, then muttered something about playing cards and trotted off to a card room. Good riddance, too—he was eating up all the macaroons.”

Oliver gaped at him, then began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You and Maria—don’t you Americans ever pay attention to gossip?”

“Well, sure, if it makes sense. But that didn’t make sense. If everybody knew you’d killed your father, you’d have been hanged by now. Since you’re sitting right here, you can’t have done it.” Freddy tapped his forehead. “Simple logic is all.”

“Right,” Oliver said. “Simple logic.” A lump caught in his throat. Maria’s defending him was one thing; she was a woman and softhearted, though that had certainly never kept any other woman from gossiping about him.

But to have an impressionable pup like Freddy defend him . . . he didn’t know whether to scoff at the fellow’s naïveté or clap him on the shoulder and pronounce him a “good sort of chap” as well.

“Oh, look,” Freddy said, already on to the next subject as they pulled up before the shop. “It appears that Mopsy is done shopping already, thank God.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. Either “Mopsy” chose her clothes with less care than most females, or something was amiss.

After they left the coach, a few short words with the shopkeeper revealed that Maria had traded her mourning gowns to pay for the new ones, which had left her with a decidedly smaller clothing budget than she needed. He understood pride, but this was too much.

“My fiancée isn’t finished shopping,” he told the shopkeeper. “With a whole trousseau to buy, she needs quite a few more items.”

“Oliver, please,” Maria hissed under her breath as she drew him aside. “They’ll think—”

“That I can afford to outfit my fiancée properly? I hope they do.” He used the only argument that might influence her. “Otherwise, they’ll assume I’m even more in debt than has been rumored. Of course, if you enjoy watching people heap gossip on me . . .”

“Certainly not!” With a glance at the shopkeeper, she lowered her voice. “But I don’t want to bear any greater obligation to you than I already do.”

“Now you sound like Pinter.”

Her gaze shot to his, full of concern. “I didn’t mean—”

“I owe you clothes,” he clipped out. “There’s no obligation. Especially with Pinter refusing to charge me a fee.” Besides, he
wanted
to see her dressed well, with her beautiful blue eyes complemented by a gown of periwinkle silk, and her fine bosom displayed properly so she felt no need to hide it with a stupid pelerine.

Not that he could tell her that. It would only alarm her.

“No one will believe that I would betroth myself to a woman who dresses poorly,” he went on. “We must preserve the illusion. I thought Gran would surely relent the first night when I passed you off as a . . . woman of a certain kind, but she didn’t. When she sees me spending money on you, she’ll
have
to believe I’m serious.”

He could see her wavering, so he pressed his advantage. “If you don’t let me do this, I’ll assume that I insulted you earlier in the carriage.”

Blushing deeply, she dropped her gaze to his chest. “You didn’t insult me. I let it go on when I shouldn’t have.”

“You did nothing wrong,” he said sharply. “I’m the one who behaved badly, and to make amends for that, I’m more than willing to buy you a few fripperies.” Without waiting for further protests, he turned to the shopkeeper and said, “Miss Butterfield has agreed that she needs a more extensive wardrobe.”

“Very good, sir. I have some special items I’ve been holding in the back. With a few alterations, I believe they would fit your fiancée.” As the shopkeeper hurried off to fetch them, Oliver bent close to whisper, “If it will soothe your fears, I withdraw my earlier offer to make you my mistress. I meant no insult, and I wish you to be easy on that score.”

“Thank you,” she said, though she didn’t look as relieved as he’d expected.

He didn’t feel as relieved as he’d expected, either.

Now he had to watch her try on respectable gowns more suited to her station. That further muddied the waters, reminding him that no matter how exquisitely she’d come apart in his arms, she was still respectable. Suddenly, the woman he’d felt free to caress most inappropriately had become one of
those
women—the ones he avoided, the untouchable virgins. Something he must not forget again.

Two hours later, they left the dress shop with an abundance of gowns and other necessities. He’d been able to indulge her in shawls and reticules and shoes, though it irritated him to have to buy them in so mean a place. Mrs. Tweedy’s might be the best of the secondhand shops, but it was still secondhand.

He wanted to see her dressed in expensive silks of the latest fashions, with costly jewels about her neck. It was a mad desire he’d never experienced, never having cared how his bed partners dressed. But the wistful look she’d cast at items she’d obviously felt were beyond his purse made something clench in his gut.

Which was precisely why he’d never taken a mistress. Once a woman tugged at your sympathies, you were lost. She could twist you about her fingers like twine in a cat’s cradle. From there, it was only a short step to opening up the strongbox and letting her see your secrets . . . and finding yourself hated for them.

Their ride back to Ealing was quiet. She avoided looking at him, while he couldn’t seem to
stop
looking at her. He tried to engage her in conversation, but the tart-tongued angel was in hiding, and he didn’t know how to get her back. Even Freddy must have realized that something had changed, for he kept his inane chatter to a minimum. By the time they reached Halstead Hall, Oliver’s nerves were on edge.

He was relieved that he could excuse himself to go work in his study on the ledgers he’d ignored last night, but he didn’t get very far. Even after an hour of turning pages and noting transactions, he kept hearing Maria’s sighs of pleasure, kept seeing her teasing smile as she said, “Would you offer to ravish me?”

Damned right he would.

A knock came at the door, jerking him from his disturbing reverie. As he glanced at the clock, shocked to discover that two hours had passed, Jarret entered and strolled over to the desk.

“Amazing,” the scapegrace said. “When the servant said you were in here working, I thought surely I’d misheard him.”

“Very amusing. If we’re to live here even for a few weeks, some matters must be handled.” Leaning back, he arched one eyebrow at his brother. “Unless
you
want to take over the task. You’re better at numbers than I am.”

Jarret turned the ledger so he could glance at it. “I don’t know. Appears to me that you know a thing or two.” He plopped down in the chair opposite Oliver. “Besides, I’m riding into town tomorrow to spend my Saturday at the Blue Swan. Kirkwood’s brother will be there, and you know he always plays deep.”

“And badly, too, when he’s in his cups—a fact that you take advantage of.”

With a shrug, Jarret folded his hands over his midsection. “I thought I should make
some
attempt to add to the family coffers.”

“Then you’d be better off playing cards with bankers, not barristers. It will take more than anything Giles Masters can offer to dig us out of this hole.”

“Interesting that you should say that. Minerva told me last night about Miss Butterfield’s missing fiancé. So I had a little chat with young Freddy this morning, and learned that Miss Butterfield is due to come into a tidy fortune, assuming she doesn’t marry her Mr. Hyatt. Were you aware of that?”

Oliver poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter on the desk. “I don’t know how tidy it will be. How much could one small shipping company in America be worth?”

“Have you really never heard of New Bedford Ships?”

“Why should I have?” He drank some brandy. “It’s not exactly an industry I’m familiar with.”

“Well, it happens to be an industry I invest in when I have extra funds, which isn’t often.”

Jarret was an excellent gambler and generally won more than he lost, but he had a deplorable habit of risking too much from time to time, which often sank him in the end. Oliver had never understood it; his brother seemed compelled to tempt Fate.

“I rode into town earlier to talk to my sources,” Jarret went on, “to see what I could learn about the company. By all accounts, New Bedford Ships is worth a quarter of a million pounds. Assuming that she gets half, she’ll come into a cool 125,000 pounds.”

Oliver choked on his brandy. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I never joke about money.”

It took Oliver a moment to register that incredible bit of news. “Is she aware that it’s so much?”

“I don’t think so. Freddy speculated that it might be as much as ‘ten thousand dollars,’ which the pup seemed to think was an enormous amount. I gather that her father was the frugal sort, and she was kept in the dark about many things concerning his business.”