Chapter Three

“So good to see you, Lavinia.” Sophia kissed both Lavinia’s cheeks in greeting as they stood in the foyer of the Phillipses’ Belgravia home.

“You’re looking well, Sophia.” Indeed her friend had a healthy color in her face that spoke of excitement or, knowing the Phillipses, recent sexual activity.

Sophia took her arm and led her to the morning room. “I wanted to have a private visit before Joseph and I leave for Lincolnshire.” She opened the door and waved toward the hand-crafted couch with tapestry cushions. “Sit. I have news.”

“Helena’s pregnant?” Lavinia blurted. She covered her mouth. “Oh, that was most unladylike.” She sat primly as if that would make up for the blunder.

Sophia giggled, gazing coyly from under thick lashes as a servant brought in a tray laden with a most unusual tea service of hammered silver adorned with copper twigs and flowers. She took her seat next to Lavinia as the servant left.

“I don’t know about Helena.” Sophia poured from the squat, bulbous teapot. “Well, at least I haven’t heard. My daughter and her new husband may very well have news. No, I wasn’t referring to Helena.” She broke out in a wide smile. “But me.”

Lavinia gaped.

Sophia took both Lavinia’s hands. “Oh, Lavinia! I’m pregnant!”

Lavinia’s stomach dropped. She was excited for Sophia, really she was. But something pained her, something she was loath to admit. She would never have children, probably could not have children, and had resigned herself to not wanting children. Yet, for one moment last summer, one man had made her question all of that.

She had foolishly fallen in love with Nicholas. Their new affair was supposed to have been merely a continuance of their old one and she certainly hadn’t been in love with him ten years ago. Yet, Nicholas was no longer a curious youth of eighteen but a kind and caring man of twenty-eight. And a fabulous lover. She had recklessly entertained the fantasy that he wouldn’t achieve the goal of finding a wife and they would end up together. She hadn’t counted on his falling deliriously head over heels for Helena Phillips.

“Oh, Lavinia, don’t cry.”

“Tears of joy, dear.” Lavinia kissed Sophia’s cheek. “I’m so happy for you.” She squeezed her friend’s hands. “When are you due?”

“April.” Sophia giggled. “You know Helena was born in March. Looks as if the summer is a good time for me to conceive.”

“What does Joseph think?”

“He’s ecstatic of course. And we’ll stay in England for a while. That’s why we’re going to Lincolnshire.” Sophia let go of Lavinia and resumed pouring tea. “We’re going to live at Harwell Hall. Mama is looking forward to taking care of me and imparting all the advice she didn’t get a chance to offer when I was pregnant with Helena.” She handed a cup to Lavinia. “Papa and Joseph have promised to be civil to each other. But the best part is that Arthur will be there.”

“Arthur?”

“My brother. The Earl of Petersham.”

“Oh, yes. I met him at the wedding in September. Handsome chap, isn’t he?”

Sophia smiled. “Excessively so. And unmarried.” She winked.

Lavinia furrowed her brow. “Oh? Because he’s a boorish arse? Or because women don’t attract?”

Sophia laughed so hard she had to put down her cup. She wiped a tear. “Oh my. Nicholas speaks highly of your sense of humor and now I see why.”

Lavinia sipped her tea, still perplexed.

Sophia patted Lavinia’s knee. “Arthur likes women a great deal and he’s quite the gentleman. Perhaps a little protective of his heart.” She took a sip of tea. “So he remains unattached.”

Lavinia eyed her. “You’re trying to play matchmaker, aren’t you?”

“We’re all adults, Lavinia. And sometimes I wonder if you are a bit lonely now that Nicholas is married.”

“You mean take a lover? Take your brother as my lover?”

“Well, you and my brother will have to work that out for yourselves, really. But you were not averse to attending the masquerade so I know you’re ready for a new adventure, as it were.”

Lavinia turned her attention to her teacup. Sophia had chatted with the man in the sultan costume and probably knew who he was. But it would be indiscreet for her to reveal his name. If she were going to start a love affair with anyone though, she’d want it to be with him.

“Arthur will be joining us at Harwell Hall and won’t be settled back in London until the Season. So you’re safe from my romantic plots until then.” She smiled a mischievous smile. “But I’m warning you, I will make sure the two of you have a few waltzes together.”

Sophia was simply looking out for her. She was in love. Her daughter was in love. She just wanted a little happiness for her brother and her friend.

“I will not say no to a few waltzes. Thank you, Sophie, for thinking of me.”

The boisterous guffaws of men drifted in from down the corridor, getting closer until a forceful knock sounded on the morning room door.

“Sophie! I’m coming in!”

And in walked Joseph Phillips with the Earl of Petersham and Geoffrey Peel, their masculine energy instantly filling the room, rousing Lavinia’s senses. Each oozed a confidence only found in men of a certain age and each man clearly had a right to such confidence. Together they were successful business partners and singularly each was devastatingly attractive. Joseph’s brawn was softened by his shock of close-cropped gray hair. Mr. Peel’s almost boyish features restrained the impact of his impressive height and exuberant mustache.

And Lord Petersham was somehow far more dashing and appealing—and taller—than what Lavinia had remembered. His thick brown hair glinted with strands of auburn and gray, the lines around his eyes crinkled with good humor, his clean-shaven face drew attention to his full, luscious mouth.

Perhaps a few waltzes would be enjoyable.

“Darling.” Joseph went to Sophia just as she moved to stand.

“Don’t get up, Sophie!” Mr. Peel ran to her and sat her back down, shooing Joseph away. He folded his lanky form next to her.

Lord Petersham laughed out loud and kissed Sophia’s hand. “Congratulations, dear sister, for making me an uncle once again.”

Sophia blushed. “Joseph, I see you divulged our news.”

“Damn right I did!”

“And you’ve been drinking brandy.” She leaned toward Mr. Peel and sniffed. “The lot of you.”

“We were celebrating,” Mr. Peel said softly, stroking her hand. “Everyone at the club knows now, darling.”

Sophie brushed a lock of Mr. Peel’s thick brown hair behind his ear. “Geoffrey, I’m pregnant, not dying. You don’t need to handle me with such care.”

Joseph strutted, grinning. “How do you do, Lavinia? Sorry to burst in on your tête-à-tête. I suppose Sophie’s told you?”

“Luckily for you, Joseph, she just did.”

“Darling,” Sophia cooed, “where are your manners? You should introduce your guests.”

Joseph stretched out his arms. “You all met at Helena’s wedding, didn’t you?”

Lord Petersham shook his head with a grunt of exasperation. He approached Lavinia and gave a slight bow. “Lady Foxley-Graham, if I remember correctly? I am the brother-in-law of this overly familiar and half-drunk American fellow.” A twinkle flashed in his hazel-brown eyes, highlighting the flecks of green in their depths.

“Yes, Lord Petersham, I do remember.” She offered her hand with a smile. His firm touch sparked an unexpected frisson of excitement. “And Mr. Peel.” She nodded in his direction, slipping her hand from Lord Petersham’s dangerous hold. “The solicitor.”

“My lady.” Mr. Peel nodded.

“And what keeps you all here in London in November, gentlemen?”

“Business,” Joseph grumbled. “Always business. It’s just easier down here.”

“Up here,” Lord Petersham corrected, taking a seat in a blocky armchair opposite Lavinia. “London is up.”

“It looks down on a map, Arthur.”

Mr. Peel chuckled. “We were all just at Harwell Hall last month for the Richmonds’ revived hunting ball. And now we’re all going back for Sophie’s confinement.”

“You too, Mr. Peel?”

“My family home is not far from this lot.” He gestured at his friends. “Anna—you met my wife at the wedding,” he said to Lavinia, “will be thrilled at your news, Sophie. Unless you’ve already told her.”

“She keeps my secrets very well, doesn’t she?”

Mr. Peel chuckled. “I should have known.”

“You have children, do you not, Mr. Peel?” Lavinia asked.

“Yes. Three. I’m glad we started just after we were married. I don’t think Anna would want any more now.”

Sophia smiled sweetly in Mr. Peel’s direction. “Geoffrey’s daughters were Helena’s attendants at her wedding.”

“Oh yes! Pretty little things, aren’t they?”

Mr. Peel flushed and grinned. “They take after their mother.”

Sophia patted Mr. Peel’s thigh. “And William takes after his father. He’s very handsome and tall.”

Lavinia studied the two on the sofa. Sophia was far too intimate with Mr. Peel. An old lover? A new one? Perhaps Mrs. Peel was a modern woman who did not mind so much.

Lord Petersham turned his attention to her, his courteous expression exuding sensuality. “I understand you’re widowed, my lady. Any children?”

There was that clenching pain in her stomach again. “No. My husband and I never had children.” She smiled politely. If Sophia had a mind to match-make then she should find out how the unmarried earl handled shocking questions from an independent woman. “And you, my lord?”

He colored. “No—”

Joseph let out a sharp laugh. “None that we know of, eh, Arthur?”

“Joseph! Don’t tease.” Sophia fussed with her skirt. “Now, gentlemen, if you would please excuse the two of us Society matrons, we would like to get back to our tea and gossiping.”

Joseph leaned over and kissed his wife’s cheek. “I’ll see you tonight, my beautiful bride.”

Sophia blushed.

“Gentlemen.” Joseph indicated the door.

Mr. Peel kissed Sophia on the cheek and followed Joseph. Lord Petersham did the same but offered Lavinia a devastatingly beguiling smile before he left.

Something about his mouth was so familiar…

* * * * *

Still reeling from the excitement of impending fatherhood, Joseph ushered Arthur and Geoffrey into the library for further celebratory drinking.

Geoffrey placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Did you see the way Lady Foxley-Graham looked at you?” he teased. “Anna gives me that look sometimes when the girls have gone to bed.”

Arthur flashed him a perturbed scowl. “I hardly think so, Geoff.”

Joseph poured out three sherries from a crystal decanter. “Don’t try to tempt Arthur, Geoff,” he said. “He’s still nursing Cupid’s deadly aim from Countess Winthrop’s masquerade ball.”

“Oh? Do tell.” Geoffrey stretched out on the leather couch, letting his head fall back against the tufted armrest.

“I can’t.” Joseph handed him a sherry. “The rules of the ball are that guests refrain from divulging anything about anybody.”

Arthur grabbed his glass from the liquor cabinet. “Except now Geoff knows we were both there.”

“I never said I was.” Joseph smirked.

“Oh, Christ.” Arthur rolled his eyes.

Geoffrey turned his resting head to face him. “I’m your best friend, Arthur. Surely you can tell me.”

“I thought I was your best friend,” Joseph said, feigning insult.

Arthur sighed from the depths of an overstuffed club chair. “I’ll let you two draw pistols for that dubious honor. Still, I’m not telling anyone anything.”

Joseph chuckled. Arthur had been in a funk since the day after the masquerade, lamenting he had lost the woman of his dreams. That her odalisque costume had complemented his to perfection only added to the romance of star-crossed lovers. Yet despite the intimacy between Joseph and Arthur, Arthur had refused to divulge any of the details of his amorous encounter.

“Okay.” Joseph lifted his glass. “Let’s discuss Lavinia then. Sophie’s got a mind to get you two attached next Season.”

“Well, thank God Sophie will be busy with a baby.” Arthur nursed his drink.

“I’m sure Anna will help out.” Geoffrey yawned. “She loves babies. And Sophie loves the Season. I’d say you were outnumbered, Petersham.” He grinned and winked at Joseph.

Arthur glared at them. “All right,” he said, waving a hand in defeat. He narrowed his eyes at Joseph. “What do you know about her?”

Joseph sipped his sherry. He’d have to be diplomatic. “She was widowed about twenty years ago and never remarried. She has a penchant for seeing young men get established in careers and young women get married well.”

“How generous.” Arthur looked thoughtful. “I suppose that might have something to do with not having had children herself?”

“Possibly. But rumor has it she’s simply incredibly well-connected in Society.”

“Ah.” He took a sip of liquor. “Lovers?”

“She’s discreet but as far as I know she’s had a string of them.”

Arthur quirked a brow. “You?”

Joseph’s jaw dropped. “Oh, God no.”

Arthur guffawed.

Geoffrey chuckled. “Methinks Phillips protests too much.”

His friends knew him too well. “Okay, yeah, she’s beautiful. But we had some squabbles over Helena and Nicholas last summer that sort of dulled any ardor I may have felt had I met her under other circumstances.” Not to mention it would have been impolitic to pursue the ex-lover of one’s future son-in-law. “Besides I’ve given up all that.”

“I hear she’s close to Nicholas,” Arthur said. “Sort of like a mother?”

Joseph chuckled at the thought. “I wouldn’t say that. There is a lot of history between them. Lavinia was good friends with Nicholas’ mother.” He took a seat opposite Arthur. “Look, to be serious for a moment, it’s not for me to say too much about her. One man’s conversation is another man’s slander. She’s forthright and honorable and of independent means.” He sighed. “There’d be no deception, no expectation of economic support. You can’t say that about all your past lovers, Arthur.”

“Unfortunately not,” he said glumly.

Geoffrey stroked his mustache. “Anna says Lady Richmond wants you married off now you’ve settled your family differences,” he said. “You have to admit Lady Foxley-Graham is quite a stunner.”

“Agreed,” Joseph said. “You could do a lot worse and possibly not much better at the moment.” He flashed Arthur a look of mild reproach. He’d have to forget his odalisque. “But you’re old enough and experienced enough to make your own decisions.”

“Thank you, Joseph.”

“Of course there will probably be neighboring daughters invited to Harwell Hall this Christmas.” Joseph smiled slyly. “You’ll have your pick of those.”

Arthur mumbled an oath and sank deeper into his chair.

Geoffrey sipped his sherry. “Thank God my girls are too young to be in the running.”

“You underestimate my mother, Geoff. I’m sure she’s keeping them in mind for when I’m fifty.” Arthur drained his glass.

That got a rise out of Geoffrey. “Don’t you dare, Petersham.”

“He might be the Marquess of Richmond by then, Geoff. Rumor has it he’s also pretty good in bed.” Joseph winked at Arthur. “You only want the best for your daughters.”

“Oh, Christ! We are not having this conversation!” Geoffrey place his empty glass on the carpet. “Why I’m still friends with a couple of corrupt libertines, I hardly know.”

“I thought I was your best friend,” quipped Arthur.

Joseph laughed. A baby on the way and finding a wife for Arthur. After twenty years, being back in the family fold was going to be interesting.

* * * * *

Arthur lay on his side in bed, staring at the window where clouded moonlight played in the shadows of the curtain, the movement keeping him awake rather than lulling him to sleep. He was overly occupied by the day’s events. Sophia’s pregnancy reminded him he had been delinquent in providing an heir to the marquessate, and Geoff and Joseph reminded him Mother intended to do something about that.

And then there was the allure of a certain viscountess. Helena’s wedding breakfast had been something of a blur as the event had been the stage to reconcile the estranged members of the Harwell family, so he had not had a chance to get to know Lady Foxley-Graham as he ought to have. But there she was earlier that day in Sophia and Joseph’s ridiculously fashionable morning room, wearing a stunning dress of lapis lazuli blue that set off her dark amber eyes quite exquisitely. Of course, when he hadn’t been admiring her eyes, he was admiring her bosom, its generous proportions accentuated by two rows of buttons running over her breasts, down her waist and ending at the point of a V at her crotch, where a tuft of fringe implied what lay underneath…

But even the promise of such charms could not stop him from dreaming of the spread legs of a willing odalisque. Although Lady Foxley-Graham’s tightly corseted bosom did seem to be as abundant as the unbound breasts of his odalisque.

His odalisque.

He untied the waist of his pajama bottoms and fondled his half-aroused cock, awakening it.

She danced on the edge of his thoughts, a constant reminder of their encounter. While she had slept in the library, he’d tarried, smiling a satiated smile at seductive women and provocative men. But he played no more games that night. He would not mar an incomparable memory.

And an hour later, he had watched her leave. Alone. Her provocative costume and entrancing endowments hidden beneath the folds of a too generous cloak.

She had left having been satisfied by him and needing no other.

He gripped his erection.

She was the best kind of woman, a woman of true experience, a woman who knew what she wanted and how to tease a man into giving it to her. Not some coquettish miss who only wanted to flirt and toy yet when it came to actual sex, had no skill, no creativity, and many reservations.

A woman who was at the masquerade not to find a lover but to forget a lover. Was he the lover she thought of now?

He stroked the length of his cock, rubbed his thumb over the head. She had put him in her mouth and, more amazingly, had enjoyed it. How rare to find a woman who enjoyed fellatio. He had been tempted several times to seek out a man in the catamite clubs but he hated whorehouses. Why would one catering to homosexuals be any less devoid of soul and emotion?

He squeezed his glans then languidly continued his strokes. She had let him take control, let him use her roughly, not seeking any rewards or promises for indulging him his letches because she shared the same desires.

The remembered thrill of slamming into her from behind stirred him into action, propelling him to pump harder. Her uninhibited moans, her freedom in reveling in her body’s sexuality, her frank expression of a deeply held emotion all spoke of a highly sensual woman, a woman he had been longing for, a woman he needed, a woman he was going to find.

He arced his back above the pillow, coming on his hand, remaining poised in the air a moment before collapsing onto the mattress. He stared at the ceiling, exhaling the last of his release.

He would find her. That coming Season he would attend every damn ball, soiree, luncheon, and tea to flirt with every unattached woman over thirty-five like a man possessed. Of course, there was no guarantee his odalisque was unattached, but the fact she was trying to forget a lover was a strong indication she was.

And once he kissed her, he would know exactly if it was she or not.

He sighed. That would be a lot of women. And what if he didn’t find her?

Well, there was one other woman who did attract. So be it. If he couldn’t find his odalisque, perhaps he’d pursue the lovely Lady Foxley-Graham. At least she wasn’t one of the adolescents his mother had been recommending to him of late. As a woman of experience, well, that meant she would know a little about what to expect in his bed.

And the shape of her mouth reminded him of another, recently wrapped around his prick.