BOOK LYING FORGOTTEN IN her lap, Elizabeth could no longer maintain the pretence that she was even slightly interested in reading the story detailed within its pages. Instead, she saw her tutor, his gaze on her as he undid each button of her dress, his hands steady as he opened her to his gaze. Once again, she felt the soft strands of his dark hair slipping through her fingers, the silkiness of the skin at his temples. Again his lips nudged her, encompassing her in wet and warmth. His hands firm at her back, pushing her into the slide of his mouth as he nipped and licked and sucked.
A moan escaped her.
The drawing room came back in a rush. Good Lord, had anyone heard? Horrified, she looked about. Dear Lord, please, do not let anyone have heard her. None stared, so she must have escaped notice. Thank goodness.
Her heart slowing to a normal rhythm, she scowled down at the book sitting so innocuously in her lap. The silly thing was responsible for her current woes. It was supposed to be interesting. Exciting. Something to distract her from thoughts about her first lesson.
She couldn’t even remember what the book was about.
Sighing, she glanced around her, hoping observation of her fellow guests would distract her more successfully. To her right, Henrietta and Anne were conversing with Lady Cartwright, an old friend of their mother’s. Both sat straight-backed on the chaise lounge, rapt expressions on their faces.
Lady Cartwright’s face was hidden, but Elizabeth could well imagine her expression. Her ladyship excelled at quiet disappointment, a look Elizabeth had engendered repeatedly. Many a time that look had quelled Elizabeth to the point where she’d dread a visit with Lady Cartwright, as she knew at some point that look would make an appearance. Her mother, conscienceless brute that she was, had allowed her friend free reign to dispense the look as she saw fit, claiming it was more effective at curbing Elizabeth’s wilder impulses than anything else she knew.
Imagine the look if Lady Cartwright knew of Elizabeth’s latest adventure?
Not even the threat of the look, however, could keep her from her lessons. Actually, there didn’t seem much that would keep her from returning to her tutor’s door, ready and eager for further enlightenment. Lord, one lesson and she was a fiend, but how could she think of anything else?
Her tutor. The caress of his voice. The whisper of his breath. The feel of him against her skin, her flesh, her core.
Henrietta laughed.
Elizabeth started, her heart tripping erratically. Oh Lord, she had done it again. She had to stop thinking of him. Tucking one hand tightly in the other, she undertook a concentration on her sisters. And—because she was desperate—Lady Cartwright.
Anne was displaying her version of grinning, that sedate half-smile she insisted was an appropriate display of mirth. Lady Cartwright’s back was, well, Lady Cartwright’s back. It could be her shoulders were a fraction less stiff.
Elizabeth’s brows drew together. Surely, they had exhausted all gossip at the dining table? The three of them had huddled together through the courses, their conversation confined to each other. However, did she really have care for what they discussed? If they wished to limit their conversation to each other, it was of no concern to her.
After the meal, the ladies had left the men in favour of this drawing room. No doubt the dining room now saw an orgy of port swilling, cigar smoke, and tall tales that couldn’t be uttered in the presence of ladies. A time or two, her curiosity had compelled her to eavesdrop on these allegedly lurid conversations, but each and every time she’d been overwhelmingly disappointed. The anecdotes she heard had been of little note, with nothing racier than the purchase of a mistress discussed. Maybe the best tales were saved for a gentlemen’s club, a venue she’d unfortunately never found a way to infiltrate.
Tonight, well, she had no need to seek out wild tales. Tonight, she would simply recall her own adventure.
Catherine was playing cards with Viscountess Patton and Lady Amelia. Mother and daughter currently trounced Catherine while Catherine’s partner, a lady whose name Elizabeth could never remember, valiantly tried to save her. Lady Amelia and Catherine had been fast friends from infancy, and the third lady—what was her name?—appeared to be some sort of relation to Lady Amelia. Oh wonderful, she couldn’t remember her name, but she remembered the familial relationships. Well done, Elizabeth.
The meal, though, that had been sublime, Viscountess Patton surpassing all previous efforts yet again. Elizabeth had been particularly enamoured of a creamy pasta dish, some Italian fare the Viscountess had declared her new Italian chef had created. Conversation around the table had flowed easily, apart from Henrietta, Anne, and Lady Cartwright. Elizabeth had remained quiet for most of the meal, for how could she speak when she had thoughts of her tutor to so pleasantly distract her?
No point pretending interest where there was none. Closing the book, she plastered as innocuous an expression as she could muster on her features.
What would it be like if he were here? Again and again he would draw her gaze, to the exclusion of all else. In minutia she would examine him, the way he moved, the flawlessness of his dress, the lack of interest in his gaze. Perfection such as his screamed to be mussed and the desire to do so would overwhelm her.
In the presence of others, distance must be maintained and so she would make him notice her in recompense for her notice of him. He would level that cold gaze on her, his features expressionless, and his very coldness would stoke a fire inside her, flames licking her belly, her flesh, between her thighs. An arched brow would communicate her wishes and he would come to her, take her out of the room, take her somewhere deserted and—
“What are you smiling about?” Bella’s frown was ferocious, suspicion lending her face an unattractive cast.
“Oh, nothing of any great consequence.” Elizabeth fought to contain her smile, but the wicked shape of it refused to be cowed.
Bella’s scowl grew fiercer. “That I refuse to believe. You have sat there with a smug look on your face all evening. I demand to know what put it there.”
Elizabeth drawled, “Demand?” Lord, she sounded just like him. A shiver went through her as she remembered that husky voice, lowered and rough against her ear.
Bella’s breath exploded. “You are so very annoying, Elizabeth. Why did Mama and Papa have to burden me with a younger sister?”
“Divine justice? By all accounts, you plagued our elder sisters.”
“I was two when you were born, you idiot. Are you claiming I was so prodigious a child, I was an annoyance to our sisters at such a young age?”
That was exactly what Elizabeth was implying, and according to the stories their elder sisters told, she wasn’t far wrong.
Bella crossed her arms, apparently deciding that particular argument settled. Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to dissuade her of that notion. “Are you going to tell me what has put such a look on your face?”
If Bella knew, if she’d known a virtual stranger had touched her sister, had caressed her, put his mouth and his hands on her, had made her body come so gloriously alive and taught her things she had only ever imagined…if Bella knew, that imperious look would be wiped from her face.
Two more days. She’d only had to wait two more days.
Bella made a sound of disgust. “You are not going to tell me, are you?”
Elizabeth smiled the most annoyingly bright smile she could manage. Bella’s lips twitched, though she tried to maintain her ire.
They had ever behaved thus. Bella was adversarial by nature, so the only way to hold one’s own against her was to be as stubborn as she. Besides, Elizabeth didn’t want to tell Bella about her lessons. They were hers and hers alone, not to mention if Bella did know, it would shock the life out of her.
Next time, would he let her touch him? Would he let her put her palm against his chest and feel the beat of his heart against her skin? His muscles would twitch beneath her fingers and she’d watch her progress, watch her pale hand against his skin. Her mouth would dry and her chest would ache and she would want so intensely for him to touch her—
“What are Henrietta and Anne discussing so intensely with Lady Cartwright?”
Damnation, she’d descended into distraction again. Wrenching herself away from those too-alluring thoughts, she looked over at their sisters. A crease formed between her brows. They really did seem fascinated by Lady Cartwright. What could the woman possibly be saying to them that warranted such attention? “I don’t know. It must be thrilling, though.”
“Well, go find out.”
“I? Why do I have to find out?”
Bella sighed, probably in exasperation. Bella was nothing if not predictable. “Isn’t that what you do? You find out things. So go. Find out.”
“What do you mean, I find out things?”
Bella appeared as though she were trying to force Elizabeth to move through sheer will. Simply raising a brow disabused Bella of that notion. Concealing a grin at her sister’s scowl, she could see why Malvern found such an action so effective.
With a huff, Bella finally answered. “Elizabeth, you have always pushed things too far. You ask inappropriate questions, do inappropriate things, and care nothing for the disorder you cause. So,” Bella sat back, crossing her arms over her chest, “Find out.”
Well. Maybe Bella wasn’t so predictable after all.
Averting her gaze, she considered her tightly clasped hands. Bella couldn’t mean that. Look at her. She couldn’t. She couldn’t just say that and blithely continue with her perusal of Henrietta and Anne and mean it.
Elizabeth pressed her hand against her stomach in an effort to quell the sudden sickness. She wasn’t thoughtless. Her curiosity compelled her to do certain things, ask certain questions, but she didn’t have a wanton disregard for others. Did she? “Do you truly think that?”
“Think what?” Bella still stared at their sisters, a frown between her brows.
“Nothing.” And it was. It was nothing.
Bella turned to face her. “Are you going to find out or not?”
Elizabeth painted a smile on her face, though it felt horrendously false. “Not, I think. You can do your own discovery, Bella.”
“Hmph.” Bella gave a slight shrug. “It’s probably of no interest, anyway. We are speaking of Henrietta and Anne, after all.”
“True.” Still shaken, Elizabeth sought to change the topic. “The boys are home from visiting Mama and Papa at Aylesbury soon, are they not?”
At the mention of her sons, Bella forgot about their sisters. “Yes, in a week. I am hoping to take them to the country, maybe even out to Cornwall.”
Grateful Bella had succumbed, Elizabeth hurried to comment. “Oh?” Well done, Elizabeth, most scintillating.
“I thought to spend some time with them before Henry starts at Harrow. Cornwall is a delightful place, is it not?”
“Oh yes. All those bogs and moors and rocky outcrops. Delightful indeed.”
Bella shot her a sour look, but then an unholy gleam lit her eyes. Elizabeth regarded her sister warily. That look never boded well.
“I say, Elizabeth, do you want to come along? I should dearly like your company.”
Horror suffused her, seizing her lungs, freezing her limbs. Leave London now? When she had found a tutor and discovered the delights he had to offer? As mildly as she could manage, she said, “I don’t think I can, actually,”
Bella’s smile fell. “Why? You don’t have anything to do here.”
Frantic, Elizabeth tried to think of an excuse to placate Bella, cursing the heat that suddenly flushed her cheeks. “I just don’t want to leave town. Not for a while anyway.”
“Why not? You pestered me ceaselessly to take you with us to the Lakes. I would have thought you would leap to join us.”
“Yes, well….” What could she say? “I am expecting a delivery.” She winced. Good Lord, that was pathetic.
“A delivery.” Bella’s flat tone more than adequately displayed her disbelief. “You are giving up a holiday with my boys and I for a delivery.”
“It’s a very important delivery,” Elizabeth defended. Really, Bella had no call to be looking at her like that.
“What are you up to?” Bella said finally.
“What do you mean?” Elizabeth widened her eyes, trying for the very picture of innocence. “I have a delivery. It is important. Ergo, I cannot go with you. Besides, wouldn’t you prefer time alone with your sons? You know I will just get in the way. They will want to spend all their time with me, and it will be “Aunt Lizzie did this” and “Aunt Lizzie did that” and you know how you hate that. You will be better off without me.”
Bella, thankfully, let the delivery nonsense die. “Yes, they will want to talk to you, won’t they?” She sighed. “Seriously, Elizabeth, why did you not have your own blasted children?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “It’s not something I could control, Bella.” And that casual rejoinder was the product of years of convincing herself the truth of the statement. “Besides, you should have a family outing. No doubt Burfield will enjoy showing the boys his estate there.” Why was Bella looking at her so oddly?
“Burfield isn’t coming.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth had no idea what to say.
“Maybe it is best you don’t come,” Bella continued. “The boys and I will do well together. You stay in London for your—” Bella’s lips twitched “—your delivery.”
“I shall,” she said loftily.
Bella laughed, and Elizabeth smiled with her, and they both pretended all was well.
Though God forfend should Bella ever discover what truly kept Elizabeth in London.
***
LYDIA TAPPED HER CHEEK with her fan, her gaze trained on him.
Ignoring her, Malvern instead watched the flow of the brandy as he rolled the glass, the pattern cut into the crystal refracting the candlelight. He had come to La Belle to attempt diversion. Lydia, however, seemed determined to destroy such a simple goal.
He exhaled. The day had been barely passable, and an effort to alleviate that state with one of his mistresses had failed miserably. Monique had pleaded indisposition, which had only increased his ire. She was paid a fair and equitable sum to be available to him at all times and she thought to contravene that simple edict? He had informed the butler Monique no longer lived there and went on his way. The servants would organise her removal from the house. They had done it for her predecessor and would do it again.
He had thought to visit another, but by that stage, the inclination for a female had left him and he’d settled for an hour or so at his club. When that, too, had lost all interest, he’d made his way to La Belle.
The brothel, however, held even less appeal than his club. Thus, he had not objected when Lydia had appeared at his side in a cloud of delicate perfume and greasepaint. She had smiled, that mysterious smile, and he’d allowed himself led away from the masses. Unfortunately, he could not stir himself to initiate anything remotely sexual.
With a delicate flick of her wrist, Lydia opened her fan, her eyes shadowed and mysterious in the candlelight. Was the placement of her chair deliberate? More than like the whole scene was designed to show her in the most favourable of lights. He applauded her showmanship.
“What tickles your fancy, my lord?” Lydia shifted, her breasts plumping above her neckline. The sight of her pale flesh aroused, to a degree. A very small degree. “Are you after dalliance? I have a new treat, one I am willing to share. Fresh from the country, skin like a pearl, breasts to make your mouth water.” She licked her lips, a deep red shine glittering in the candlelight. “I shall give you first crack at her, or we could share her. I must admit, I have wanted to partake of her assets.”
Malvern remained silent. Lydia did amuse him. She’d been his favourite whore before she’d managed to claw her way to her present position. Now, she took customers only when she desired and, for some reason she had never explained, she desired him.
“She has a brother. A twin, I believe. Would that be preferable?” Now there was annoyance in her voice, faint though it was.
Looking back at his glass, he ignored her, effectively ending her attempt to cajole him into debauchery. Staring into the crystal, he saw not the whiskey Lydia had pressed upon him. Instead he saw blonde hair and green eyes and a smile that persisted no matter the provocation.
Lydia snapped her fan shut. “Why are you here?”
Ah. Outright annoyance. It always entertained him when he could force a natural reaction from her. He smiled, though it was faint. “You question me?”
Face paling, she faltered, but stoically she continued. Was there any wonder why he returned to her, time and again? “You haven’t fucked, haven’t watched, haven’t partaken of any of La Belle’s offerings.” Her expression once again smooth, a small smile flitted around her mouth. “Is something the matter, my dear?”
Her tone arch, she appeared to have regained some measure of control. Pity.
“How long have we known each other?”
Lydia appeared startled by his sudden change of topic. Another natural reaction. It seemed the night for them. “I don’t know. Five years, perhaps?”
Five years. Five years he had known her. Five years he had been back in England. And for five years, the earl had been dead.
His father’s death was the only thing that could have compelled him to return to the country of his birth. His mother had greeted him with proffered cold cheek at the funeral and, her duty fulfilled, had promptly retired once more to the convent that had been her home since shortly after his birth. For reasons unknown, his father had been more than happy with his wife’s production of a single heir and the whole of his childhood he’d not seen his mother above four times.
Malvern had occasionally thought to pursue such a curious satisfaction on his father’s behalf. Never, though, could he find the right way to phrase the question. Besides, his father had, to all appearances, been more than pleased with the issue his wife had provided. It was a rare day when Malvern had not trailed along behind his father, following him to the houses of friends and acquaintances, cooed over by the painted ladies whom he had later realised were the earl’s mistresses, jostled with hearty male enthusiasm by the men in his father’s club. When asked if it was appropriate for the boy to be present, the earl had laughed and claimed the boy had to learn sometime. Malvern supposed he should be grateful for such an early start to his education.
At twenty-one, Malvern had bid farewell to his father and his country and embarked upon a grand tour, from which he had neglected to return. Italy had been too tempting, with its sun-drenched shores and grand palazzos, with artefacts of Rome strewn carelessly on common streets amongst the debris from the Empire’s descendants. He had found society when he required it, and something approaching contentment had settled upon him. The chance discovery of the cliffside village of Positano, where houses clung precariously to rock to loom over the Mediterranean in haphazard splendour, had only added to the strange satisfaction. The quiet and the calm of the small village had soothed him, and he’d given thanks each day that he’d set out from Naples for a brief sea voyage.
He would have been content to remain forever in that place, but the death of his father had brought the responsibility of the earldom, and there was nothing but to return to England. Easily he had fallen into old habits, and he found himself now ignoring an annoyed madam as he contemplated the intricacies of the house of Malvern.
He knew it should hurt to think of his father as dead.
Others seemed to grieve for the death of relatives. The mousey widow had appeared affected by the mention of her husband, and surely, he had been dead a similar amount of time. She was undoubtedly the sort to adhere to convention, and the conventions for mourning would put the event as occurring at least two years ago. What was it about the memory of her husband that inspired such an expression of wistfulness?
He took a draw of brandy and wondered what it would be like to be the focus of a mouse’s affection, so strong that even now it lingered.
“Did you really tell Lady Mouse you wouldn’t marry her?”
Lydia’s words rose unexpected in the still of the room. Before he could prevent it, a shred of panic sliced through him. Was he so easy to read?
Ruthlessly, he forced the emotion away. “And you know this how?”
Her smile grew, though her eyes remained watchful. Lydia could conceal much, but always her eyes betrayed her. “Do you honestly believe I do not monitor everything that occurs between these walls?”
“You have never mentioned it before.”
Ignoring him, she continued. “You are not going to fuck her? Really? I agree, pregnancy is a risk, but she is so very….” The fan rested at the corner of her mouth. “Delectable.”
He said nothing. Lydia did not appear to require his agreement.
“There are a myriad of ways to protect against pregnancy. Surely you know them, my lord. If not, I would be happy to educate you.”
Almost Lydia appeared spiteful. What an interesting turn of affairs.
She carried on, her smile now almost feline in aspect. “The widow, though, she does seem a tiresome choice for bedsport. I do not blame you for avoiding her cunny. No doubt she would weep and wail if ever she did feel your cock inside her. Imagine how dry and tight she’d be, but then, that would not be a deterrent to you, would it, my lord?” Lydia’s smile widened.
“You will cease, madam.” The widow was so different from what Lydia had described it seemed a sacrilege.
“Tell me, what liberties has she allowed you? Have you caressed her breasts? Did she blanch? Scream? Was she shocked, my lord?” Her hand trailed over her own breast.
“I do not see how my interaction with the widow is any business of yours.”
Lydia froze. “My lord, I did not mean offense. It is simply— She came to me and I-I—”
Malvern kept his face impassive as he took a swallow of brandy. Lydia’s demeanour held confusion tinged with fear, though she appeared to be desperately trying to conceal any reaction. She had miscalculated, and her livelihood depended on providing what her patron desired.
He should have found her efforts amusing. Instead, he did not.
“Nonetheless, you have caused offense.” Malvern finished his brandy in one swallow and stood. “I bid you farewell.”
He left her there, sprawled on the lounge, her bewilderment plain for all to see. And still, he was restless.
***
THE BALLROOM OF MALVERN House brought back old memories, ones he’d not had cause to think on in years. Malvern leaned a shoulder against the door jamb, observing the room as he raised the glass of whiskey. The alcohol had long since lost the power to burn, a pleasant numbness blurring the edges of his vision.
Throngs of young bucks clamoured for entrance to La Belle as he had departed earlier that night for home, their warbling voices pleading for admittance. He had left them to pursue the dubious pleasures contained within, instead striding through the streets of Seven Dials, his cane and his attitude keeping the worse of the footpads at bay. Gaslight had lent the streets an eerie luminosity, reflecting in the wet cobblestones and throwing back meagre light to limit the shadows with a weak glow. Mist had clung heavy to his clothes as the damp of the approaching winter seeped into his bones.
Now, here he was, staring into the ballroom he had seen a thousand times before. Dust cloths covered the fixtures, and the dim light from the windows hit the white sheets at odd angles, refracting around the room weakly while his shadow stretched long over the polished floor.
He saw none of it.
Instead, he saw the room as it had been, an oak table set in the centre and the ruins of the meal lay abandoned across the floor, plates and goblets strewn with careless abandon.
Amidst the wreckage, the earl’s dinner guests lounged. Women lay draped over the table, breasts bare as they moaned at the attentions of their partners. Others rutted amongst the overturned plates, a tangle of limbs and flesh frantically thrusting at each other. Some did not confine themselves to one partner, or even two, writhing together in a parody of sexual congress. Some straddled chairs, others bent over them, and there were men fucking women, women fucking men, men buggering each other, women licking cunt, sucking cock, anything in the pursuit of pleasure.
And his father at the centre of it all, a goblet in one hand and the other tangled in the hair of the woman fellating him. A king surveying his depraved kingdom.
Malvern would have liked to have said it was an isolated incident. Instead, it had been one of many and he had been an unwilling observer until his father had deemed him old enough to join the fray. He may have been thirteen, but the memories blurred together. It was possible he had been younger.
He took another swallow of brandy. Its warmth, and that of the house, should have banished the chill and yet, stubbornly, it lingered within him, etched almost into his bones.
Abruptly, he turned from the ballroom, long strides taking him down the hall to his study.
None of the other rooms held any peace for him. In this strange mood, he found no quarter from old memories, each room offering something of his father’s debauchery and, later, his own. Only his study brought respite, something about the room banishing thoughts of the past and bringing blessed silence in its wake.
The chair behind the desk beckoned. He sank into it, the scent of leather and old cigars winding about him as he settled into its comfort. It had been his father’s, this chair, and his father’s before him. Generation upon generation of Malverns had enjoyed its embrace, just as generations had worked upon the surface of the desk before him.
He looked toward the centre of the room and could see nothing but the widow before him.
The widow. Again he thought upon her. She occupied his thoughts too much, though it was understandable why it should be so tonight. Lydia had been determined to talk of her, for all that he’d not wanted it. Every word she had uttered wound him tighter, and yet he was unsure as to why it had bothered him so. She had spoken of nothing but the truth or, at least, the truth she perceived. The widow was of no consequence, a blonde mouse who had requested the services of a debaucher to teach her something she could have easily found at any social gathering.
A faint smile quirked his lips. The widow had known that and had attempted to seek it out. How was it possible her lover had botched the job so badly?
He drank his whiskey, lost in thoughts of her. So lost was he, he didn’t notice the coldness, the restlessness, had disappeared.