by Eloisa James
“To London and back on a regular basis. If I travel at night, I lose no working time.”
“And do you see your parents when you are in London?” Tess carefully didn’t look at him. Chloe came out of the cage with an enthusiastic screech, clinging to Tess’s finger and waving her wings furiously to balance herself.
“Aren’t they supposed to be graceful birds?” Lucius said, stepping back as Chloe almost disbalanced. She flapped her wings so vigorously that a few small seeds flew into the air.
“Do you ever see your parents in London?” Tess repeated.
“Never. And they wouldn’t wish it,” he added.
There didn’t seem to be any way to ask further questions without seeming inquisitive, so Tess allowed Chloe to walk up her arm. Chloe leaned against Tess’s cheek for a moment and nibbled her ear affectionately. Tess scratched her head, and Chloe let out another shriek. She was getting more and more excited, shifting from leg to leg and squawking.
Lucius was staring at her with a raised eyebrow. “What a peculiar animal,” he remarked. “Are you—”
But his voice broke off as Chloe succumbed to pure excitement.
“Damnation!” Lucius roared.
“Don’t frighten her!” Tess said sharply, picking up Chloe and stowing her back into the cage. Chloe knew she’d done something wrong; she was making little squeaks that sounded somewhere between penitent and delinquent.
Typically, Lucius had moved from anger to practicality without another breath. “How are we going to get you out of this gown without risking your hair?”
Familiarity had not made Tess any happier with Chloe’s bodily functions. “It has to go down, rather than up,” Tess said. “Pull it down, if you please, Lucius.”
“Down?” Lucius asked dubiously.
Tess pulled her arms through the tiny sleeves and yanked at her bodice. She gave a little wiggle. “It would be easier if you do it,” she told him, carefully keeping her face bland.
So he carefully slid the close-fitting black velvet down over her breasts, down her slender waist, with a tug over her hips, and, finally, she lifted her feet to allow him to pull it off.
“And my corset,” Tess commanded, turning her back. “Please. I must bathe.”
She felt his fingers at the ties on her corset and bit her lip so that she didn’t smile.
Chloe was crooning hoarsely, obviously comforting herself. Tess silently promised her an extra helping of seeds in the morning.
The laces fell from her corset. Tess promptly pulled it forward and off of her body, and then pulled her chemise over her head as well, throwing it to the side. All she wore now were a pair of delicate lawn pantaloons—the very latest style, straight from Paris—her stockings, and her high heels.
“Lucius,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder, “I’m afraid that I shall be lamentably late to dinner. The chef will be displeased.”
She walked over and put one leg on the stool before her dressing chair, then bent over and began unbuckling her high heels.
A second later he was there, behind her. “I should be more impetuous, hmmm?” he said into her hair, but one large hand was curling around the curve of her bottom, and the other had pulled her snug against him. There was something in his voice that was both amused and potent, simmering from laughter into desire.
“Yes,” she managed.
But that was all she managed, for at least a good hour, after which she said, rather drunkenly, “Again?” And then, with rather more interest, “Like that?”
Lucius must have been too tired to sneak away to London like a thief in the night. Because when Tess awoke in the early dawn, there was a large male body sprawled in the bed next to hers.
She bent over and asked: “London?”
“Not today,” he said groggily.
She said one more word in his ear.
“Again?” he asked, but there was a smile in his voice. And later: “Like that, Tess?”
And finally: “God, but marriage is a surprise to me.”
Chapter
32
Horse races are noisy affairs. The Cup itself wouldn’t be run for two hours, but already the men crowding the railing were shouting and jostling amongst themselves, watching a group of two-year-olds tear around the back-stretch, heading for the starting gate. Eager bettors were howling at the jockeys, and then howling at each other. The grandstand shook as thirty-two or thirty-six hooves pounded by. One could smell dust and sweating horses, an odor as familiar to Tess as that of roses or baking bread.
Lucius took her arm and led her not to the grandstand, but to a small white structure just to its left.
“The royal box?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” he answered. “It belonged to the Duke of York, who was very eager to give it up and even more eager for an influx of cash for his stables. I thought we might wish for a place of our own.”
Tess thought, not for the first time, how very nice it was to be married to someone richer than a royal duke. The box was lovely: a proper room, with large open windows just on the track. It was furnished in a lavish manner that would suit the Duke of York: all hung with red velvet and gilded candelabras that looked rather tawdry in the sunlight.
Imogen and her husband were already settled at the windows. “How are you?” Tess asked her sister, giving her a delighted kiss. “I’ve missed you so; you can have no idea!”
“I am very well,” Imogen said, smiling hugely. “How very nice to see you again, Mr. Felton. I understood you would be in London today.”
“As it happened, I changed my mind,” Lucius said, giving Tess a quick, wicked grin.
“I’m so sorry you arrived before us,” Tess said, trying not to think about what had delayed them in bed that morning.
“We’ve been here since the warm-up rounds, of course, as Draven believes that he should be here from the very moment the books are opened. It’s very important to know who the favorites are early.”
“I—yes, I know,” Tess said. How could she not? Had not Papa discoursed on the art of laying bets throughout virtually every meal they had shared in the last ten years?
“Annabel sends her heartfelt apologies,” Imogen said. “Lady Griselda’s modiste must return to London tomorrow, and Annabel has ordered so many gowns that she was needed for fittings all day. But she told me that she and Josie are coming to you within the week.”
“She must be in seventh heaven,” Tess said. “Are you ordering some clothing as well?”
Imogen shook her head. “Oh no, we—” But she broke off. “Josie is quite happy too. Her governess declared herself appalled by Josie’s lack of etiquette, but they have struck a happy bargain according to which Josie submits to what she calls ‘ladylike flummery’ in the morning, and then she is allowed to read all she likes in the afternoon.”
“Why aren’t you ordering new clothing?” Tess persisted.
Imogen glanced at her husband, but he and Lucius were standing at the front of the box, watching a low-bodied, muscled horse sweep through the finish line. “I’m afraid that Draven lost a great deal of money at Lewes this week,” she whispered to Tess.
“How much?” Tess asked bluntly.
“Twenty thousand pounds.” And then, at Tess’s expression, Imogen added hastily, “But trifles of this sort don’t weigh heavily on a nature such as Draven’s. He is in all things optimistic. But I do wish to do my part in keeping the household expenses down, of course. He was so crestfallen afterward.”
“I can imagine,” Tess said. All she had to do was picture her father’s face.
They were interrupted by Draven, who wished to take Lucius to the stables so that they might supervise the dressing of some horse whose name Tess didn’t catch. There was a roar of excitement from the crowd. Draven and Imogen rushed to the windows to find out what had happened. Lucius, quick as a wink, pulled her to her feet, backed her up a bit, put his hands on her face, and gave her one hard kiss.
Tess’s min
d blurred into an image that sprang to her mind from that morning: of him arched over her, his chest golden in the morning light, his face anything but expressionless—looking down at her, clenching his teeth, driving her higher and higher, watching her…
And now he had the same look in his eye, and all he was doing was rubbing her cheek with his thumb—his gloved thumb.
“How do you do that?” she asked.
“What?”
“Make me—” She stopped and pulled away, but her back was against the wall. Draven was leaning out of the box, howling at the racetrack. Tess could feel herself blushing. “Think of you,” she whispered.
“I think of you,” he said steadily, his eyes on hers. He wasn’t even touching her, and her body was trembling. His eyes slid to the red velvet sofa that stood next to them, designed to support the Duke of York’s not inconsiderable weight.
Tess could feel crimson spilling into her cheeks. But at the same time there was a welcoming pulse in her veins, in her heart.
Lucius put her hand down and strolled over to her sister and Draven. Tess leaned her head back against the wall and tried to think clearly. Without seeming to lift a finger, her husband was able to turn her—to entice her—
Suddenly she realized that Imogen was calling a cheerful good-bye, and Draven was ushering his wife out of the box, and Lucius was closing the door behind them. And locking it.
“You can’t!” she whispered frantically. “You mustn’t even think such a thing!”
“Think what?” Lucius said. His eyes were lit with laughter as he strolled toward her. As she watched, he began deliberately pulling off his right glove, one finger at a time. She watched in fascinated horror as he tossed it onto the chair. It was followed by his left glove.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Tess said with a gasp. But she knew perfectly well what he was doing. Her sensible, expressionless husband was removing his greatcoat, and there was an expression on his face that even a virgin wouldn’t have mistaken. Her knees were trembling.
“This box is open,” she pointed out. “Open to the public!”
“The windows look directly onto the track,” he said agreeably. His voice had darkened to a timbre that she recognized. “The only people who might see us would have to be on the track itself.”
What sounded like a herd of elephants thundered by on that track. “There are many people out there!” she whispered. He was unbuttoning his waistcoat. As she watched, he slipped free one button, and another, and another.
“Jockeys,” he said. “Jockeys have better things to do than peer into windows. You wanted me to be more impetuous,” he reminded her.
“I didn’t mean this!” she gasped.
The waistcoat flew to the side in a flash of dark green. Despite herself, Tess’s heart was beginning to pound.
A referee trotted past. He didn’t look in their direction, but his striped shirt and small cap were as close to her as—“Don’t you dare take your shirt off!” she cried.
Lucius started walking toward her now, his eyes gleaming. Tess felt like sinking back against the wall like a fainting heroine in a melodrama, but she forced herself to give him a minatory frown instead. “Anyone on a horse can see directly into this room,” she pointed out.
“Mmmmm,” he said, in an extremely unsatisfactory fashion. He tossed his hat onto the couch. Then all of a sudden, he was just in front of her, so close that his body breathed warmth against her and she suddenly smelled a spicy, out-of-door smell that was his alone. Her husband’s.
“Oh, Lucius,” she whispered, looking up at him. She knew her heart was in her eyes.
“Tess,” he growled back. She was standing in the corner, his large body blocking her from anyone’s view.
“They can’t see you here,” he said.
He was right. She could feel a smile forming on her lips, even as she tried to look stern and not—surely not—eager.
“That’s irrelevant,” she managed to say around the pounding in her throat. But he was pulling up her skirts
“I have—to—touch—you,” he said fiercely. “Do you hear me, Tess? I haven’t been able to—”
But that large hand thrust between her legs before she could formulate an answer, and then she did act like a fainting heroine, melting toward him with a gasp. But he was there, a strong arm cradling her against his chest, his fingers sliding into her curls, into her warmth, and then, when she opened her mouth to protest, his mouth closed over hers. He held her against him, captive in his arms.
For a moment she struggled, but his mouth was hot on hers and his hand…his hand moved fluidly, made the blood course through her body and his lips were persuasive on hers, tender, asking, begging…Abruptly Tess stopped struggling and curled against him, curled into his kiss.
He said something, a hoarse word that she couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in her ears. So he said it again: “Please…Tess?”
She gasped and looked at him, and the smile in her heart must have been in her eyes. Because his hands took up a different rhythm, stroking her more roughly now, and all she could do was cling to him, keeping her lips on his so that she couldn’t possibly say no, as she ought to do.
Lucius looked down at her, and the stray thought came into his mind that he was not doing his best to demonstrate to his wife that she was no more than a fixture in his life, to be enjoyed at appropriate times and in appropriate places.
But there was no time for that. Tess was panting, little urgent pants that made him long to sweep her over to York’s sofa and thrust into her warmth. But he couldn’t do that. Someone might see us, he told himself. Her nails were biting into his shoulder.
“We really shouldn’t do this,” she panted.
“We’re not doing anything,” he soothed, but his hand never stopped stroking her. “Tip up your face, Tess.” He was crooning it now, deep in his throat. “You’re mine, my wife, my Tess, my wife.”
He tucked her head against his shoulder and kissed her with all the possession in his soul, with all the deep sense of gladness and rightness that came over him every time he looked at her, every time he thought those words, my wife.
She was shuddering against him; he kissed her harder, let his hand take a deeper stroke. She shook and cried out something, her fingers clutching his shirt convulsively.
He would have said it again, but there wasn’t any need. She was his, she was his, and she was shuddering in his arms, and gulping air in the most endearing way he had ever seen. He clenched his teeth and held her against him, forcing away the desperate wish to rip open his trouser buttons, and—
This evening. That’s what matrimonial beds were for. Rational activity. This wasn’t rational.
She looked up at him, her eyes soft and unfocused, and her lips swollen from his kisses, and Lucius nearly threw rational thought to the winds. But instead he bent his head and kissed her gently, taking her cry into his heart. She slumped against him, as warm and boneless as a kitten. After a while, he said “Tess?”
“Hmmm,” she said dreamily.
“I should probably put my waistcoat back on.”
“Waistcoat,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his chest.
“Exactly.” He picked her up and put her on the couch, backing away quickly before he could give in to his baser urges. Particularly because Tess seemed to have thrown her scruples to the winds and was looking at him with an expression that invited him to join her.
He picked up his waistcoat and put it on, still looking at her, glorying, really, in the boneless way she lay against the back of the seat looking—looking—carnal. His wife. Desirous.
“Didn’t you—don’t you—” she said, her voice still as soft as melted butter.
“No!” he said sharply. He ran a hand through his hair. Miraculously, if you didn’t look into her eyes, Tess looked as ladylike as she had in the beginning. It was enough to drive a man to distraction, thinking—
He stopped thinking about it and unbolted
the door instead. One never knew when Tess’s sister and her husband might return, although he’d given the bounder a thousand pounds and told him to put it on three races in a row. Maitland would undoubtedly have lost every penny.
The time with his wife was worth every cent.
“What a tiresome man your brother-in-law is,” he said, finding his hat and putting it back on.
“Do you think so?” Tess said, grasping at the conversational tidbit so eagerly that he had to hide a grin. “I admit that I find him tedious in conversation myself.” She stood up and walked to the front of the box, avoiding his eyes. He thought he caught a glimpse of something in her eyes—hurt? Mortification?
So he strolled up and stood just behind her and for a moment—a blissful moment—allowed himself to press against her delicious little bottom.
“Lucius!” she said in a stifled voice.
He stepped away and had to readjust his breeches for the fifteenth time. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “I want you to know that I am on the edge of losing my control as a gentleman and throwing you onto that couch. And I can’t do that. Of course.”
She looked up at him quickly. The question was replaced by a smile; she reached up and adjusted his neckcloth.
It was such a wifely gesture that Lucius’s normally inscrutable eyes—had Tess been looking at them, rather than fussing with his neckcloth—held an expression quite alien to their normal expression.
If forced to catalog it, Lucius would have called it desire. Oh, perhaps a stronger version—naked longing, perhaps. Proprietary. She was his wife.
Stronger than that?
Surely not.
He was kissing her when Draven Maitland opened the door to the box. It was all most shocking; kissing, in the open window.
“You might have been seen by any passing jockey,” Imogen remarked, after the two husbands had taken themselves off to the stables. Draven was not the sort to stand around in a box when he could be brushing shoulders with the legs and finding out how the betting was weighing a favorite.
“I think the jockeys have better things to do,” Tess said, suppressing a little grin.
