All the Secret Pleasures [I Love Rogues Anthology]

by Thea Devine

  And counting the hours until her shadow lover would return?

  She understood her impatience—it had been far too long since she had had a paramour, and his expert use of her body was too new, too delicious; she wanted to savor it and she wanted more of it, and more. Even the thought of it aroused her to a fever pitch.

  It had not been like that with the others…

  But she had not given over her body so freely and fluidly before. Ever. Not even to Woodholme…

  No!—never say so…

  Yes—that was the truth of it. And that the idea of a shadow lover excited her beyond coherence.

  But there was yet another day to get through—and still he might not come.

  "What shall we do today?" she asked Fanny the next morning over a of pot of hot chocolate and a plate of scones.

  "I do believe my lady needs to refresh her wardrobe. The invitations are coming thick and fast, and while you bought enough dresses in Paris to outfit an army, they might just be a little too avant for some occasions. If you take my meaning."

  "You want to go to the dressmaker," Corinna translated dryly. "So, who is the modiste of the moment?"

  Fanny wriggled her eyebrows. "Miss Wytch—and only a favored few are among her clients. She is as selective as a patroness, and no less haughty. Suffice to say, I cannot tell you how I came by her name—or any of this information. There is even a secret word."

  "Oh, my word…" Corinna murmured. "Well then, of course we are obligated to go." At least it would be a distraction. It would take her mind off of the night, the feelings, the sex.

  "Exactly, my lady."

  They set off an hour later, and had not a little trouble locating Miss Wytch's establishment in Mayfair, which proved finally to be on the upper level of a highly unobtrusive building, with no signage or anything to indicate that a dressmaker was in business there.

  Fanny not only delighted in her knowledge of this, but also in the fact that she had got the password, and because of that, Miss Wytch would, accordingly, receive them.

  Miss Wytch proved to be as tied back, starched up and stiff-necked as an arbiter of taste should be. She examined Corinna from every angle, grudgingly allowed that she was "well formed," took copious measurements of her nearly nude body, and held up swatches of a rainbow of colored fabrics to determine her appropriate colors, all in aid of manufacturing "a style for my lady that is wholly, completely and suitably her own."

  And all Corinna had to do was to put herself into Miss Wytch's hands, money no object, and in several weeks—barring the immediate need for one exquisite ball gown—just at the onset of the season, in fact, she would be utterly transformed.

  Corinna looked at the bill and felt well and truly transfigured by the amounts written thereon. But she agreed that Miss Wytch should proceed as they had discussed, and with that, she left Fanny to the details, and descended to her waiting carriage.

  One step up and in, with the help of the footman, and instantly she was pulled into the dark magical world of her shadow lover, the blindfold deftly slipped over her eyes and his strong arms enfolding her tightly against the hardness, the heat of his body.

  And then he fit his mouth slowly and deliberately against hers, taking her tongue, hot, demanding, utterly powerful, totally irresistible. She wrapped her arms around him, slipping into his wet sensual world, every nerve ending thickening with desire.

  This—yes, this. Just like this.

  The carriage jerked forward, bearing them away. He brought her more tightly against him, deepening the kiss. In the dark, she had nowhere else to go but to focus on the every nuance of the kiss, her every heightened sense, the sinuous wetness between her legs.

  The kiss went on forever, a kiss without end. She allowed herself to touch his face, to feel the texture of his skin, to feel the strength of his jaw, the erotic tenseness of his body.

  All that, in one long heated kiss.

  How many miles in that kiss?

  She broke for just an instant, her lips a breath away from his. "How—?"

  He ran the back of his hand against her cheek. "Does it matter?"

  She touched his firm lips with her fingers. "No. Wait Fanny? You—? Miss Wytch… ?"

  He nipped at her lower lip. "I will never tell."

  "So discreet, Simon. I do like that about you."

  "I hope there will be other things you like as well, my lady."

  "There are," she whispered, "I will," and she gave herself up to his kiss. It was all she needed—just his mouth teasing her, caressing her, taking her in the dark, where her desire was magnified and sharpened to the knife edge of anticipation.

  All he wanted was her kiss.

  Was it an hour—two—that they drove around London in her carriage, in the dark, with her lost in the vast hot world of his kisses? It never stopped, not the carriage, not his kisses, not her squirming need to make him touch her, make him take her against the squabs, against all common sense and reason.

  It was dark after all, and she needed more, truly more; her body twisted and turned, as she tried to entice him into the lust of possession.

  He never gave in. He didn't caress her in any sensual way; he just held her and kissed her and felt her body wholly dissolve against his in the dark.

  And then suddenly he pulled his mouth from hers, set her away from him as the carriage stopped, and in that one befuddling instant, he was gone.

  She ripped the blindfold from her eyes, but the light was too piercing for her to follow him. He was gone as suddenly as a shadow, into the shadows, and into the dark world of her imagination and desire.

  The next event she attended was a ball not two nights later. Two nights of ruminating and yearning and in her heart of hearts delighting in this sensual game that Simon played so excellently well.

  But it was time to come to point. She couldn't take much more of this lustrous foreplay without some kind of culmination. Her body felt like a tightly strung wire—at perfect pitch and ripe and ready to play.

  But, she thought as she entered the ballroom at Wofford House and looked around at the assemblage, could the green girl Simon would choose for his wife even appreciate the finer points of his elegant seduction? He had honed his skills too finely. He needed no practice on her. She was embarrassed to even have suggested it.

  He needed a wife, and his skills and her needs had no place in that equation.

  It was best not to think that way, in any event. But she couldn't help it, because the ballroom was full and wall-to-wall with sweet young flower girls in their first bloom, all dewy and delicate, clothed in silk, challis, gauze and guile.

  The seasonal assault had begun and the Wofford ball was the opening salvo. Perhaps it was as well that she had paid Miss Wytch, at Fanny's urging, that much extra to provide an exclusive gown, made up of rose-colored silk crepe overlaid with blond lace dyed to match, for this first real event of the season.

  It was a crush beyond all crushes. Everyone had come to Town for this event. One could barely move, let alone breathe. Procuring a drink was impossible. Having any conversation beyond nodding to acquaintances was impractical. And there wasn't a breath of fresh air to be had anywhere in the cavernous and crowded room.

  There seemed to be music playing somewhere as well, but the goal of most of the guests was solely to see and be seen and gird for the seasonal competition.

  So Corinna was relieved finally to come upon Lady Apperson, who in her good-natured way, invited Corinna to stay with them and comment on the milling crowd.

  "For we are taking bets on which of the vestals Simon might choose," she told Corinna gleefully. "They have all paraded by at one point or another, for to a certainty, they had strict instructions to circulate and be seen by one and all. So it has become a most diverting game. Perhaps you would like to play?"

  Would she? No, there were just some instances where it was better to keep her own counsel. And this was dangerous ground anyway, given her shadow lover.

  "
Oh, I think not. It will be more amusing to hear your opinions in the matter who know him all that much better than I," she said finally, with, she hoped, disarming tact.

  Lady Apperson sent her a sharp look. "Perhaps you are right. But certainly your opinion about the girls themselves must have some merit. How they comport themselves, their beauty, their dress—we will have at least that valuable commentary from you, Corinna. You cannot back out. It is the only sport of the evening."

  "And seeing old friends back to town," Corinna murmured. "Surely there is some value there."

  "It is a blessing and a joy," Lady Apperson agreed. "And here comes a dear old friend now, a man who never sets foot into anything resembling a social situation on pain of death. And yet here he is."

  She gave him an arch look, which gave Corinna a moment to assess him. He was tall, elegant and austere. Older than the dandies and heirs who were milling around and greeting friends. A little too worldly, she thought, maybe very wise. It was in his eyes, his very frank pale blue gaze that settled on her as he awaited an introduction.

  Lady Apperson took the hint. "Corinna—this is the usually absent Richard, Viscount Cawley. Richard, Lady Corinna Woodholme."

  They bowed in acknowledgement and then Lady Apperson dug in. "So, Richard—are you here to lend support to Simon's ongoing quest?"

  He kept his eyes on Corinna. "It has vast amusement value, I'm sure you'll agree. Nevertheless, he is serious in his intentions."

  "Well, now we have it from the one man who should know. Richard is Simon's dearest friend, of course, and were it not for this folly of Simon's, we would not see him in public of a whole season, let alone one hour this night."

  "Perhaps I have changed, and wish to put my affairs in order as well," Richard said lazily. "Or—" He peered through his quizzing glass at the crowd. "Or perhaps I was bored and looking for some entertainment. Having forgotten, of course, how chaotic these events can be."

  Lady Apperson smiled at him. Richard would forget nothing, and well she knew it. "But then, here comes Simon," she said lightly. "He has such pretty manners, don't you think, Corinna? Every demoiselle commands equal attention with equal politesse. No one could suppose that he favored one above the others."

  "Yes," Corinna said, "he's very good at it." But having proper manners and never overstepping the bounds of propriety did not win a man a wife, she thought. There would hardly be any time at all to get to know a girl as it was. They would all have invitations everywhere, and if they had a fortune and were fortunate, they would be sought after by more than one eligible parti. How could Simon make any kind of informed choice with such limitations, and the further constraint of the watchful eye of a chaperone? It was daunting, to say the least.

  "But surely there are no odds-on yet?" she added.

  "Oh, I'm not up on the betting books. Richard would know."

  "I will say only that money has been laid down here and there, but it's early days yet," Richard said in that offhanded way of his. "Not everyone has looked over the crop yet. That will effect a signal change once the eligible have been parsed out. Ah, Simon…"

  "What are you doing here?"

  "You see," Lady Apperson murmured.

  "Tripping with great caution around the ballroom," Richard said lightly. "I haven't done that in years. I find it—edifying, and the perfect confirmation that all my past instincts have been right on the money."

  "And yet you are here," Simon said, his tone slightly threatening.

  "Could not stay away as you begin your pre-marital adventure, my friend."

  "Corinna—" Simon turned to her and ignored his comment altogether.

  "Simon." What else was there to say? The comedy of it all was that no one really wanted to make conversation. Every one of them was scanning the crowd, looking for the flower girls, seeking the one who stood out, who was the most magnetic, elegant, intelligent, beautiful—all the graces a man could wish to possess in a wife—so to push Simon in that direction.

  It took Simon no time to leave them in search of that very one, and for Richard to sequester Corinna apart from Lady Apperson and her company.

  "So my lady, it seems you have so easily renewed your acquaintance with Simon."

  "Indeed," she said—carefully. "It seems as if the years just fell away."

  "That must be very comfortable, considering how it might have been."

  "I had not thought it would be," she admitted. "As you must know, we did not part on amicable terms."

  "That is understating it," Richard said, "but I am aware of the circumstances."

  "I assumed so, if you are Simon's friend."

  "Well. Good," Richard said. "Now we can be friends as well."

  She felt a ripple of something—awareness, an undercurrent. Richard was not so innocuous as he looked. Nor had he been bosom-bows with Simon before the debacle of her refusing his offer of marriage. So what did Richard really know?

  "It is done," she said lightly, giving him her hand. "And so now—tell me, how goes Simon's search for a wife?"

  "You tell me."

  She shrugged. "I only know he is the talk of the town."

  "I'm afraid his virtue in wishing to find a wife is far outweighed by the ton's curiosity about you, my lady. Do you not wish to find a husband?"

  Ah, plain-speaking. Corinna slanted a look at him. Yes, he was a one who would not tolerate dissembling. He didn't need anyone, only himself, and so the frivolous gossipmongering about everyone's love life could not concern him, except insofar as it affected his friends. He was above all that, and she had the gleeful thought that it might be great fun to find the woman who could bring him to his knees.

  But she had other fish to fry. And surely they must be of one mind that Simon's interests were paramount. So she answered him candidly and with the intent of shocking him, "No, I do not wish to have another husband. I wish solely to have sex."

  Her response had the desired effect. He choked, and she amplified further, "You need not offer yourself, my lord. I have found a suitable lover who makes me very content."

  "Have you? I'm so sorry."

  "Now, my lord. It is ever thus. You may wish and want and then take action—while a woman of my circumstance must hope and wait, and expire of need and desire. I infinitely prefer things this way—in my control, with no constraints and no husband to ride roughshod over me."

  "I see," he murmured, feeling a deep pang of regret. She, of anyone he had ever met, made him yearn—just for a moment for female companionship. She was bright, sharp, elegant, beautiful. Experienced. Experience had some merit, if it had been obtained within the bounds of matrimony.

  But he must stop thinking like this. She had a lover. Simon must be told.

  "Oh, and Richard—" she touched his arm, "I just had the best idea." She had—and talking with Richard had precipitated it. It made such sense. She could even enlist his aid, given how removed he seemed to be from the social situation. "I will help Simon find a wife."

  Richard looked thunderstruck, and she went on, elaborating on the thought, "It will be simple as stones… he will have the benefit of my impartial assessment of whichever worthy damsel catches his interest. It's a most excellent idea, and you must help me convince him. There is no one among his friends who can be as objective as I."

  Richard choked again. "How true," he murmured. "It will be my pleasure, my lady. I agree—it is a most excellent plan."

  Within two hours, Simon was bored to tears. The level of insipidity among the flower girls was at a new low, he thought, and he was ragingly impatient to have the evening over with.

  And he knew why, too. Corinna … whom he'd left with Richard, which might have been the biggest mistake of his life.

  But the niceties must be done. The gossips were watching. Never too long with one girl. Visit with friends. Pay obeisance to the patronesses of Almack's because his attendance there must be secured.

  With all of that, it was with much relief that he saw Richard on the edge
of the crowd, not conversing with Corinna, and doing what Richard did best—watching everything with a supercilious eye.

  He made his way toward him, stopping every step of the way to greet some acquaintance, eager match-making mother, or just-arrived-in-Town friend.

  It was wearing to say the least, to find the right word or tidbit to keep up his end of the conversation. Richard, at least, was bracing and refreshingly raw sometimes and didn't require a man to run a constant commentary.

  He looked, actually, a little disturbed, and his attention, Simon was puzzled to see, was focused wholly on Lady Corinna who was deep in discussion with some acquaintances on the opposite side of the room.

  "She is still quite alluring," Simon greeted him, following his gaze.

  "Just enchanting," Richard said caustically. "I now have it on good authority she does not seek to remarry, but would rather just have sex."

  "An admirable desire," Simon said, a little stunned that Richard had elicited this information in about five minutes' acquaintance. No one else could have apprised him of Corinna's wishes but Corinna herself and that seemed a little too forthcoming, even for Corinna, and even if she always spoke her mind.

  Richard turned to look at him, his expression grave, as if he were going to impart some disastrous news and did not know quite how to spare him. "Well, dash your hopes, my boy. There's a lover."

  Simon didn't look at all distraught. "Of course there is, you dolt. Me."

  Richard sent him an awed look. "By God—you are up to the rigs…" He wouldn't have thought it, but Simon was a deep one, and full of surprises since he'd remade his family fortune and come to Town. Talking of wives, taking lovers, planning a coup… wait till he heard the rest of it.

  "There is one other thing—" he added, and broke off abruptly.

  Why tell him, after all? There were just some things Simon didn't need to know.

  Especially when it would provide such rare entertainment.

  "Forget that," he said, waving it off. "There's nothing else."

  The thought tickled him. The whole idea was exquisitely delicious. The man who professed to be seeking a wife had taken as his lover the woman who had refused to be his wife, and now wanted to help him choose a wife.