Lady Delia found that adjusting to living in Durham House was rather easier than adjusting to living in Charles Street because she need no longer prevaricate about her identity. She enjoyed the company of young Lady Harriet, even if she was still in the schoolroom. Despite her youth, she was vastly intelligent and had received a much better education than had Delia herself, due to the influence of the Marquess. Not wishing his sister to be ignorant, but unaware of the proper education generally provided to ladies, Mason had arranged for governesses, as well as tutors. In Latin, in Greek, in history and mathematics and science, because he knew that was what he had learned and thought his sister had little reason for an education different from his own. Lady Harriet was an unexceptional pianoforte player, but Lady Delia had quickly learned that Lord Durham considered playing and watercolors and dancing as desirable but not essential traits in young ladies. The subjects that Lady Harriet studied under her tutor, were, as she learned, what the Marquess deemed to be required absolutely.
Lady Delia, after learning of the young lady’s unusual education, at first worried that Lord Durham would find her dull, but these fears never seemed to be realized as he was rather constantly staring at her or looking for excuses to find her alone. Once Lady Harriet had become aware of Delia’s presence in the house, however, the opportunity for alone time with the Marquess had sharply diminished. The girl loved to be around Delia and sought her out often. Lady Harriet was present at dinner, and the Marquess was busy during the days with his estate manager. Lady Delia was pleased that she had not yet had to repeat their long and delightful but dangerous talk in his study. She worried that left alone with him, she would be unable to resist and would agree to a marriage. Though, aside from informing Lady Harriet of their engagement, he had said nothing else and in fact had not yet asked her again.
That evening he had been invited to a ball given by his dear friend Lady Burke, for her daughter, Felicity, who was acquainted with Harriet but was a year older. It was to be her coming out ball and Lord Durham’s attendance was required. When he left, dressed in a snow-white cravat with a sapphire diamond pin and a long, perfectly cut black tails, Delia had glimpsed him only in the mirror from the drawing room. She had decided that she did not wish to see him in full evening dress as she might not survive the encounter without throwing herself at his head.
Instead, she watched him as he left knowing he was going to Miss Burke’s coming out party to dance with eligible young ladies, all of whom would be dressed in their most beautiful ball gowns, with curls piled high and glowing complexions. Refusing to feel sorry for herself, Delia ordered a bath and used the new scents she had found in her room to perfume the water. She soaked and thought about her novel and allowed the hot water to warm her cheeks.
It was not as if she was a shallow creature, she thought to herself, but it was rather unfair that she had been shut up in the country for over two years with a sick father only to be hidden again after he died. She missed him terribly and wished she had been less clouded by grief. Perhaps if she had paid more attention to anything but her sadness, she would not have been cursed with a lecherous guardian intent on marrying her for her fortune, hiding out in the town house of the most beautiful man she had ever met, while he went out to balls and routs and parties and she waited in her chamber, alone.
Feeling refreshed and warm, she stepped out of the bath and in front of the fire, drying herself before the flames and then drawing a robe about her. She gazed in the mirror and noticed her color was high and her skin glowing. Her eyes were a dark violet and her hair, damp and curling from the knot she had twisted it into on top of her head made her look like one of the scandalously naked woman from a Boucher or Fragonard. She dabbed some rouge on her lips and the look was complete.
Lady Delia smiled in the mirror and walked to the wardrobe. Wondering idly how long Mason would be at the ball, she perused her clothes. The negligee she had worn the night he had spent in her house hung in the armoire on a satin hanger, shockingly thin and light. She could not believe she had worn it. But it was not as if he had given her much choice. She moved it aside but found next to it another negligee she had never seen.
It was a daring black silk. She had never seen anything like it before—black and silk—and in a nightgown. It had a thin satin ribbon above the breasts that attached to the straps, but then that there was a band of sheer silk—it was like wearing nothing. Another black band of silk began under the breasts, breaking at the waist for another sheer silk panel that was but a few inches long, only just covering her from low on her belly to the tops of her thighs. The long skirt floated on the same sheer silk, with only a ribbon at the hem to hold it down. It was the most sensuous, most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Delia wondered how it came to be in her closet but she knew as soon as she saw it that it must be from him.
It was a shocking gift for a lady, but Mason clearly did not consider her just any lady. She looked over at the bed and noticed when she pulled back the curtain that there was a black silk robe trimmed with ribbon and lace that perfectly matched the negligee. Next to it was a note. The ecru paper was thick and inside the folded paper was Mason’s firm black scrawl. It will suit you the note said. Shivering, she wondered if she ought to try it on—it was, after all--most inappropriate. But so much of their relationship was unusual. She gently dragged the gossamer-thin gown over her shoulders and spun to look in the mirror.
She gasped; she could not help it. She did not look like herself. The gown’s sheer panel across the bust hid nothing of her firm white breasts, and her nipples stood out against the transparent fabric, begging to be touched. The next sheer panel, showing the lower part of her waist and low down on her belly emphasized her tiny circumference and hid a precious few inches. The top of her bottom was visible from the back and her legs, clearly showing through the thin silk, looked long and mysterious. It was really quite shocking and Delia had no inkling that she could wear it in front of Mason and remain a virgin. Looking at herself, she no longer thought she wanted to be one. She wanted to see the look of fire burn in his dark eyes as he gazed at her body, clad in next to nothing. She wanted to feel his hot mouth on her and his hands on her flesh.
She stood and waited, looking at the door to her room. He must have had the negligee and robe delivered to her room before he left. She wondered if it meant he would not be long tonight. She put on the robe to cover her nearly naked body in the revealing gown and sat in front of the fire in her deep, comfortable armchair. The noise from the crackling logs was comforting and she lay, dozing slightly, while the fire burned.
The noise of the opening door did not awaken her at first. Instead, she lay still, slow breaths causing a rhythmic, gentle, rise to her chest as the Marquess came in to her room. He was still in his eveningwear, having only abandoned his hat and cane at the door. He could not wait even for Melville to take his gloves. Racing up the stairs to her bedchamber, Mason wondered if she had found his gift, if she would accept it, and if her door would be unlocked. He stepped in when the latch opened to his touch and saw her, in front of the fire, dozing for all the world like an innocent babe. But, she wore the black silk and lace robe. His imagination burned with what he might see beneath it. He quickly built up the fire that had gone down to a low flicker and the room was warm and cozy. He looked at her, looking so small in the large chair, but so beautiful. Her auburn curls were mussed on her head in a knot and he thought her lips were redder than usual. He bent down to sit next to her delicate feet, perched on the hassock and traced a finger along her wrist. She woke with a light start but smiled at him. He ached to have her.
“I am sorry I am so late,” said Mason, his voice impossibly low and silky.
“Are you?”
“Any time you are waiting for me I am late.”
“I wasn’t waiting for you.”
“Were you waiting for someone else?” Her mouth was dry and she swallowed and changed the subject.
“How was the ball?”
“I don’t remember. All I could think of was coming home. I nearly expired with wanting to know if you would find what I left for you. If you would like it.”
A deep blush crept up her neck to her cheeks and Delia sat up a little straighter.
“I did,” she said, her eyelashes fanning her cheeks. She raised her eyes. “I don’t think it’s quite appropriate for you to leave such a thing for me.”
“But you are to be my wife. There can be nothing wrong with a man buying a nightgown for his wife.”
“I have not agreed to be your wife!”
“But you have. When you put on that silk, you agreed. I knew you would never wear it for me and then refuse to be my wife. It would be beyond your ability to be cruel.”
She smiled, despite herself and dropped one ankle, which had been delicately crossed on the other side of Mason’s knees as he perched on the hassock in front of her chair. The front of the robe split open and the sheer, almost invisible silk of the nightgown skimmed across her knees and thighs, now spread wide as she sat back in the chair. Delia caught his gaze and then, with a deepened blush, opened the robe to expose her body, wrapped in nothing but the transparent black silk. She lay back against the chair and closed her eyes, allowing him to feast on the vision as she stilled her furiously beating heart.
Mason tried not to swallow his tongue. He reached out and touched a silk-clad knee, caressing it as he tried not to look up her thighs to the tiny scrap of silk that covered the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. Her breasts moved up and down, clearly visible and straining beneath their transparent covering. He forced himself to breathe and then took both hands and tugged her arms free of the robe. He wanted to touch and see every inch of her in that gown and, eventually, without it.
She jerked slightly as he took her slender neck in both hands and slid his hands around it, moving to her collarbone as he kissed her forehead and chin and temple and finally her mouth. His greedy hands could not keep from the round fullness of her breasts and she arched against his palm, unaware of what she wanted even as she dimly hoped to fill the raging emptiness that seared her belly.
“Open your eyes,” Mason groaned into her mouth. “I want to see you.” She did as he bid and was nearly blinded at how furiously gorgeous he was. The black of his eyes burned into her and when her gaze moved to his firm lips, his breathing was ragged. “I want to see every inch of your body. I want to touch it and kiss it and make it mine.”
His firm hands traveled down to her waist and squeezed and then caressed her hips and pulled her legs further apart as he groaned, pressing his face into her breasts. “Delia,” he whispered “say you will be my wife. Say you will be my wife so I can make love to you right now before I expire on the carpet.”
“Yes,” she said, “I will be your wife.” Her hands were in his hair and she pulled up on his head to bring his mouth to hers. “I will marry you.”
He picked her up, swinging her from the chair to cradle her against his chest but then he let her down slowly, pressing her body close to his. He was still wearing all of his clothes.
“You cannot know how you look to me,” he said as he bade her walk. “Walk in front of the fire so I can see you.” He saw as she walked away from him the perfect heart shape of her bottom, only a scant few inches of it hidden behind the band of black silk that encased her hips. He tore at his cravat and the stick-pin sapphire tinkled to the floor in the folds of the heavy fabric. She walked back to him and could not help but pluck at his shirt, trying to pull it off before he had removed his waistcoat. He was down to his boots and breeches before he realized he could not remove his boots without Melville.
“God!” he cursed, “Why can I not dress and undress myself like a proper adult!” Delia laughed and offered to help, though it was muted through the kisses she was showering on his naked chest. Her little hand found the front of his breeches and pulled at the fastenings and he nearly jumped out of his skin, forcing her hand away.
“Don’t!” he gasped. “Don’t or I won’t make it.” Delia was not sure what that meant but was displeased that he seemed to be able to touch her but she was not permitted to touch him.
“I want to touch you,” she said, between kisses.
“And I want that, God, more than anything, but you’ll have to wait until I have had you at least a hundred times before I can bear you to touch me without exploding.” His rough voice betrayed the slight exaggeration but she giggled.
“Are you laughing?” he demanded.
“How can I not?” she replied sweetly, dizzy and slightly drunk with desire, “when you say such silly things?”
“They are not silly, Delia,” Mason said as he groaned with fury, unable to remove his boot.
“Please,” she said. “May I please help you?”
“It won’t be dignified,” he said.
“Will it get your boots off?” she asked.
“Most likely.”
“Then I’ll manage.”
She pulled on his boot as he twisted his leg, trying to get the shiny and stiff leather to give. At last, the thing came off and, once the second had been removed, Mason pulled Delia back toward him on the bed, ravaging her mouth as his fingers kneaded her flesh.
“I did that for you,” she said. “And now it’s only fair that I should be permitted to finish what I started.” She found the second fastening on his breeches and pulled it apart as he stood, stock still, rock hard and trying not to breath as her delicate, tapered fingers worked the fastenings until his breeches hung loose and she pulled them to the floor, leaving him only in his cotton smalls, tied with a drawstring around the waist.
Obviously pleased with herself, Delia bent to kiss his belly, and ran her fingers under the waistband of his smalls. She drew the drawstring and they opened to reveal his shaft, throbbing with desire. She inhaled and drew back slightly, before Mason had scooped her up and tossed her onto the bed.
“That’s enough of your experimentation,” he rasped. Her long nightgown had tangled around her legs and he grasped the hem, lifting it up, and, scooping up her hips with his arm, drew the thin silk over her head before she could even object. Then she was in front of him on the bed: tumbled and naked, with a few auburn waves escaping from the knot on her head. She looked at him with deep, shining eyes for a moment before she lowered them in a blush.
“Don’t you like it?” she said in a barely audible whisper.
“I would die for it,” he replied. “But I cannot humiliate myself by spilling my seed into your hand before I even take you tonight.” His arms were braced on either side of her now and his knees nudged her legs apart. It was an odd feeling, being so exposed, but she nonetheless felt a thrill.
As he lowered himself onto her, she felt the firm warmness of his tightly muscled chest and the curling hair of his thighs against her own. His kisses continued, deeper and more insistent, until she felt as if she was lacking something, as if she was incomplete. She needed him to—to do something she could not seem to name. As he tore his mouth from hers and moved to caress her breasts, the cry that came from her mouth surprised them both. Her eyes were wide as they flew to his face, dark and fierce with lust as he returned her gaze. She drew her bottom lip into her mouth and as he dropped a kiss onto her belly, her hips lifted of their own accord, silently beckoning.
With a sound like a growl, Mason spread her legs further and came between them, his lips on her neck and his fingers in her hair. He entered inside her slowly, kissing and caressing and encouraging with tiny movements and she was unable to slow her pounding heart. With every motion, she met his, aching to be closer to him, pressing against his hard, sleek body with her own curves and demanding with tiny cries and a low, soft moan, that he make her his. Their bodies rocked together, learning and taking and giving to each other as she rode a gentle wave that mounted into a shattering climax as she, her hands on his back and legs wrapped around him, was caught entirely by surprise in that moment of fulfillment. His own ha
nds had found the lush curve of her bottom and tilted her body toward his own just as his thrusts grew more insistent and she felt a burst of sensitivity and an explosion that just preceded his deep groan into her mouth as he came.
He lay sprawled on her chest, still inside her as he drew up on his elbows to gaze into her flushed face. Mason drew the hair back and kissed her again, a full, soft kiss on her mouth that sealed his devotion.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked.
“What an odd question! Why wouldn’t I be?” Lady Delia was surprised and smiled up at him, albeit awkwardly.
“Because I just made love to my future wife and I’m exceedingly pleased about it.”
“Well, future husband, I too am pleased. I will marry you.”
“You already said you would.”
“But this experience did not make me change my mind.”
“Did you think it would?” he replied, feigning horror.
“I did not know what to think, my lord,” she replied, “But I do now. And I think I shall like being married very much.”
Chapter 26
The next morning, Delia luxuriated in the soft, pre-sunrise glow as she awoke slowly, looking over at Mason, who was still sleeping, a muscled arm thrown over his eyes. She slid slowly from the bed and splashed cold water on her face and cleaned her teeth. Thankful that Mason had helped her bathe last evening, she slipped back into bed and resolved not to wake him, though she could not help but place a tiny kiss on his shoulder.
One dark eye fluttered open and soon he had turned on his side, propped up on an elbow as his hand ran up and down her naked legs, left bare by the short cotton chemise she wore. He leaned in and kissed her lips gently.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice still gravely from sleep.
“Good morning,” she replied. “I’m afraid you must dress and escape to your own chambers before anyone sees you in here. I have not yet rung for Amelia but I doubt you consistently sleep as late as do I.”
A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) Page 15
