by Stacy Reid
She gasped and shot him a glare. “I did not ask.”
“Ah, I knew what you were thinking. Your eyes are very expressive,” he said with a slight frown, as if he were uncomfortable with his assessment.
“And if I weren’t part of your household?”
They both froze at her uncensored and improper question. “Forgive me, my lord, I overstepped.”
He captured her gaze, and in his eyes, she spied a challenge. “There is nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Layton. I appreciate candor in a woman.”
“Even if she is only a servant?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
He considered her for an infinite amount of time, as if she were a perplexing puzzle he was trying to piece together. She dearly wished he wasn’t considering answering. It would be too humiliating to listen to his gentle explanations of why he would never have looked at her even if he had encountered her elsewhere. Lily was already aware of the numerous reasons—she was too plump, she had no connections, nor anything particular to recommend her, and she was barren. Dear God, what had possessed her to be so silly with her tongue?
She glared at the slashing rain, which seemed as if it had no intention of relenting soon. She needed to be away from the marquess. She could not dismiss him from any part of her awareness.
“You are a frightfully attractive woman.”
She swiveled around at that proclamation. “I… Empty flattery is not needed. I will not wilt away if you are honest.”
He chuckled ruefully. “If you knew some of the thoughts I’ve had of you, Mrs. Layton, I believe you would happily leave my mother’s employ.”
She stared at him in mute delight. Lily had longed to be admired by a man who saw her in the light of day. If her mysterious lover were to see her now, it didn’t correspond that he would still want her. It was a truth she had not dared whisper to herself until now. “Such as?”
“Nothing fit for the ears of a lady such as yourself.”
She scowled. “I’m not a prude.”
“You are the widow of a vicar.”
“And does that mean I am not a woman?”
He dealt her an arrested stare, then Ambrose lifted a brow in challenge. “Are you implying that you have hidden depths?”
A decidedly charged tension permeated the air. She wet her lips. “Most assuredly,” she drawled, trying to affect a nonchalant and worldly mien.
He stood with fluid grace and prowled over to her, his eyes stripping her where she sat. Lily fancied he could see the wanton desires in her soul. The marquess peered down at her, a thousand questions in his eyes.
“How deep?”
His tone was more curious than anything else, and she prayed she wasn’t blushing.
“I…I slept without a nightgown last night,” she said, not wanting to admit to him the far more scandalous thing she had done with her stranger.
Disappointment flashed in his eyes and his shoulders relaxed. “How scandalous.”
His mocking drawl had her narrowing her eyes. “I suppose sleeping in the nude is common to a man such as yourself?”
“I daresay it is common among at least half the ton, but of course the wife of a vicar would think her naked backside against a silken sheet was appalling.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and moved away, but she heard his muttered curse, which was much filthier than what she had been thinking.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Layton. I was ungentlemanly.”
“Truly, I did not mind.”
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s the heat,” she retorted quickly.
The dratted man laughed, and her body betrayed her by choosing that moment to shiver.
“I’ve been inconsiderate.” He quickly shrugged from his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. A soft moan slipped from her as his wonderful heat enveloped her.
He stilled, and she peered up at him. The manner in which he looked at her was…lustful. Surely it was her imagination. He smiled ruefully, and she felt a familiar quickening low in her belly. Dear heavens, she was truly a harlot. Only last night she had been wrapped in the arms of a stranger, and now there was a wicked temptress inside, urging Lily to step up to the marquess, tip on her toes, and lick along the seam of his lips.
“Why is it important to open a shop?”
Lily stared at him. No one had ever asked her that. The few times she had mentioned her talent to the vicar, she had been berated harshly. Her duties had been to keep their cottage tidy, approve of his sermons, and ensure she was the first in church and the last to depart. Her marriage before that had been sweet and fleeting, and dear Jackson had only wanted to cosset and take care of her, refusing the very notion of her seeking work.
“Sewing is a talent I recognized in myself at the age of twelve. I’ve spent many days lost in a dream of the fine dresses my sister and I would wear one day,” she said with a wistful smile. “That passion simply grew until I had no choice but to follow where it would take me. I purchase fashion sheets when I can. I have a few local patrons who very much love the riding habits and dresses I’ve created. The magistrate’s wife is particularly complimentary. I can make gowns and pelisses to rival London’s most famous modistes. I want to see my creations on ladies of high society and featured in the Lady’s Monthly Museum. A bold aspiration, I know. Is it so silly, do you believe, to want something of your own, to leave your mark on an ever-changing world?”
“No, it’s admirable. I will gift you five hundred pounds to open your shop,” he said smoothly, his eyes boring into her, his intensity kissing her skin like a warning.
She jerked to her feet as if she were a marionette and him her master. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“You heard me.”
“That is a fortune.”
“It’s negligible.”
She inhaled sharply, at a loss how five hundred pounds could ever be described as negligible. “I…why?”
“I am feeling generous.”
Her heart pounded a furious beat. “I cannot accept your generosity. It is inappropriate.”
His gorgeous mouth curved into a smile. “Then consider it a payment.”
“For what services? Your mother already compensates me quite fairly for my companionship.”
He looked thoughtful, then offered a reply. “For helping me select a suitable bride from the dozens under my roof.”
“A suitable bride?” she parroted.
“I know my mother has painted your ears with hours of chattering on the type of young lady she would see fill her shoes.”
“She has,” she said cautiously. The marchioness was very hopeful her son would indeed select a bride and move on to the joyful occasion of producing an heir. “But I do not see how I could possibly be in a position to help.” How she dearly wished there was some service she could render. Five hundred pounds, oh glorious heavens.
“Finding a suitable bride is no easy task. The sum I offered I gambled away in less than an hour last weekend. It’s a piddling amount, Mrs. Layton.”
“I think it is incredulous you would need my help.”
“Perhaps I realize the impossible task in deciding on a bride in one week.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You do have the rest of the London’s season. Surely those balls and picnics will have many more wonderful ladies to choose from.”
“I am disenchanted with the idea of wading through the marriage mart.”
Lily’s thoughts raced ahead. “What are the terms?”
His eyebrow arched. “Terms?”
“Will I be paid once you’ve selected a bride? After you’ve started courting? An announcement of the engagement?”
He looked faintly shocked at her questions. “No. I am simply paying you for your advice…your opinions on the ladies present in my home.”
She nibbled on her lower lip, a nervous habit she’d not shed. “I am not very knowledgeable about ladies of high society, and certainly not your guests. I’ve spent m
ost of my life here in Hampshire. I’ve only been to London a few times to visit my aunt and uncle in Cheapside. Being invited to a few of the events of your mother’s house party is the most I’ve mingled with quality.”
Nothing she said surprised him, and she frowned, hating the awareness pumping through her. “Was your offer one of charity? Because I assure you, there are far more charitable endeavors worthier of your patronage, and I do not require pity.”
“Do not be foolish. Whether or not you have been exposed to the glittering, glamorous world of the ton and its season, you have been the wife of a vicar. You, I believe, have an unerring sense of a person’s honor and true character.”
Dear God, if he knew the truth, she would revolt his noble senses.
“My lord, I—”
“I do not want just a wife…I have certain needs that the young lady must fulfill, and her character must be above reproach.”
The dip in his voice when he said “certain needs” intrigued her.
“And what needs are those?” Lily cleared her throat, fighting down the blush at his arrested stare.
“Those I will be able to ascertain for myself. It is your assessment of her character I would find invaluable. Is she kind, intelligent, thoughtful of others? Or is she a shrew…spiteful to those who are not so fortunate? Is she impatient, unfaithful? Are you not able to assess these things about the human heart, as you rightly assessed that Mr. Crauford is not truly interested in your heart and desires? I believe each young lady here will be on their best behavior when I am about.”
Of course, he was looking for a virtuous lady.
Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her so that he shall have no need of spoil. It was a Bible verse her late husband had often quoted to her because he had disapproved severely of the desires of her heart. A lump formed in her throat as she stared at Lord Ambrose helplessly. Of course, he would never deign to even look at a woman like her, one with such an irrepressible need and lustful leanings. What was she even thinking? Even if she had been such a woman, a man like the marquess, so above her in everything, would never regard her in such a manner. “To be clear, my lord, you are simply paying me to be your advisor? Or, to be indelicate, your spy?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Except she truly did not. Lily then realized the incredible kindness he was bestowing upon her, for his reasons for gifting her five hundred pounds were rooted in nonsense. He was being charitable and doing his best to show a mien of indifference. The warmth rushing through her heart was surprising. “Thank you,” she said, smiling, holding the promise in her heart to help him as best as possible. Lily was unable to believe her good fortune. Five hundred pounds. A mere trifle to a man of his stature, but everything to her. She would be able to secure herself a cottage and hire herself a housekeeper and a cook, at least. There would be enough to pay their wages for a year and the rent on the cottage and her shop in town. She could also provide her brother-in-law with a portion to lease the shop he wanted in the village to open a waiting room for his clients to visit him and to stock an apothecary shop to provide medication for the villagers.
“There is something else,” Lord Ambrose murmured, staring at her in a way that was decidedly troubling…and arousing.
“Yes?” Then she winced at the breathless quality of her response.
“May I paint you?”
“Paint me?” she parroted inanely.
“Forgive me if I am too forward, but your skin is the most beautiful I’ve ever beheld, and your smile—I feel it should be immortalized on canvas.”
Lily stared at the marquess in ill-concealed shock. “I…I didn’t realize you painted,” she said, fumbling for equanimity at his praise. Here was a man who didn’t think she was too pale, or her lips too full, her mouth too wide. “I’ve never seen your paintings.”
“They are in a private room in the western wing of Belgrave Manor. There are only a few I trust to see them.”
“And I am in that category?” she asked skeptically.
“I never said I wanted to show you my work,” he replied with a charming quirk of his lips. “Only that I wish for you to sit for me.”
“Oh.” She winced at hardly containing her disappointment.
“I would make it worth your time, of course,” he assured smoothly.
Lily frowned. “In what regard?”
“Another five hundred pounds.”
She dropped her basket. He arched a brow and glanced pointedly at it. Before she retrieved it, he stooped and collected her things, picking up her sketchpad, which had spilled out.
“There is no need to be flustered, Mrs. Layton. I promise to leave you in your clothes.”
“How remarkably proper,” she teased drolly, desperate to disguise her alarm. One thousand pounds was a fortune. “And here I truly believed you had a reputation for being a debaucher of innocents.”
“A debaucher most assuredly, but not of the innocent. I wonder, in what category are you? The reserved sort? Or adventurous?”
The desire in his eyes set her world askew. “Are you trying to taunt me into agreeing to your request?”
“Most assuredly. Please also recall my exorbitant offer of payment.”
“And I would only need to sit for a few hours?” Why was her voice hoarse, and why were they standing so close?
“I may require you to be a tad bit scandalous.”
Her heart jerked most alarmingly. Lily cleared her throat. “How scandalous?”
“I want your hair loose, fanned across your shoulder…and your feet bare of stockings and boots so I may see your toes and the turn of your ankle. Nothing more.”
Nothing more… That was quite scandalous but paled in comparison to how she’d been spending her nights. They stared at each other for an indefinable amount of time. Lily was unsure what was happening, but something had changed between them. It was too vague for her to name, but awareness of it burned along her nerve endings. “Yes, I’ll sit for you,” she said softly.
A powerful need flared in his gaze before his lids shuttered.
She attempted to reassure herself she did it for the fortune he promised, but deep inside, she knew that to be a lie. It was simply because he asked. How very silly of her to be so thrilled at the notion of being improper with Lord Ambrose.
But inexplicably, he had somehow become a beautiful fire, and she wanted to burn in wanton delight.
Chapter Six
Oliver was not at all indifferent to Mrs. Lily Layton, which was a very startling truth to acknowledge. She knew nothing of the type of woman he wanted to marry, so why had he made his impulsive offer? Because he had wanted to wipe away the bleakness he saw in her eyes, the one that testified she might very well believe she chased an impossible dream. A thousand pounds was a trifling sum to him, but to her, it was freedom, independence, a chance to shine in a life that seemed so dreary for her.
“Is it so silly, do you believe, to want something of your own, to leave your mark on an ever-changing world?”
The stark yearning on her face had struck him hard, momentarily unbalancing him. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, and they had left the lodge without incident. And he was damned thankful, for never had he wanted to seduce a woman more. Lily walked ahead rapidly, her hips enticing him with their gentle sway. She laughed freely, which delighted him; even the imperfect overbite of one of her teeth, he found charming. If she only knew the lustful dreams she inspired. He clutched his unruly and inappropriate thoughts and buried them in the dark recesses of his mind.
Suddenly, she slipped, and with a soft cry, tumbled onto the muddy earth. He let out a curse and rushed to save her, only to end up in the muck with her. He pushed to his feet and was unable to find purchase on the slippery ground and landed on his ass once more.
A giggle escaped her, and he turned his blackest scowl in her direction. “I fail to see how this situation is amusing, Mrs. Layt
on.”
Her dress had been tossed up to her shin, revealing smooth, pale skin. The lady was without stockings. How scandalous. She had delicate, well-turned ankles, ones he could see crossed behind his neck as he parted the lips of her sex to lick and suck.
Sweet mercy.
“Forgive me. I cannot help noticing how many times I’ve fallen in front of you today.”
Merriment danced in the eyes staring at him, and he could only offer a soft, unintelligent grunt. He was bloody desperate to taste her lips. He’d lost his damn senses to even think of taking advantage of a worker within his household. He assisted her to her feet, finding her adorable when she growled at the sky, which chose to open once more.
“I bid you a good day, my lord!” Then she ran off as if the devil was chasing her, clutching her basket to her chest.
Oliver moved at a leisurely pace, uncaring that the rain was soaking through his clothes. He wanted Mrs. Lily Layton beneath him, rocking on his cock—hard and deep, then soft and sweet, those fine eyes darkening with pleasure.
God’s blood. He needed to stay away from her until the aberrant attraction faded. Instead, he would concentrate on finding his mysterious stranger. He only hoped she was as fascinating in the daylight as Lily was.
…
Dearest Diary,
There has always been this wicked desire in me to be a slave to the pleasures a man can give me. Though, I very well question if delights between a man and a woman exist. In all the drawings I’ve seen, the women appear as if they are thoroughly enjoying themselves. Is it selfish of me to want that? Was it terrible of me to dream last night of Lord Ambrose parting my legs and kissing my inner thighs? I am terribly attracted to him, and it seems even my wits have deserted me when I sleep.
Oliver gave a rough sigh as he closed the diary, placed it in the top drawer of his desk, and locked it with a key. Picking up the whisky he’d been nursing, Oliver finished the drink in one long swallow. He had spent the better part of the day in the library poring over investment reports. A luncheon tray had been sent in by his mother, which he had quickly consumed without tasting what he ate. Only a couple of hours after that, he had pushed aside the papers and dismissed his secretary, admitting his concentration was not at its peak. He felt like a damned fool, but the dark pull toward the hidden passageways couldn’t be denied.
