A Shocking Delight

by Beverley, Jo

  When they arrived home, Lucy expected even her aunt and cousin to have drained the well of chatter, but they were finding new words to wrap around Captain Fytch’s flaws. From that they spun on to other sad cases of drunkenness.

  When the clock struck ten Lucy used the excuse of poetry to escape to her room and be miserable. She went to the window to look out at the night sky, stewing over Wyvern’s perfidy. Sunday presented challenges, but challenges existed to be overcome. He could easily have been in the park.

  She took out her journal and sharpened her pencil to a particularly fine point.

  Wyvern, she wrote, and underlined it.

  The wretch. The inconstant slime.

  We had a bargain!

  Just because I left Mayfair for a while

  Gives him no excuse for inconstancy.

  I should turn my back on him.

  But where then would I go?

  Is . . .

  She paused to glance at the window. Rain? It had seemed a clear night. The glass showed no droplets. That splattering again.

  Not water.

  Soil?

  She went to look and down below, in the small moonlit yard, stood Wyvern, looking up.

  She raised the sash window. “What are you doing there?” she whispered.

  “Collecting my debts. Come down.”

  He hadn’t abandoned the game, but he was all silver and darkness down there.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know the way. There are servants down there.”

  “Are you truly so feeble?”

  “Hush! Someone will hear.”

  “Then come down.”

  He wasn’t trying to soften his voice at all!

  “No. I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

  She shut the window and turned away, but she bit her lip on delight. He’d not tired of the game and he’d not slipped into the attractions of Natalie Florence!

  She remembered how he’d looked, all mysterious, masterful man, and for a moment she considered his mad invitation. Perhaps there was a way out. Perhaps the servants were all in bed. If any were still awake and in the kitchen area, wouldn’t they have heard the foolhardy man?

  No. She wouldn’t be teased into folly like that, but she sat down at the desk to record the incident.

  Dark and light. Tempting into folly.

  But there. Daring. Wanting?

  She seemed to have lost the ability to use sentences!

  She collected herself and wrote:

  This night, Lord Wyvern ventured

  Into the yard at the back of the house.

  He tried to persuade me to go down to him,

  The outrageous man. Yet I was tempted.

  Kisses are owed and I . . .

  What was that? A thump above. She looked up. He couldn’t be up on the roof. Could he?

  She hurried to the door and opened it to listen. Had her aunt and cousin been alarmed? They were at the front of the house, however, far from this back room, and still talking. She closed the door and looked toward the window—to see Wyvern looking in at her.

  She ran over and opened it again. “What are you doing? How . . . ?”

  He was holding onto a double rope. A rope that went up above him and dangled to the ground. One booted foot was in a loop, the other braced against the brick wall.

  “Grappling iron. I came prepared for a lady too feeble to escape her house. Move aside.”

  She obeyed before she thought not to and he swung through the window. He was in country clothes again.

  David.

  “You can’t come in here! My cousin sleeps with me.”

  “I hope you mean Clara and not the lad with dandy aspirations.”

  “Of course I do. I can’t believe you’re doing this. You’re mad!”

  This was the kite-flying man, however, light and bright in the candlelight.

  “Comes in the blood,” he said. “Does your door lock?”

  “Yes, but I can’t lock it. What would Clara think?”

  “You care? I’m surprised at that in your father’s daughter.”

  She sent him a fierce look and went to lock the door. “If Clara comes and wonders, I can say my muse needed complete privacy.”

  “Does that make sense?”

  “Perfectly, which is more than your behavior does.”

  “How do you come to that? I’m here, am I not, alone with you in a locked room?”

  He was still smiling, but the look in his eyes made her step back, so she came up against the door, heart hammering. “I owe only kisses, sir, and I set the nature of them. What’s more, as you’ve had no opportunity to do the necessary service, I owe you nothing.”

  “Shabby, Miss Potter. It wasn’t my fault you weren’t available to be served. How went the wedding?”

  “You know where I went and why?”

  “Your aunt and cousin knew, and so the whole world knew.”

  “It went perfectly, being a rational match between two well-suited people.”

  “How chilly.”

  “Not at all. They’re desperately in love.” And now, she realized, on their second night in their marriage bed. She’d glanced toward the bed.

  He strolled there and leaned his hips against the high mattress, his long legs stretched out.

  “Get away from there!”

  “The sooner you pay the debt, the sooner I’ll be gone.”

  “I’m not kissing you there.”

  “The mere proximity of a bed being ruinous? I’m making it easier for you. My lounging like this eliminates some of the height difference. Come on, wench. Pay up.”

  Again, there was no reason to obey, but Lucy did. She crossed the carpet aware of moving like a wench, a wicked wench. He spread his legs and that didn’t deter her. She came to a stop within them.

  But not too close.

  “True,” she assessed, trying to take command of the situation. “Your lips are at a good height.”

  “Is ‘good’ quite the right word?” His eyes were bright with wicked temptation and the bed lay just behind him.

  Hands behind her back, Lucy pecked at his lips four times and stepped back. “There. Now go.”

  “You consider that fair payment?”

  “Perfectly within the terms of our agreement.”

  “But what about the interest?”

  “Interest?” The look in his eyes sent a shiver through her, and yet, poor foolish woman that she was, a delicious one.

  “Three days overdue. Back you come.”

  “Three days without work. You only deserve half pay. Now you owe me.”

  “Then I must pay.”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  “And I thought you an honest woman.”

  “You thought me all deceit and deception.”

  “No more. Come closer, Aphrodite.”

  There was no reason on earth to obey the soft, sweet summons, but Lucy couldn’t have resisted to save her life.

  When she was back against him, closer to him, almost touching him, he put a finger beneath her chin and lowered his lips to hers. Lips to lips, in keeping with their bargain, but he lingered.

  Lucy sighed and moved closer. His hands came behind her, holding her close. Closer than was decent, but no closer than she wanted to be. Heart pounding, she angled her head a little, seeking closeness of another sort. Their lips parted, tongues touched. Sweet heat softening her muscles and her will . . .

  She jerked back, stepped back—his hands allowed it—and retreated.

  He smiled in a triumphant way that curled her toes.

  “Are all debts settled?” she demanded.

  “For now. I’m sure you’ll be prompt with your payments in future.”

  “Of a certainty!”

  “And that you feel the insufficiency of those kisses as much as I do. You’d lie on this bed in my arms, goddess, if you weren’t afraid of being caught.”

  Caught!

  Lucy slammed back to full awareness of where she was. She
gestured toward the window. “Go.”

  He folded his arms. “I think I’ll wait until your cousin knocks.”

  “That could be an age!”

  “How delightful.”

  Lucy marched to the door and turned the key. “There. She can walk straight in. If she finds you here, we’ll be married within the week.”

  “Not wise to challenge a dragon. Can you be sure that capturing your dowry isn’t my purpose after all?”

  “Then I’d refuse to marry you!”

  “What a tangle you’re in.” He rose, seeming to take up much of the modest room. “It might be a mercy to straighten it out. . . .”

  Lucy heard her cousin’s voice, bidding her aunt good night.

  “Go!” she insisted, panic starting.

  He just stood there.

  She held his eyes for moments, but then quickly turned the key again, leaning back against the door. “Please go. Neither of us wants such a scandal.”

  “Don’t we?” But then he said, “This time, I obey.” He swung out of the window, but paused, looking back. “The park. Tomorrow.”

  Then he moved down and out of sight.

  Clara turned the knob, then rattled the door. “Lucinda? Are you all right?”

  Lucy ran to close the window, refusing to look down to be sure he was safe; then she hurried back to unlock the door.

  “It was only that my muse particularly didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  Even Clara looked a little dubious at that. “Did I hear the window close?”

  “I was listening to a nightingale.”

  “And trying to capture it in words? Is it still singing?”

  Lucy couldn’t stop her cousin from opening the window to listen. She waited tensely, but clearly Clara saw nothing amiss. What had he done with the rope?

  Clara also didn’t hear a nightingale.

  “A shame it’s stopped,” she said, closing the window again. “They’re rare here.” Then she glanced at the desk.

  Lucy’s journal lay open. The short lines served their purpose and also supported the notion of the nightingale and muse, but Lucy could only pray Clara wasn’t sharp-eyed enough to be able to read any of the words at that distance.

  She went as carelessly as she could to close the book and put it away. Clara didn’t show any further suspicions and rang for their washing water.

  Lucy saw a slight trace of dirty boot on the carpet. She went to stand on it, swiveling her foot to disperse it.

  Tangled, he’d said.

  Knotted!

  But she had to bite her lips on a smile. That scandalous visit had been shocking, but a delight, delicious in every way.

  And it had ended on a promise.

  The park.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter 18

  When the window shut again, David emerged from the shadows of the house, crossed the yard, and climbed easily over a back wall that didn’t even have broken glass along the top. He wound the rope around his torso, then picked up his evening cloak from where he’d left it and put it on. He continued down the lane, a gentleman on his way home.

  He’d had to leave the hook, which was caught in the top of the ridge tile, but there’d be no other evidence.

  With this adventure in mind, he’d assessed the house earlier and seen how easy it would be. He’d stood watch, and seen Lucinda at the window. He hadn’t known she shared the room with her cousin, so matters could have been interesting.

  A more cautious man wouldn’t have attempted such a thing, but once he’d seen that it was possible, he hadn’t been able to resist. Lucinda Potter’s absence had been close to intolerable, and had driven home how hopeless it was to consider any other woman. He was as committed as his wild mother had been. It must be in the blood.

  He’d wanted action, too. Town life was damned tame and physically stultifying, despite the availability of boxing, quarterstaff, and other such follies. He longed for his purposefully active life back home, and yes, even for the blood-firing danger of a smuggling run.

  Invading Lucinda Potter’s room, kissing Lucinda Potter, had come close.

  He smiled as he made his way back to Con’s house. He’d wondered how she’d respond to an invasion, and had been braced for anything from a gunshot to a scream. The gunshot had been possible, but he wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t screamed.

  She was a goddess in all ways.

  And as he’d suspected, riper than she knew. If not for fear of her cousin’s arrival, he could probably have coaxed her onto the bed and kissed her into ruin.

  Into marriage.

  Aye, there’s the rub.

  His mind was a tangled mess, aware of all the problems and dangers, but ruled by his need for this one woman, who became more delightful at every meeting. He no longer thought her deceptive by nature, and she might have the free-thinking courage to be wife to a smuggling earl. He could make his Devon home tolerable to her. He’d even spend months here in London every year. As a peer, he should.

  But she did not intend to wed, and he could see why. She was in clear possession of a fortune, an independent woman, and marriage would steal that, trusts be damned. It would be like a freed slave returning to the yoke.

  Life was hard for a single woman, however, no matter how rich, and especially for such a passionate one. He could make her a good husband, and allow her all the freedom she wanted. Which couldn’t start by tricking her into compromising herself.

  She must come to him freely, and without doubt. His love for her could allow no other way.

  * * *

  Lucy did get some sleep, but not much. Being so madly in love was the ruin of rest. Even so, she woke early, full of anticipation.

  The park!

  The day was overcast. It might even rain. She cared not one whit. Soon she was out of doors and on her way, decorously accompanied by Hannah. She entered the park, seeking him, fretting that she was too early, too late, in the wrong part of Hyde Park. . . .

  “Miss Potter. How delightful.”

  David.

  He was in his country clothes. He raised his hat as he greeted her, and surely his eyes were warm.

  “Do you walk here every morning, my lord?” she asked for Hannah’s hearing as she turned to stroll with him along a path.

  “Whenever possible. I miss open spaces and greenery.”

  “Look around, my lord. Open spaces and greenery in abundance.”

  “Surrounded by a million people.”

  “Hyde Park sits on the edge of London, not in the middle,” she pointed out.

  “Precise as always.”

  “You make that seem a fault.”

  “Not at all. I admire a clear mind. I admire much about you.”

  Lucy had to work not to show all her hopes and expectations then and there.

  “Where shall we go so you can pay your daily debt?” he asked. “That stand of trees looks promising.”

  Extremely promising.

  “You can sit on that bench there, Hannah, and wait. Lord Wyvern and I are going to study those trees.”

  No wonder Hannah gave her a look as she sat down, but it was as much of a smirk as a frown.

  They strolled across the grass, and then the first shade of green leaves came over them. Green, greenwood, greenery. Terms often used for wicked behavior. A green-skirted lass was one who’d lain on the grass with a man.

  “Such interesting bark,” he said, stroking the textured trunk of a tree with his bare hand. She hadn’t realized before that he wasn’t wearing gloves. The informality seemed like a warning.

  Lucy studied the tree. “Brown and gray, but mostly brown.”

  “This one is more gray.”

  She went with him to the next. Deeper into the cool, moist greenwood, but with the happy cries of children still nearby, cut with a sharp command from a nursemaid.

  She traced a gloved fingertip over grayish bark. “A smoother texture.”

  “Beech.” He took her hand and drew her on.
“This is a similar color, but rougher. You can’t truly appreciate it wearing this.” He unfastened the mother-of-pearl button at her wrist and pulled off her glove, finger by finger. Then he pressed her naked hand on the fissured trunk. “Linden.”

  His hand was large and warm over hers, skin on skin. “Do you know all the trees?” she asked on a breath.

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.” She pulled her hand free and turned to face him. “But I could name you types of ships, and often what sort of goods they carry and what parts of the world they voyage to. I could assess fair value of most goods brought into the Port of London, and tell good quality from poor.”

  “I questioned your education?”

  “You did, but also we should know the truth about each other.”

  “We come from different worlds, Miss Potter.”

  “We do. Green and brick. Cliffs and flat. Yours is plagued by dangerous mists.”

  “And yours by dirty fogs. Didn’t people have to use candles at midday last January?”

  “A rare occurrence.”

  “Unheard of in Devon.”

  “Where you have no lit streets at all!”

  “Certainly not where I live. There’s nothing you could call a street. You’re correct. You wouldn’t like it there.”

  The blunt statement stunned her. Why hadn’t she seen where that verbal contest was going? She clung to what she had. “That doesn’t affect our bargain. Are you not going to claim your kiss?”

  Some expression moved across his face, but she couldn’t interpret it, nor his tone when he said, “It’s your debt to pay.”

  “Then I’ll wait until you’ve earned it.”

  “I’ve walked in the park with you.”

  “In sight of children and nursemaids.”

  “And enticed you into this private bower.”

  “With no one of significance to notice.”

  She found the strength to turn and walk away. He stopped her with a hand on her arm. Not a grip. Only a touch. But it froze her in place.

  She hoped he’d weakened, that he’d claim a kiss as boldly as he had the night before, but he remained still. And unreadable.

  She surrendered. She reached to draw his head down, only realizing when her hand touched his warm skin and crisp hair that it was still gloveless. She froze like that, palm tingling, breath held, body tensing in a most extraordinary way.