by Isobel Carr
Livy abandoned the towel beside the ewer and pulled her floral wrapper on over her shift. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling out pins and shaking the curls loose. When the last pin came out, she tossed them all onto the small dressing table where they skittered across the shiny mahogany surface like water bugs skating on a pond.
Frith reappeared, her arms overflowing with pale chine silk. She spread the gown out on the coverlet and began to carefully look it over. “This is the one you wanted, my lady?” She sounded unsure.
“Yes,” Livy said as she sank down on the divan. “The countess said tonight was just family and friends, not a formal ball requiring powder and court hoops.”
Frith sniffed, apparently not convinced. “The comtesse is wearing a stomacher beaded with jet. I saw her maid reattaching a couple of loose beads just this morning.”
Livy eyed the gown she’d selected again. Perhaps it was too plain for even a country ball such as this. Frith had a talent for the subtle, unspoken machinations of dress and precedence. She’d never yet led Livy wrong. “Put it away then and bring out the sea-green spangled gown. That one doesn’t need hoops either.”
Her maid swept up the offending gown and bustled off with what Livy recognized as her triumphant step. Frith had insisted on packing several gowns more than Livy needed, which meant she’d arrived with a prodigious amount of baggage for a three-day visit. But as usual, Frith had been correct in her instincts.
Livy plucked her book off the table beside the divan and attempted to lose herself in the adventures of Fanny Hill. When she was forced to read the same sentence over for the third time, she rubbed her eyes and set the book back down. She’d read the book more than once—it was a favorite—but amorous, carnal Fanny was the last thing she needed at this exact moment. Fanny saw a handsome man, and Livy couldn’t help picturing him as Devere. Fanny did what she wanted, acted the harlot, and Livy felt the burn of indignation low and hot in her chest, and it now excited a far more dangerous heat within her. How far could she push Devere?
CHAPTER 25
Roland smiled to himself as he escorted his grandmother into the ballroom and led her to the quartet of chairs set in pride of place before the fireplace. She was quickly joined by her long-standing beau, the equally elderly Duke of Ros. The duke had presented her with a set of bracelets that were already clasped around her wrists.
She waved Roland away imperiously. “Send one of the footmen back with port for His Grace.”
“And just for His Grace,” Roland said.
The dowager narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. She knew full well her physician had forbidden her to drink port, but she’d never been one to take any man’s stricture well.
He was saved from whatever withering reply was at the tip of her tongue by the arrival of his father and a footman bearing a tray with a decanter of sack. Roland bowed and made good his escape. The dowager’s harrumph followed him as he searched the stream of guests for Olivia’s golden head.
They’d been separated by a long expanse of table and a great number of people during dinner. And afterward his grandmother had commandeered his support, requiring him to leave Olivia to his brother’s care. He’d watched the two of them converse throughout the meal, marveling at what they could possibly have found to talk about with such obvious enjoyment.
After a great deal of searching, he found her within a knot of his male cousins, happily debating the virtues of hunters from Irish stock versus those of Continental origins.
“For a prime hunt like the Quorn, I’ll back the bone of an Irish-bred hunter every time,” his cousin Gerard said. “But if you’re dealing with flatter ground, open country as opposed to walls, a blood horse might be the best choice.”
“Thoroughbreds of that kind are too likely to snap a leg over rough ground,” Olivia said. A chorus of yeas and nays cut her off, and Olivia laughed.
“I’m afraid Lord Heythrop—a man who knows his horses—doesn’t agree with your position, my lady,” Gerard’s younger brother Stephen said, as though that settled the matter.
Olivia shook her head. Roland couldn’t see her face, but he was certain she was giving poor Stephen a look of withering condescension. “Heythrop puts down more horses than any other man I know.” She held up her hand when several of the men began to protest her statement. “When we had him to Holinshed, he brought a light-boned gelding more suitable to a ride in Hyde Park than a stag hunt in a forested deer park.”
“You sound just like Lord Leonidas, my lady.” Roland thrust his oar in.
Olivia turned her head and smiled at him over her shoulder. She reached for him, welcoming him into the circle of her admirers. Roland displaced a rather grumpy-looking Gerard as he positioned himself beside her, claiming her. His cousins edged back slightly, unconsciously giving ground.
“I’ll have to show you the black I bought from him recently,” Roland said, deflecting the conversation before his young cousin attempted to begin his argument again.
Stephen perked up. “Is that the enormous beast down in the stable? Saw him when we arrived. Pointed him out to Gerry, didn’t I?”
Gerard nodded in assent, rolling his eyes slightly after meeting Roland’s gaze. Stephen was a good lad, for all that he was over-eager to be taken seriously as a man. Roland could well remember what it was like to be nineteen and loose upon the town for the first time.
“Yes, that’s him. Though Reiver’s a simple cover hack, not one of the hunters Lord Leonidas is attempting to perfect at Dyrham.”
A footman interrupted them by arriving with a tray laden with glasses of champagne. From across the room, Roland heard his father calling for the guests’ attention. He took two glasses from the tray, passed one to Olivia, and led her slightly out of the circle of conversation so that they could see the small group gathered before the marble fireplace that dominated the room almost like a stage.
“If you’d all charge your glasses,” the earl said, lifting his own, “I’d like you to join me in a toast to my mother, the dowager Countess of Moubray, on this, her eighty-eighth birthday.” A chorus of celebratory huzzahs echoed through the room as people raised their glasses toward the dowager.
“There’s other news to celebrate as well, news concerning both my sons, and I’m sure my mother won’t begrudge our intruding on her evening with it.” Lord Moubray smiled, almost grinning.
Roland’s head swam with the momentary sensation that there was no air in the room. He resisted the urge to yank at his cravat, barely. This was it. Once the betrothal was publically announced, there was no backing out of the scheme.
Olivia glanced up at him, a questioning look in her eyes. “Did you discuss—”
He shook his head. No, he hadn’t, but his father wouldn’t have felt the need for permission. Roland had been expecting Frocester’s momentous news to be shared this evening, his brother had as good as said as much this afternoon when he’d called him into the library to share it himself, but he’d had no inkling his own supposed luck in landing an heiress was to be shared.
“Firstly,” the earl began, cutting off Roland’s opportunity to reply aloud, “Lord and Lady Frocester are to present us with an heir before summer’s end.”
His sister-in-law smiled shyly, clinging to her husband’s arm as the room turned to look at them, but even the dowager’s overly loud comment that it was “about time she did” didn’t make Caroline’s smile waver. Roland smiled back at her when he caught her eye. She had every right to be happy, and it was a relief for him as well. Lord knew he didn’t want to spend his entire adult life as “the spare.”
“To Lady Frocester,” Roland said loudly before draining his glass. Around the room, their friends and family cheered, and several of the cousins moved toward Frocester to offer personal congratulations. Roland knew how very pleased his brother was. Frocester had been almost giddy earlier. He and Caroline had been married for several years now, and the lack of an heir was becoming a sore point with the
ir father. The earl acted as though their inability to fill the nursery was the result of spite.
When the hubbub died down, his father cleared his throat loudly and claimed the room’s attention again. “On the heels of my elder son’s news comes some for my younger son as well. Roland has become betrothed to Lady Olivia Carlow, and his mother and I would like to congratulate him on his good fortune.”
Roland flicked a glance at his mother. She was every inch the elegant matron of the ton, but her patently forced smile belied the earl’s happy tone and made his stomach twist sourly. False as the betrothal was, the urge to defend both it and Olivia was almost overwhelming.
All his father cared for was the size of Olivia’s dowry. The scandal attached to her first marriage meant nothing in light of the fifty thousand pounds she brought to the marriage. Sadly, his mother was harder to appease. At least the countess would be relieved when Olivia put an end to things.
From her place beside their mother, Margo quizzed him with her eyes before saluting him with her glass and drinking. If Lord Arlington was surprised, he didn’t show it. He nodded as those nearest him began to speak, no doubt offering their congratulations on the match.
Roland would have been shocked if his father had discussed the timing of the announcement with Arlington. It simply wasn’t like him to admit that anyone else deserved to be consulted. And the earl was correct that tonight, among friends and family, was a wise time to make the engagement known. It would filter through the ton described in only the most positive terms.
Gerard slapped him heartily on the back, forcing him to cease watching his family and their varied reactions to the news becoming public. “Congratulations, Roland. My very best wishes to you, Lady Olivia. Welcome to the family, and the best of luck in your attempt to domesticate my cousin here.”
“Thank you, sir.” Olivia finished her champagne and twirled the empty glass between her fingers. “But I’ve no intention of attempting anything so foolish. Besides, I like him far too much as he is to desire such a change.”
CHAPTER 26
Come out into the garden, my lady.”
Margo repressed the urge to grin at the indecent promise in Lord Arlington’s eyes. Subtle he was not, in the most glorious, delightful way. She’d feared he would sulk after she’d refused his proposal—or worse, plead his case incessantly. But he’d done neither. He acted as if the conversation had never happened.
He leaned close as they walked. “You’re the kind of woman who would have had Charles II and all of England at your feet.”
Margo laughed and let him lead her out onto the deserted terrace. “You mean if I’d been brave enough to face Lady Castlemaine’s wrath and mean enough to fend off Nell Gwyn?”
Arlington’s grin widened. “Have you any doubt of your ability to do so?” he said as he swept her down the stairs.
She shook her head. “Actually, no.”
The earl swung her behind one of the large topiaries and brought his mouth down over hers with an urgency that matched the frenzy she felt pumping through her own veins. Margo clutched his coat and opened her lips. His tongue slipped in, teasing hers. Slick heat and need built until she could barely keep her knees from giving in.
The babble of conversation from the direction of the house brought her to her senses. “Follow me.”
Arlington kissed her one last time, hard and fast, before following her down to the next terrace. “Where are we going?”
“Shhh.” Margo gave his arm a squeeze. “You’ll see. I’ve been meaning to show you my favorite hideaway, and this seems the perfect moment.”
He gave her a perplexed look as they struck out onto the lawn. The thick grass pulled at her shoes, and Margo increased her pace. She pulled the earl into the shadow of a giant yew. He stopped a few steps in. Margo dropped his hand and dove into the shrubbery.
She knew the way as well as she knew the corridors of the house. Had run this same twisting path a thousand times or more. Arlington cursed and then came thundering after her.
“What are you up to?” he said, his voice pitched low, barely discernible.
“This way,” Margo urged him on. “Just follow the path. Catch me.”
Another muffled curse and then the sound of rapid footsteps resumed. Good. The path was easy enough to follow once you knew where it was. It was even tall enough for him, thanks to the gardeners keeping it trimmed back. Margo lifted her skirts and clutched them tight to her chest to keep them from snagging as she ran. Another turn and the path through the yew opened into a giant, cavernous chamber.
During the day, it was a shady grotto, lit only by the occasional stray sunbeam. At night, it was nearly pitch black inside, moonlight not filtering through with anywhere near the same power of illumination. She could hear Arlington hard upon her heels, the scrape of his shoe, the sound of him drawing breath. The yew’s leaves rattled as if stirred by a sudden breeze as she steadied herself on one of the branches.
“Margo?”
His hands were at her waist, spinning her around, holding her fast.
“Yes, my lord?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed his jaw, buried her nose against his neck and inhaled, losing herself in the heady scent of his skin.
“I can’t see a damn thing in here.” Leaves and twigs snapped loudly beneath their feet as he adjusted his stance.
“Give it a moment,” Margo said, dragging him toward the swing she knew to hang from the upper branches of the ancient tree. They bumped up against it and came to a halt. Arlington’s hands fisted in her skirts. Margo ran her hand down his chest, fingering the buttons of his waistcoat, dipping into the waistband of his breeches. She spread her hand over the fall, smiling in the dark as his erection flexed in her grasp.
Margo flicked open the buttons. The earl’s hands loosened their grip, and she sank down onto the wide wooden seat of the swing as she deftly freed his cock from the confines of breeches and drawers. Arlington’s breath shuddered out of him, and he clung to the ropes of the swing. It swung slightly as he braced himself.
Margo eased off her glove with her teeth, wrapped her naked hand around the hard length of him, and bent to flick her tongue over the head of his cock. He made a guttural sound of approval as she took him in her mouth and twirled her tongue around the engorged head. She teased the flared rim before relaxing her mouth and taking him so deeply that her lips met her fingers where they curled about the base.
Arlington groaned and the swing shook. Margo pulled back, dipped down, and stroked upward with her hand, the knuckle of her thumb pushing along the sensitive underside of his cock.
“Damn it all, I can feel you smiling.”
Margo worked him with just her hand as she laughed. He sounded as if that were somehow a bad thing. “I enjoy my work,” she said before slipping her lips once more over the tip of his cock and licking away the salty precome that had begun to well up.
Some women claimed they didn’t like to service a man with their mouth. Margo had never been able to understand why. It was a powerful act, a form of seduction that made you the center of everything. Far more so than simply lifting your skirts and letting him rut between your thighs. Any woman would do that. But from what she’d been told by more than one lover, not any woman could, or would, do this.
Arlington began to pant into the darkness. Margo splayed her free hand over his stomach for balance and urged him on toward his release with the caress of her tongue and the suction of her mouth. He said her name weakly, gave a mumbled exclamation, and then he came.
Margo swallowed, lapped her tongue up the still rigid length of his cock, and then gave it one last lingering suck. The yew creaked overhead as the ropes took his weight. For a moment, Margo thought the earl might sag to the ground, but he righted himself with a sharply indrawn breath.
His voice was as ragged as his breathing as he said, “Castlemaine wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
The earbobs, given to her by the dowager Countess of Moubray to we
lcome her to the family, glinted in the candle-light as Livy held them in her palm. A cluster of rubies in the shape of a flower, they were worth a fortune. She’d forced herself to wear them for the entire evening after the dowager had presented them to her, though they’d burnt like shame.
Frith pulled the final pins from Livy’s hair and began to brush it out. Livy rubbed her earlobes and stifled a yawn. A light rain had begun to fall. The sound it made on the window would have lulled her to sleep it weren’t for the occasional yank on her scalp as her maid worked loose the tangle that her hair had become while she’d danced.
The warm welcome from Devere’s extended family was entirely different from the reserved one she’d received from his mother and the amused, yet suspicious, one from his sister. His cousins were genuinely friendly, and his grandmother gruffly approving. It made her feel different, too. Guilty for the deception in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
Livy’s stomach knotted, and she swallowed thickly, feeling almost sick. Frith set the brush down and quickly braided Livy’s hair. She tied it off with a simple length of ribbon.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?”
Livy shook her head. “No. Good night, Frith.”
Frith bobbed a curtsy and gathered up the detritus of Livy’s toilette. With her arms overflowing with silk and her hands full of shoes and undergarments, the maid slipped into the closet and closed the adjoining door behind her. There was a cot set up for her within the small room, and by the look of her, Frith was as ready for bed as Livy herself.
Lightning flashed, momentarily throwing the room into sharp relief. A wave of thunder crashed over the house, so loud she could have sworn it rattled the candlesticks on the mantel. Livy grimaced as the intensity of the rain increased to deluge. So much for their plans for a morning ride. If it continued like this all night, they’d be lucky if they weren’t trapped in the house for the entire day.
Livy snuffed the candles, tossed her nightrail onto the bench before the dressing table, and crawled into bed. The muffled sound of drawers being opened and closed told her Frith was still awake and fussing about. The rest of the house seemed quiet, though it was filled to the rafters with guests. Many of the cousins were doubled up in rooms. Others were sleeping in whatever spare places could be found, such as the library and the countess’s sitting room. Even Devere and his sister were sharing their rooms.
