Miss Foster’s Folly

by Alice Gaines

  Love? Bloody hell, had he fallen in love with the impossible female? She occupied his mind constantly. She wreaked even more havoc on his body. He’d given himself some relief there in Mitford’s garden by taking out his cock and stroking it until he’d spent into his hand like a lad in his first encounters with lust. And then, the moment he’d sat beside her in the drawing room, Priapus had reared his head again.

  Was all that love or just unquenchable hunger? How was he supposed to know? He’d never been in love before and didn’t have anyone to ask. The only possibility he had was Blandings, and he’d never get a straight answer out of him.

  “Lord Blandings, my lord,” a voice said from nearby.

  The very man. Derrington glanced around to see Russell on the threshold. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “I was on my way, sir, when there was a rap on the door.”

  “It’s late.”

  “He said it couldn’t wait.” Russell lifted his brow in disapproval at so late a visit. He’d never actually voice any such opinion, of course. Soul of discretion, that one.

  “Send him in and then retire for the night.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Russell left, and Derrington set aside his drink and rose to greet his late-night guest. Immediately, Blandings entered, looking agitated even for him.

  “You haven’t brought me another bug to admire, I hope,” Derrington said.

  “Beetle,” Blandings corrected. “But this is much better than that.”

  Derrington gestured toward a chair. “Sit and tell me what has you so excited.”

  Blandings ignored that and instead propped an elbow on the mantle, looking as if he’d burst. Derrington resumed his seat and waited for whatever had puffed up his friend to spill out of him.

  “I overheard a very interesting conversation tonight,” Blandings said. “It concerned you.”

  “The Mitfords? Their servants?”

  “No, dear boy. Mrs. Marlow and her cousin.” Blandings’ brow wrinkled. “Did you know Mrs. Marlow’s name is Juliet? I thought it was something else.”

  Juliet. Miss Rhodes must have called her Juliet. Blandings had, indeed, heard a private conversation.

  “You were the topic of discussion,” Blandings went on. “When I happened on them, Mrs. Marlow was calling you magnificent.”

  “That isn’t the word I would have expected.”

  “But it appears she’s also quite put out with you.”

  “Pour yourself a drink and sit down, won’t you?”

  “Capital idea,” Blandings said, as if he’d never consider that possibility on his own. Even in the near darkness, he found the decanter and snifters and served himself. Finally, he took the chair next to Derrington’s and sipped his drink.

  Derrington retrieved his own brandy and took a swig. “Well?”

  Blandings lifted his glass in a toast. “Excellent brandy.”

  “I meant Mrs. Marlow.”

  “Ah, yes. She’s a good deal more outrageous than the rumors let on.”

  “How so?”

  “It seems she’s planned a voluptuous tour of the Continent for when she’s left here,” Blandings said. “The story about taking Miss Fletcher to Geneva seems to be just that: a story.”

  “What do you mean ‘voluptuous tour’?”

  “A trip through the boudoirs of France, Spain, and Italy,” Blandings said. “‘Sleeping my way across Europe,’ she said.”

  Derrington choked on his brandy. “She what?”

  Blandings giggled. A fully grown man, giggling. “She has it all planned out. From here to France to Spain and then Italy.”

  “But she can’t.” Dear Lord in heaven, what was the idiotic woman thinking?

  “What’s to stop her? She’s rich, unattached, and experienced in the ways of the flesh.”

  “But, you see, there’s the problem. She isn’t,” Derrington said.

  “She seems rich enough to me.”

  Yes, but she wasn’t experienced. Blandings wouldn’t know that, though, and Derrington wouldn’t tell him. “She isn’t unattached. She’s attached to me.”

  Blandings snorted. “Seems as if you have a bit of a job convincing her of that.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “So then, you really have settled on her,” Blandings said.

  “Absolutely, and she has no say in the matter.”

  Blandings laughed again. “In my experience, women always have some say.”

  This time, Derrington rose and went to the fire. He set his drink on the mantel and gripped the edge in his fist. “I should have spanked her, after all.”

  Behind him, Blandings hooted in amusement.

  Juliet Foster was clearly out of her mind. She’d created some ridiculous fantasy of having multiple European lovers, but she didn’t want any of them to know they were frigging an innocent. She likely had told him the truth when she said she’d planned this trip before she’d met him and her plans had included posing as a widow. First, she’d need a man to take her virginity, and who better than someone she’d leave behind in New York? She’d planned to use him once and toss him aside.

  He groaned. Oh, God, he did sound like a melodrama.

  “She wants you, too, Derry,” Blandings said. “She’s bound and determined to have you.”

  “She said that, did she?”

  “Straight out. Only, you’re not cooperating. She’s quite miffed about it.”

  He turned. “Of course, I’m not cooperating. I don’t just plan to swive her. I’m going to marry her, curse her hide.”

  “How are you going to manage that, old man?”

  “By not giving her what she wants. She can try whatever she wants. The only way she’ll know me is in the marriage bed.”

  “Well, then, I’m doubly glad I came to warn you.”

  Derrington straightened. “Warn me?”

  Blandings’ grin was bright enough to see it across the room even in such little light. “She declared to her cousin that she intends to make you her lover. This very night.”

  “Spanking’s too good for her.”

  “I don’t see how she’s going to do it, seeing as the night’s nearly over, and she isn’t here.”

  “Oh, she’ll attempt it.” Derrington rubbed the bridge of his nose and managed not to groan again. “Never underestimate her.”

  “Excuse me, old man, but how is it you know her so well? You only just met her at Mitford’s ball.”

  “Oh, I know her. Miss Juliet—that is—Mrs. Juliet Marlow is like a tropical hurricane. One moment, you’re minding your own business and there’s scarcely a cloud in the sky. The next, a whirlwind’s caught you up, and you know the storm very intimately, indeed.”

  “That doesn’t sound entirely pleasant.”

  “It isn’t.” But it was exhilarating, frustrating, and anything but dull.

  “And yet, you want to marry her?”

  “Tell me, Blandings, is your wife a docile, compliant thing?”

  “Margaret?” The man hooted again. “She’d feed me to her mother’s hounds if I tried to cross her.”

  “Would you want your marriage to be merely pleasant?”

  “I’d prefer things if she could abide me when she’s breeding.” The man ruffled his fingers through his hair as he always did when flustered. “But our better days are more than merely pleasant.”

  “Then you see my point.”

  “I do.” Blandings finished his brandy and set the glass aside. “I’m off for my bed. I don’t think even Mrs. Marlow will venture out this late.”

  “Excuse me, my lord.”

  A footman stood at the doorway wearing a robe carelessly thrown over his nightshirt. He held a candle in his hand. “There’s someone in the kitchen wants to talk to you.”

  “I thought you were all in bed,” Derrington said.

  “I was, sir, ’til she threw some pebbles at my window.”

  “It’s a she.” Blandings lit up.

>   “Gypsy woman, your lordship. A beggar.” The footman turned to Derrington. “I tried to send her away.”

  “Thank you, Tim. I’ll take care of it.”

  The footman disappeared, and Blandings shot out of his chair. “Mrs. Marlow. By Jove, she’s a cheeky one.”

  “And determined.”

  “I love married life, but for a moment, I could wish that I were single and she’d brought her cousin,” Blandings said. “Like the old days, Derry.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “So say you,” Blandings crowed. “My bet’s on the hurricane.”

  Derrington clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’ll see you out.”

  “Very well. But I’ll expect a full report on the morrow.”

  He took a candle from the mantel and lit it in the fire. Then, he guided Blandings to the front of the house, opened the door, and watched as he climbed into his carriage. After the man had left, he closed and leaned against it. He rested for a moment and then took a breath for fortitude and proceeded to the kitchen.

  She was exploring the scullery when he came in. She must have carried a candle, because a glow shone from inside.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” he said.

  “Well, there you are.” She stepped into the kitchen. “What took you so long? A gypsy could have stolen anything and been long gone by now.”

  “I knew you were no gypsy.”

  “How?”

  “No gypsy woman is stupid enough to be out alone in London at this time of night,” he said. “How did you get here, by the way?”

  She lifted her chin in that defiant way she had. “I walked.”

  “What?” he nearly shouted. “God’s breath, you could have been killed.”

  “It wasn’t very far,” she said. “And this is a nice part of town.”

  “No part of London is safe after dark,” he said.

  “I know about cities.” She stared at him as if she’d never heard anything so stupid. “We have bad neighborhoods in New York, you know.”

  “No doubt you prowl them, too.”

  “I don’t have to,” she said. “They don’t have anything I want.”

  “And what is it you want here?”

  She gave him a sly smile. “I would think that’d be obvious.”

  “Sex.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “With me.”

  “Isn’t that what a woman usually wants when she visits a man late at night? Alone.”

  “No.”

  She cocked her head and stared at him. “It isn’t?”

  “I meant, no, I’m not going to take your innocence. At least, not tonight.”

  She shrugged out of the shabby cloak she’d worn as a disguise. Underneath, she wore a flimsy chemise, transparent enough to show off the curves of her breasts above the top of her corset.

  “Bloody hell, you didn’t wear that out in public did you?” Stupid question. She had to have worn it, or she wouldn’t be standing in it right now in his kitchen.

  “It was hidden,” she answered. “Even your servant believed my disguise.”

  “He’s far too sensible to think a lady would show up at the kitchen door at this hour.”

  “But I’m not a lady. I’m a scandalous widow.” She walked to him, rested her hands on his arms, and tilted her face upward. “Don’t you like me this way?”

  God help him, he had to stare down at her. His poor brain hadn’t yet forgotten the way her soft flesh had felt in his hand earlier that night. Nor the way her nipple puckered and stiffened in his mouth.

  She gave him a smile. She recognized the power she had over him, the little vixen. “Why are you being so obstinate? If I really were a widow, you wouldn’t hesitate.”

  “You’re not going to be my mistress but my wife.”

  She took her hands off him and huffed. “This is getting tedious.”

  “That’s the only way you’ll have me,” he said. “You might as well accept the fact.”

  “All right. It seems I’ve lost.” She sighed, picked up the wretched cloak, and put it on over her small clothes. “I’ll leave.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t do anything like that,” he said. “I’ll take you back to the Mitfords’.”

  “Now, really. Are you going to wake up your coachman and make him hitch up a gig just to take me that short way?”

  She had a point there. And it would take some time to get a cab. “I’ll walk you back.”

  “In dangerous London? And then have to come back alone?”

  “If you managed, I can do it.”

  “But you’d have to wake up one of Lord Mitford’s servants to get me in, and that person would probably talk among the other staff.” She tsked. “Quite a scandal.”

  “I’d sneak you back in the way you got out.”

  “But I won’t tell you how I did it.” Good Lord, for a moment, she looked as if she’d stick out her tongue at him.

  He started to say something, but the only thing that came into his head was the threat to spank her, and that hadn’t frightened her the first time.

  “Very well,” he said finally. “I always have a guest room made up. You’ll stay there.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him an elaborate yawn. “It has been a long day.”

  He had to agree there. Orchid sex in the afternoon followed by the real thing in the evening. Or a close approximation of the real thing.

  “Take that candle, and I’ll show you the way.”

  Chapter Eight

  One lone candle hardly lighted more than a foot or two in front of Juliet, but she’d come this far and wouldn’t give up before she reached her destination—the Marquis of Derrington’s bedchamber. She’d opened several doors only to find cold silence inside. Typical of him to put her as far away from him as he possibly could, but she’d find him, and when she did, she’d get what she wanted.

  She tried another door and found another empty room, curse it. That left only one more before she’d have to double back and check them all again.

  The moment she turned the knob, the sound of breathing told her she’d found him. The tone was deep and masculine, just like his speaking voice. Dark. Sinful. The mere fact that she’d found his bedroom sent a little thrill through her. She tiptoed inside and closed the door silently behind her.

  Now that she’d come so close to her goal, she’d allow herself some anticipation of her victory. And of her reward. Derrington was everything any woman could want in a first lover. Handsome, gentle, and oh, so talented with his hands and mouth. If any man could make her ready to accept the bulk of his cock inside her, this man could.

  And he would. Now.

  She crept to the bed. He’d set his candle on a table there, so she lit it with the one in her hand. That gave her a bit more light to study him, and she gasped. His arms and shoulders above the covers were naked. Did he sleep in the nude? He might have some type of pants covering his lower regions, but men usually wore a nightshirt.

  Oh, my. Oh, my, my. She stood, drinking in his male beauty. Besides never having looked at so much male flesh before, she’d also never watched a man sleep. With his eyes closed and his features relaxed, he looked almost innocent. His chest rose and fell gently with his breaths, his lips parted as they had been when he’d kissed her the first time. Dark hair framed his face, and she carefully reached down to touch one lock. Warm silk against her fingertips.

  He seemed a creature of myths and dreams, so entirely foreign to her experience he might have been another species. And yet, nature had made their bodies to fit together in the most basic way. Miraculous, really. She’d waited so many years for this—from the day she’d turned marriageable age until she’d grown too old to attract multiple offers and then to spinsterhood.

  She’d find some way to please him, despite her lack of experience. Honestly, she shouldn’t care, as she wouldn’t stay in London once she’d known him. But somehow it did matter that she could do a good job of
satisfying him. She didn’t have feelings for him. Not at all. Feelings complicated things. She’d have this one night with him. They’d both remember it for as long as they lived, and then, she’d exit his life for good and follow her own adventures.

  Oh, hell. Why was she worrying about something like this now when every inch of her body had gotten so close to what she wanted?

  He gave out a soft snort and rolled over, clutching his pillow against his chest and presenting the width of his back and the spread of his shoulders. Suddenly, he appeared huge, even though he stood only a few inches taller than she did. What did she know of men’s bodies? More important, what would she learn in the next few minutes?

  She set her candle next to his and took a steadying breath. She had removed all her clothing except for her chemise. That would come off easily enough. It pooled around her feet on the floor as she stepped out of it. The chill of the night air made her shiver, so she quickly lifted the covers and slipped into the bed. His body’s warmth clung to the sheets, surrounding her. He must have had a furnace in him to produce all that heat.

  And yes, he was completely naked. Her hip snuggled up against his bare bottom. How odd it felt to lie with him this way and yet how right. Even in marriage, she’d wear something to bed. Decency would require that he do the same if he was to sleep with her. No wife with any sense could bear to send a husband to another room if he felt like this next to her.

  She ought to wake him up and get things going, but why rush this heaven? Maybe if she touched him softly, she could feel his flesh without waking him. She’d never get the chance again, at least, not with this man. Besides, she’d need to know her way around a male body if she were to pretend to sophistication.

  She started with his shoulder. Broad, strong, firm. His skin was softer than she’d expected of a man. Smooth and stretched over the firm muscle beneath. From there, she traced her palm over his shoulder blades and along the furrow down the center of his back. When she reached his buttock, she savored the firmness of it. She’d called his cock magnificent when, in truth, the word described all of him.