Lusty Letters: A Fun and Steamy Historical Regency (Mistress in the Making Book 2)

by Larissa Lyons

  His smile told her it was enough.

  “Who’s Cyclops?”

  The unexpected question confounded the truth right out of his mouth. “My dog.”

  “Your dog?” She digested that for a moment. One elegant eyebrow arched in a show of pique, but her voice was only curious when she asked, “And I remind you of him?”

  “What?”

  “You said earlier I was just like Cyclops.”

  “Oh.” Blast it. Had he? He loved the ugly, dribble-drizzling mongrel but wasn’t sure sharing that would get him out of the doghouse or not. Hard to shrug lying down, but he made the attempt. “Rescued him. That’s all.”

  “Hmmm.” The eyebrow lowered, the lush lower lip pouted out, and Daniel was afraid he was about to be severely taken to task.

  “I never knew,” she began, suddenly shy, “there could be such tangible evidence of passion. Both before…and at the culmination.”

  He’d heard tell of it but doubted. Until now. Until her glorious release. Praying he didn’t butcher it, Daniel said, “You were, are…beau…tiful.”

  That shy smile blossomed wide and she snuggled against him once more. For about thirty seconds. Then she popped up to one elbow. “Did you know—Mrs. Samuels made peach cobbler earlier.”

  So he was forgiven for comparing her to his dog?

  “Peach. Cobbler.” Thea repeated as though the very concept was akin to flying to the moon. Perhaps, to her, it was. After all, fresh fruit was a rarity for most. “I didn’t smell it on the tray she brought. Dare we race to the kitchen? Winner claims the biggest piece?”

  Race a mistress to the kitchen?

  After the most intense sexual experience of his life?

  Daniel considered the time. He considered all he had to do the next day. He considered his empty bed at home. “By all means.”

  Thea woke alone.

  Warm and snug beneath the thick coverlet in her rose-adorned room, her face and the one arm that extended beyond chilled from the morning air. Sufficient light streamed from behind the curtains, telling her morning was well underway.

  Regrettably, she had no recollection of Lord Tremayne’s departure. She did, however, possess the sated, sore and sublime sensations of a well-loved woman.

  Even better (or possibly not better; how could anything be better than how her body felt at this precise moment?), she had the memory of sharing peach cobbler in the deserted and dark kitchen, of feeding each other, of his mock complaint over where was her reply to his last missive?

  “For I long t-to read your p-poetry.” He’d laughed when she stuffed the last of her cinnamon-spiced bite in his mouth, giving him no time to swallow before she was kissing him, and he her. Wiping crumbs off his lips as he swept her into his arms and carried her up to her room, to her bed, where he lay down and pulled her against him, cuddling her close until Thea drifted off…

  Only to wake this morning with a smile on her face. One that faltered when she sat up to be confronted yet again with her dress, laid out over one of the chairs in the corner. Dear Mrs. Samuels—the woman was a marvel. She must’ve snatched it from the dressing room floor and cleaned it during the night because the hem was clear of mud, the skirt freshly pressed. If wearing the same thing again didn’t thrill Thea to the core, then the clean underthings stretched out beside it certainly did.

  She pushed back the covers and braved the cool air, feet hitting the floor and stretching against the rug, reluctant to cross cold wood over to—

  “What’s this?” Stacked boxes on the circular table obliterated any reluctance and she fairly bounced across the room, where she paused. Savored. Gifts.

  Drawing out the anticipation, she inspected the boon. There were four in all, ranging from one that nearly covered the entire table, to three smaller ones atop. Simple boxes, devoid of any wrapping save soft green bows tied around each.

  Heart hammering, she watched as her arm reached out to caress one satin bow. The delicate fabric yielded beneath her touch. Her stomach dipped. Had she ever been this happy? Felt this secure?

  For a certainty, not since her mother was alive.

  Unsure where to start, she chose the second-largest box, and in moments stared, to the accompaniment of her astonished gasp, at a pair of quality half-boots. Made of dark leather and lacing up the front, they were the most fashionable boots she’d seen since childhood. New stockings were rolled and tucked inside. As though seeing another perform the actions, her chilled feet were tucked inside the stockings and then the boots in a flash, toes turning toasty.

  Moving the box aside, she heard something clank. “More?” She riffled through the paper. “Oh, Tremayne…”

  Shock nearly held her immobile as she spied the metal and wood pattens he’d thought to include, ready to be attached to the bottoms of her new boots any time rain made sludge out of the roads.

  Blinking back amazement, she numbly opened the largest box which yielded a lined cloak. A stunning, hooded garment with a matching pelisse. Fairies to Flintshire, she must be in a magical land herself, for surely she would sprout wings and fly. As she tugged on first the pelisse and then the cloak, she doubted her feet would ever return to earth.

  The sleeves were only slightly too long, she realized, as she sat there cozily wrapped, staring down at her booted toes, all manner of delight and disbelief coiling through her.

  Not to be forgotten, the smallest two boxes seemed to dance on the table, drawing her gaze.

  “What else could he have sent?” Saving the smallest for last, she retrieved the remaining box. “He’s already done so much.”

  Reverent fingers slowly untied the bow and lifted the lid. “Gloves!”

  Thrusting her hands inside, she closed her eyes. The supple leather and fur lining stole her breath as surely as her protector had stolen her wits. Dorothea, he’s surely secured you now, bought and paid for.

  Trouble was, she didn’t seem to mind. Not any longer.

  After basking a few seconds more in her newly reduced and wondrous “lowered” status (ironic, as she’d never felt her spirits soar higher), she roused herself to open her eyes and her remaining gift.

  Which contained an unmarked jar.

  What commanded the largest smile yet, as she sat at her table bundled to the gills in her new winter finery, and lifted out the jar, was the folded square of paper that resided beneath. Setting it aside, still folded, she unscrewed the lid and a familiar, spicy-sweet scent greeted her.

  Lord Tremayne’s fragrance? She sniffed again. Nay, the crisp outdoors was missing, but it still smelled like him. Why send her—

  “Read the note, you ninny.”

  Dearest Thea,

  I trust you’ll find these items useful, especially the lotion. Put it on your wrist and arm and I can promise the bruises will fade in no time. As to the other items, if anything does not fit or is not to your liking—

  “Not to my liking? Has he windmills in his upper garret?” She wiggled one hand free of the fur-lined gloves to stroke bare fingers over the soft leather of the cloak. “Indeed, I like very much.”

  Pulling off the second glove as though it was the most precious of Meissen porcelains, she pulled up one long arm of the pelisse and rubbed the cream on one wrist. Whether the bruises disappeared or not, knowing she smelled vaguely like him made her old injuries vanish into the ether.

  She inhaled, the scent of him in her lungs taking her back to taking him in her body, when he—

  “Thea,” she said tartly, “stop thinking of last night. Read on, missy.”

  Oh, but ’twas difficult when every shift of her legs brought to mind new sensations from last night. Grinning like a goofy goat, she slid her fingers back into the gloves and picked up his note.

  …not to your liking, I trust you’ll let me know so I can provide something you prefer.

  Now, woman, make haste—if you’re reading this, then Swift John is waiting for my promised reply.

  I do believe there’s the matter of a po
em you’re supposed to share?

  Tremayne

  PS. I found much pleasure in our evening together. Thank you.

  In only as much time as it took to remove the gloves, ready the quill, and add a postscript (or two) to the letter she’d composed yesterday morning, she sent Buttons on his way. But only after asking for clarification first:

  “Swift John?” she queried the footman. “I thought your name was Buttons.”

  “It’s actually James, ma’am. But my brother and me—we’re twins, you recall? He’s John.”

  “Which explains naught. How do you then come by Swift John?” And why did Lord Tremayne not simply call him James or Buttons?

  The servant gave her an unrepentant grin. “On account of when we tried to snaffle his lordship’s pocket watch, I’m the one who ran the fastest. My brother, John? Now he got hisself caught.”

  “You attempted to steal from Lord Tremayne?”

  Buttons rocked back on his heels and gave every appearance of one who loved divulging this particular tale. “We did indeed. Only he wasn’t his lordship back then. Nine, we were, and not particularly adept at the trade but hungry after havin’ just lost our folks to the fever.”

  “Oh, James…” Just imagining two boys, so young, alone and grieving—

  “Don’t go worrying on about us, Miss H. His lordship’s a real square cove. We couldn’t have picked a better pigeon to try an’ pluck—though we were the ones caught. After chasin’ down my brother, Lord Tremayne stood in the street holding tight to John till he finally caught sight of me. Told us we could keep stealing and like as stretch for our efforts, or we could come with him and do honest work for food and pay without ever having to worry about a noose around our necks.” His chest puffed out. “An’ I’ve been Swift John to him ever since.”

  Daniel smiled and read again beneath the raindrop-smeared ink…

  Drip. Drip. Drip it goes.

  All day long, it grows…

  The pile, the dripping,

  Gluey, sticky pile…from his nose.

  A sonnet (or is it an ode?) dedicated to Mr. Freshley of the Dripping Nose.

  Thea (who will hurriedly blow hers and hope she’s not given you a dislike for her magical quill—or her taste in literature)

  P.S. The cloak, pelisse, gloves and boots are lovely. And though the sleeves are a fraction long (which I only confess because you’ll see this for yourself since I plan to wear my new garments henceforth when I leave the house), I vow your gifts are perfect.

  Perfect! Though you are dreadfully spoiling me, I fear, I quite refuse to give them up. Thank you a thousand times over.

  P.S. Again. Bruise Fading Cream? What a concept for a pugilist. Are you secretly an apothecary? Or have one in your employ? I adore how it smells on you and will gratefully slather it on my arms. Thank you, kind sir!

  P.S. III. I cannot express enough my appreciation to you for sending Buttons to join our household. Though I feel horribly overindulged, I will cherish his presence nevertheless (and perhaps request he give me directional lessons with all due speed).

  P.S. IV. I too found great pleasure in our coming together last night. (My face is about to flame at how I’m putting this to paper, but may I reiterate, Great Pleasure?)

  …I’d much rather slather it on for you…

  …I said you were too refined to be considered any sort of tavern wench? Another error in judgment it appears. Thank you for pointing it out, as I am one who can appreciate the fine, enthusiastic qualities a tavern wench (or in point of fact, my lovely mistress) might show when we’re together and the bawdy sense of humor she might exhibit, and share, when we’re apart.

  As to your ode-worthy companion, I do hope you provided the remarkable, rememberable Mr. Freshley with a handkerchief?

  Alas, no. The grizzled Mr. Freshley would have scratched me ere I tried. He was the neighbor’s cat, you see. I wanted to be friends, but he had differing definitions of friendship. (If I approached without a fish head or bird in hand, he wanted nothing to do with me.) ’Twas a true pity. Would you care to know what I penned to commemorate my first scratch?

  I shall be turning blue from lack of air until you share.

  (Remarkable coincidence, that; it rhymed without effort—and ’tis obvious, eh?)

  Once again, after sending Swift John off with his response, Daniel returned his attention to the areas Wylde wanted him to cover at the committee meeting. He’d put this off for days and could no longer justify avoiding it.

  Trying to keep an open mind, because if his throat tensed along with his thoughts, he’d never get the words out, he applied himself to succinctly rewriting each salient point and then practicing the words ad nauseam—both in his head and out loud—until he deemed himself ready to move on to the next one.

  With every phrase he committed to memory—phrases absent of pesky letters and sounds—he tried not to think of the other meeting he’d miss, the one he’d longingly thought to arrive right as it began and remain near the door, if only to catch a smattering of the brilliance that was Mr. Taft.

  Mr. H. B. Taft, a gentleman Daniel had yearned to hear speak for years who was making a single London appearance. ’Twas no hope for it now; both events were scheduled for the same afternoon.

  Disappointed anew, a heartfelt sigh shuddered from his lungs. He reminded himself of the good he was doing for his friend, if not for London.

  Hell, poor Wylde had to have been desperate to ask Daniel to help him out; any words out of his mouth were bound to be a cheap bargain. But by God, he’d give the man his pennyworth.

  For upon taking the time to really study what all Wylde had prepared, Daniel had experienced a major change of heart. Once he realized the earnest passion in the arguments presented, and recalled the primary reason why his friend cared so much, Daniel was determined to do his best.

  After all, if any man had cause to see an organized police roaming the London metropolis, it was surely Wylde.

  My dear Lord Tremayne, you may not be so quick to condemn your own literary attempts once you read more of mine.

  Mr. Freshley, pussy so fine

  Why on my arm must you dine?

  With teeth marks and hisses and scratches galore

  I must stop trying to befriend you. No, no, nevermore!

  Before you ask, I regret to admit we never made nice. He was a rotten mouser; I think I became better at it than he. I always suspected the (is it too indelicate of me to say “snot”? I fear it might be; please forgive me for asking) phlegm drip-drip-dripping from his nose might be the culprit. How can any feline be expected to sniff out prey if they’re always sniffing snot? (Well, knock me over with a black cauldron, this pen does have its own way at times.)

  I’ve only just recently forgiven Mr. Freshley for snacking on me when I was delivering fish heads. The skin he took from my arm was not given willingly, I assure you.

  After extending the latest message from his master, Buttons blotted the sweat from his temple with a weary-looking handkerchief. He didn’t fare much better.

  “You’re flushed.” Guilt crawled up Thea’s throat. “We’ve been selfish, sending you hither and yon with scarce a moment to rest. Forgive—”

  “Ma’am, if I may?” Buttons interrupted, stuffing the handkerchief deep in a pocket.

  “Certainly.”

  “’Tis no hardship, I promise you. Me an’ John—the other servants too—why, we haven’t seen his lordship this animated in years. Even ate luncheon at his desk and I know he’s beyond eager for your next one.” Buttons pointed to the note she held. “I’ll go down an’ see what Mrs. S has cooked up this afternoon and grab me a quencher while you pen him back, eh? Be ready to run back to his lordship’s in a trice.”

  The enthusiastic, sweating footman was off, racing down the stairs, leaving Thea to marvel at the fortune Fate had dropped in her lap and excited to read the latest missive Buttons had dropped in her hand.

  Trust me, something as simple as a four-let
ter word, be it snot or any number of others, will not offend. In fact, I count myself honored that you feel at sufficient ease to talk thus with me. May it always be so.

  Although once the question was posed, my mind would not rest until I’d applied it sufficiently, ascertaining what other possibilities you might have considered: snuffles, sniffles, sniveling…hmm, are you familiar with Captain Grose’s Dictionary of The Vulgar Tongue? I proudly own a useless copy and took the time to peruse its pages. Tell me what you make of this:

  TO SNIVEL. To cry, to throw the snot or snivel about. Sniveling; crying. A sniveling fellow; one that whines or complains.

  TO SNOACH. To speak through the nose, to snuffle.

  I trust you could come up with a rhyme or two that would work companionably with snoach. (Does anyone ever—in actuality—use that word?) Although since first reading about your dear Mr. Freshley, I do have it in my head that he’s a snivler (aye, I just coined that one myself). Do you not agree? “To throw the snot or snivel about”—does that not describe your fiendish feline foe?