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

by Larissa Lyons

  It was simply a conversation that took a rather long time (a really long time), and that was just the way of it.

  A pleasance he hadn’t anticipated buffeted the day’s exchange, the ease he experienced conversing with these two fine gentlemen nothing short of remarkable.

  Positively remarkable.

  At some point, after first taking refreshments and then lunch with them, talk naturally turned to Thomas and Daniel’s difficulty. “I had a cousin who stammered as a boy,” Everson explained. “He eventually grew out of it, but a physician his parents consulted made several recommendations…”

  As Daniel idly listened, he couldn’t help recall how the only physician he was ever paraded in front of wanted to slice out his tongue, sever off the nerves in his lips. Father had supported the notion and an all-out brawl ensued when one very determined ten-year-old made his escape. The sour taste that tarnished his saliva was too easily evoked and he swallowed hard. Bad memories best forgotten.

  He renewed his interest in what Everson was saying. “…favorite suggestion was that he practice reciting word puzzles and poetry—”

  The word poetry set off an unwanted visceral reaction. But instead of casting up his accounts and heading for the coast, Daniel made himself calmly inquire, “Word…puzzles. What are they?”

  Everson nodded to Tom who quickly—and surprisingly—rattled off, with only a hitch or two:

  Naked naughty Nancy natters on like a ninnyhammer while knitting napkins for the nob’s nozzle.

  There once was a man, not a priest,

  who fancied for himself a fancy piece.

  So he counted his coins

  through his stiffening loins

  till he could buy himself into her crease.

  While Daniel chuckled, Everson frowned. “Thomas, what have I told you about the bawdy ones?”

  Thomas assumed a glum expression. “Nnnn-not while-while Mum is home.” Turning to Daniel, he brightened. “But-but they’re grand fu-fu-funnn.”

  “Helpful, too,” Everson put in. “We don’t know if it’s the cadence or song quality, but with practice, he’s able to spew these out like a geyser. They’ve really helped with his regular speech too.”

  Helped his speech? Daniel couldn’t fathom it, the poor lad. Evidently his expression gave him away.

  Everson laughed so hard he choked. “Truly, my lord. You should have heard him before.”

  Nodding enthusiastically, Tom added, “But these are mmmmmy favorites, the p-peh-personal kind. Roses are red. / My name is Thomas. / Follow my lead, / I’ll be your compass. And one mmmy brother wrrrrote: Roses are red. / My name-na-name is Sir Henry. / There’s no time to waste. / To the privy I make haste.” He finished on a grin. “Now-now you try.”

  As though housed in a glacier, Daniel’s mind froze. But Tom looked at him so expectantly, he pried his lips open, determined to give it a go. Only what came out was a disgruntled, “Don’t like p-poetry.”

  Everson smiled, that indulgent, fatherly smile Daniel hadn’t received in years, not since his beloved grandfather passed on. “Here now.” He scooted his chair toward his desk and pulled a sheet and the ink toward him. “I’ll jot down a few of the others and you can practice at home, hmmm?”

  “Much obliged.”

  While Everson wrote and Daniel tried not to be embarrassed by his lack of participation, Tom entertained them with several more surprisingly competent recitations.

  Buxom Betsy bouncily brings brimming buckets of butter to bossy, balding Bob in the big, bug-filled basement.

  Roses are red,

  The birds they do chirp,

  the worms, they do squirm.

  But they don’t eat the dirt.

  “They do, really, but-but couldn’t get it to-to-to rhyme.”

  Daniel smiled encouragingly and Tom finished off with two more.

  Roses are red.

  Words can be fun.

  No matter what people may think.

  I am not dumb.

  Touched, because Daniel had no doubt Tom’s father had written that one for him at a very young age, he was hard-pressed to maintain his smile. That was, until Tom’s rendition of:

  Jane Jubilee jubilantly jiggles with joy when Jack Johnson, a jug-bitten jackanape, jumps over with jacks. Just jolly!

  “Bravo.” Daniel applauded.

  “It may be jolly, son,” Everson said, still writing, “but you’re going to wear out his lordship’s wattles.”

  “’Tis fine. And call me D-Daniel, both of you.” Another deep, pray-I-don’t-muck-this-up breath and he exhaled. Resting his arm along the back of the couch, attempting to appear completely casual, he announced, “All right. I’ll give it a whirl. Ahem-hem.” How long could he stall? His neck already felt rawer than squealing bacon. “Roses are red. / My name is T-Tr-Tremayne. / Think we’ve all lost our marbles. / But at least we’re not lame.”

  “Good!” Tom practically cheered. “Do-do anotherrr.”

  “Here you go.” Everson passed him the sheet. “Try the top one.”

  He read over the lines to himself: Dashing Delbert, with pockets so deep, diddles his days away, while pretty Patty ponders by the pond, pitching puny pennies to dog-paddling puppies.

  Gads. I’ll destroy it.

  He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Tom said, “You’re among fr-fr-friends, mmmy lord. ’Tis part-part of the fff-ffun!”

  Everson gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Take your time, Daniel. There’s no censure here.”

  6

  Counterfeit Charms Charm the Truth

  For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.

  William Shakespeare, King Richard II

  “Exquisite.”

  The rasped compliment raised the fine hairs at Thea’s nape. Lord Tremayne’s voice was deeper tonight, more rugged—if that were possible.

  She hadn’t needed the words to know he was well pleased with her appearance. The sudden gleam in his eyes as he surveyed her when she came down the stairs told her clearly enough.

  She was too aware of the late hour—significantly past six—and too aware of her changed appearance to meet his gaze for long and hers veered away to focus on the rail where she placed her gloved hand to steady herself as she descended. Watching her satin-covered fingers slide down the mahogany banister was much easier than contemplating the forceful presence below.

  A quick, lash-veiled peek told her he looked remarkably handsome, if somewhat different. She couldn’t quite identify why, but it must be his clothes. She’d never seen him attired so impeccably, in formal evening dress, everything ink black save for the snowy cravat and white silk stockings beneath his knee breeches. Even his waistcoat was black beneath the snug-fitting tailcoat. Her heart gave a distinct lurch when she glimpsed the strong thighs—and impressive parts between—shown to exquisite perfection by the absurdly tailored breeches (if there was an extra wrinkle of fabric to allow for movement, she couldn’t discern it).

  A few steps from the bottom, a self-conscious hand went to the back of her hair where “Suzette,” upon asking Madame if she could remain (under the guise of reboxing everything they’d brought), had offered to weave in a feather or two.

  “It’s all the crack,” she’d told Thea, unearthing two iridescent feathers that shone with the same inner fire her dress did. The dress Madame had finally settled on, a rich, shimmering sea-blue confection unlike anything Thea had ever seen, much less worn.

  It was also, to her dismay, the one with the falsified bosom.

  No drawers either! Just beautiful silk stockings tied at her thighs. “Drawers will ruin the glide,” Madame V had imperiously informed her.

  Thea felt so very debauched, and he hadn’t even touched her yet. Oh, but she was primed for it. For their entire night together, for how it would end. With them in her bed, skin on skin, hot, slick, sweating—

  She gasped as her left foot slipped on the step.

  Lord Tremayne jumped forwar
d but she waved him back as she regained her footing, determined to make it to the bottom unscathed. “Silly me. Best I watch where I’m going.”

  Buttons and Mrs. Samuels had hovered about all evening, laughing with Sally Ann (who’d professed to preferring her real name over the fancy “Frenchy” one) while Thea quietly endured their attentions. They were all excited about her first night out with “his lordship”, and though she portrayed the epitome of ladylike composure, inside she was a fluttery, flustered wreck.

  The look he gave her when she reached the landing didn’t help. Trembling, she allowed Lord Tremayne to tug her in front of the mirror.

  Where had the servants gone? Just as his hands settled heavily on her shoulders, a startled glance told her they’d disappeared into the woodwork.

  Leaving two of them very much alone. And she was very aware of his tall and powerful presence brushing up against her as he snared her gaze in the mirror.

  At the picture of her low—dreadfully low—neckline, Thea struggled to smile. Had she ever before exposed so much skin? (Discounting their mirrored encounters upstairs, that was.) The padded corset plumped up the swells of her breasts to the point they were actually visible. It was a miracle. And oh, mercy to Mercury, there was a hint, just a hint mind, of shadow between them.

  What dismayed her most was how her nipples (she thought the word on a whisper) nearly promised to peep over the edge of the deeply rounded bodice if she so much as sneezed.

  She noticed her reflected image quivering and resolutely locked her knees. Over her shoulder, Lord Tremayne captured her gaze. Above those piercing eyes of his, thick, coffee-colored hair was brushed back with careless abandon, tempting her fingers to muss it further. “You look extraordinarily handsome tonight, my lord.”

  He gave an abrupt nod. The hard line of his jaw firmed. “You…are a jewel.”

  The swelling had gone down, both eyes were blinkable, but the bruising looked bad, deep purpling surrounding one eye and part of his cheek.

  “What of that cream, my lord? The one that fades bruises?” She tsked. “It doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Almost out,” he told her with a forced smile.

  His face must be paining him, poor man. Why he seemed so strained.

  “Then I’ll just run up and grab what you gave—”

  Tightening his grip on her shoulders, he pointed to the cuckoo clock beside the mirror. “Later.”

  Which she surmised meant they really needed to be on their way. “Very well.”

  She watched the motion of his Adam’s apple bob once after he nodded grimly, the flexing of his tight jaw, the strong column of his throat—

  “You—you!” Thea spun in place, her fingertips going to his chin. That’s what was different about him. Not his attire at all. Not just the reduced swelling, but his face. “You shaved!” she accused, too surprised to temper her tone.

  A muscle jumped in his cheek. He inclined his head.

  Her eyes skimmed every feature as her fingertips echoed the same path, rubbing over the squared and stiff jaw, the discernible cheekbones, the strong jut of his chin. In truth, she was met with a countenance she could study for hours.

  Every speck of skin his thoughtful action revealed lured her touch to linger. That is, until he frowned. “Thought you’d…”

  Be pleased sounded in her head, conveyed by his eyes.

  She wound one arm around his neck and pulled him down. Rising to her toes, she placed a deliberate kiss on the newly smooth skin. “I do like,” she told him, leaning back and lowering her arm while keeping her gaze focused on his, “very much. Excessively much. It’s just…” She darted a quick glance behind her and to the side, making sure the woodwork hadn’t sprouted servants’ ears.

  When she remained silent, one of his dark brows lifted.

  She spoke to his right earlobe. Good thing too, because she whispered so softly the confession was barely audible. “Just that I was never overly fond of men’s beards until yours. I, ah, enjoyed the feel of it, you, ah…betweenmylegstheothernight.”

  His hearty laugh rewarded her courage. Taking her hand in his, he bowed over it. “It will grow.”

  And there he went, laughing at her again, with her now that she was laughing too. Gracious, but she’d become audacious since meeting him!

  “La, sir,” she said in her best “lady” voice, wishing she had a fan to playfully thwack on his arm, “how you love to mock me.”

  His expression was suitably stern when she garnered the courage to face him again. He straightened and Mr. Samuels magically appeared to open the door. Lord Tremayne took up his walking stick in one hand and extended his opposite arm to Thea as she retrieved her reticule. Nodding at the butler, he escorted her to the waiting carriage.

  What was wrong?

  The carriage ride, contrary to everything Thea expected, was fraught. Lord Tremayne hardly spoke. He barely nodded when she profusely thanked him for the lovely dress she now wore and the new wardrobe on order. Scarcely smiled when she shared about George and Charlotte, her efforts at first eradicating and then befriending the friendly rodents.

  Only just acknowledged her laughing mention of poetry and how much fun she’d had bantering with him over noses and cranky cats. In fact, each topic seemed to pain him more than the one before until she was left confused and clueless, her fingers plucking at the reticule strings as she cast about for more to say, distraught that he might be tiring of her so soon.

  But nay, he didn’t seem disinterested, merely distracted, painfully so.

  Once they left her neighborhood, the horses moved so slowly she thought they might be rolling backward. The seven—yes, seven—additional attempts at conversation she made were met with near grunts or hardly any response at all.

  Night shrouded their meager progress, but the carriage’s interior, unlike their last ride together, was well lit.

  She knew he was pleased with her appearance. (He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her sham of a plumped-up bosom, which only made the scant pressure of the cotton feel like a ton, weighing on her conscience.) She knew he wanted to continue on because when she’d suggested they return home and stay in, some time after the silent ride commenced, he barked a nay.

  The carriage rocked in place as one of the horses snorted. A huge sigh heaved from her lungs. She tried to look away, to focus anywhere except his newly revealed countenance but couldn’t.

  How could she ever have thought him unhandsome?

  As though an out-of-control bonfire threatened utter destruction, Daniel sensed all his efforts, all the relaxed time they’d spent together going up in smoke.

  What a blighted evening!

  At the townhouse, it had been all he could do to eke out his understated appreciation of Thea’s glorious appearance.

  His neck and jaw, throat and tongue, hell even his teeth and tonsils, were all weary to the point of exhaustion. He never should have done so much talking at Everson’s. Not when he had plans this evening with Thea. But the afternoon had been so easy, once he’d moved past his initial reluctance, so…fun, dammit. Aye, fun.

  Laughing over brandy and port, playing with words and letters, testing—and massacring—some of Tom’s many tongue teasers. Once, when a maid brought in jelly-filled scones, all three of them had stuffed their mouths to overflowing and tried to sing Tom’s Q list. Squinting Quint’s quality quizzing glass…

  Crumbs had spewed, coughs ensued, and the whole effort proved hilarious. He didn’t know when he’d ever had such a rum time with someone he’d, for all intents and purposes, just met. He’d been himself, his habitual hesitance all but vanishing the longer he stayed in their presence.

  Though he’d hurt at the time, he’d thought it a puny price to pay. Figured all would be fine in a trice.

  Hardly!

  For once he’d said his goodbyes, after making a boxing date with Everson and a lesson date with Tom, once he was alone and heading back home, it hit him: a pervasive tightness that sei
zed his voice box and every muscle between his neck and his nose. Near excruciating pain that punished him—by gads, him—for talking too damn much. Talking!

  Daniel assured himself a couple hours of rest would turn things around, soften the soreness and soothe the sting. Which was why he’d gladly agreed when Madame Véronique sent Swift John round with the message there was no plausible way Thea would be ready at six.

  Seven, eight, midnight, Daniel didn’t care, was happy to wait.

  Maybe one of the remedies Tom had shared would help. He sent down to the kitchens for some precious ice, rubbed it all over his neck until he went numb. But when his flesh thawed, he was as sore as ever.

  One remedy? Why not try them all?

  So he sipped boiled water with honey, ate a lemon, lay on his bed and hung his head off the edge. Flipped over and let it hang from the other direction. Tried napping, gargling, and more stretching (who knew a man’s tongue could extend so far?). And still, with each swallow, at the merest inclination of speech, agony screeched through his muscles.

  Rest, we need to rest! they railed at him, embedding sabers and swords from the inside out, jagged blades that cut through tissue and bone until he stilled the urge, released and relaxed the fatigued muscles, silenced the desire to speak.

  And sat mute, once again, like an idiotic imbecile.

  Thea was aware of the change in him. Acutely aware, and she was baffled by it. He could feel her discomfort in every worn-out particle of his being. Twice he’d touched her in the carriage, once on her hands, once on her knee. Both times, she flashed him a grateful smile, as though saying, It’s all right.

  But it wasn’t.

  He couldn’t lose her before they’d barely begun. And that dress! It bedamned and bedazzled. Befuddled his senses like—