Sighing, she stroked the edge of his jaw. “Lord Chelton, I think you lied to me.”
Alarmed he examined her. Had he hurt her? “About what?”
Her dark hair wild around her shoulders, her eyes filled with sensual blue fire, her magnificent breasts bare to him and glowing in the coach lamplight, she teased him, all mischief. “You said doing anything risqué in a coach would be uncomfortable.”
He hugged her tightly to his chest. Relief swam through him. “So, Lady Chelton, what is your assessment of making love in a coach?”
“Oh,” she said, met his gaze with seduction in her look and pressed her thighs together, “I must have another go at it. With you, of course.”
He hooted.
“That sample was splendid but brief.”
“I promise you more, darling,” he said with an urgent kiss to her succulent lips. “Much more.”
“And soon?”
“Very.”
Chapter Eleven
The sun was setting as the coach pulled up to the main portico of Willowreach and idled. Julian secured Lily’s coat around her shoulders, her undergarments ordered, but still in a wrinkled, jumbled state. At least, her body was covered…and still tingling from their intimacy.
“Follow the butler straight away upstairs to your suite, Lily,” he told her. “By now, I’m sure your maid is settled in. Change and come to the dining room when you wish. Last week, I ordered a light supper for us.”
“A formal service?”
“Not at all. Don your nightclothes and a wrapper, if you wish. Be comfortable.”
Comfortable. The word had her smiling, hopeful he and she could resume the very gratifying explorations they’d begun in his coach. “I will. What of the servants?” she asked him as Foster swung open the cabin door.
“Only my butler and a footman in attendance. Your attire will be appropriate.”
Dizzy with the prospect of such ease between them, she tried to cover it with a mundane duty. “Elanna said I should ask to receive the staff first thing.”
Julian brushed his palm over her cheek, his touch tender and surprisingly tremulous. Against his chest, her nipples beaded. She wanted his mouth on her again to quench this new thirst she had for his affections.
“Tomorrow,” he told her, then left his seat and offered his hand to help her out. “No need to rush. You’ll be here forever.”
She liked the sound of that. Out in the brisk breezes of evening, she rose on toes and, servants or not, she put her lips to Julian’s cheek. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked in low tones, footmen around them to gather their luggage.
“Being you. Kind, most of all.”
His features stilled, his gaze flowing over her face as if he’d drink her in, eat her up.
Her insides, where he’d caressed her, clenched and she caught a breath, wanting his fingers tormenting her again.
He swallowed loudly and hard. He glanced around, waiting until they were alone. “We’ll go in quickly or we’ll scandalize everyone as we climb back into the coach and make it rock.”
She burst out laughing, discovering that fun with him was becoming a charming habit. “Never fear. I’m off!”
That night weeks ago when Julian had shown her the salon, Lily had registered the entry hall and appointments. Now she caught her breath at the beauty of the mansion before her. Ivory and gold-veined marble on the floor, green porphyry columns that rose to three stories high next to the stairs. The cupola in the glass dome above her let in the cerulean shades of sunset. The butler bowed and led her up the main stairs, a wide expanse so grand Lily was certain an entire coach could glide down the steps with ease.
“The marchioness’s suite of rooms adjoins the marquess’s,” the servant told her. “His lordship had your suite redone with new draperies and rugs, madam. But he left much for you to do as you wish. I hope you’re comfortable but should you need anything, madam, do not hesitate to ask.”
“I won’t. Thank you.”
He thrust open the door for her. Lily smiled at her maid who bobbed. Nora, who’d traveled ahead early this morning from London down to the house, greeted her with a nod and congratulations.
“Thank you. Have you settled in?”
“Upstairs, yes, my lady.”
Lily shrugged out of her coat.
“Oh, my!” The maid fluttered about her, regarding her mussed clothing with horror in her eyes. “Ma’am, are you—well?”
“Very, Nora.” Lily had not thought how her disarray might affect her maid. The woman was in her forties and from her references, she’d worked for an elderly baroness before coming to Piccadilly to tend her. Lily had assumed she was experienced in all matters vital to proper service. “I expect your discretion.”
The woman cast her eyes to the floor. “Of course, my lady.”
“Take this away.” Lily held out her coat. “And repair my blouse, if you can. If not, so be it. Take it to the rag bin.”
“I put out your dinner gown, madam.”
Lily’d been trussed up like a Christmas turkey all day, except for her journey here, and she welcomed the idea of wearing next to nothing to dine with Julian. ‘No stays for years,’ he’d said in the carriage and her body flushed at the memory. “I’ll wear one of my new silk negligees. The pink one. And the cranberry brocade wrapper.”
“But, ma’am, for supper?”
Nora was not used to a woman who did not dress to the hilt for every occasion. Why had Lily not noticed that before? Because it had not been an issue until tonight.
“Yes. And I’ll have a bath now, too.”
“Of course,” Nora said.
Lily turned to the six-foot cheval mirror, which reflected her, head to toe. She was indeed, a mess. ‘Ravished’ was the word that came to mind and curved her lips.
She spun toward Nora. “Help me off with all of this.”
I have a husband to please. And myself.
* * * *
The ormolu clock on her sitting room mantle struck eight o’clock when Lily left her bedroom and stood upon the landing. She fingered the one embroidered frog closing her wrapper. The garment flowed around her, the swish of the soft brocade against her silk nightgown a sensuous tease to her overheated body and her erotic aspirations for the evening to come.
Although it was not considered appropriate for a lady to leave her bedroom in such meager attire, this was her home. Her new home. She wanted to live in it as she and her husband saw fit, not as nameless others might dictate. She’d spent most of her life adapting to others’ rules, others’ wishes. If she were honest with herself—and she wished to be—then even her marriage to Julian was conformity with society’s rules. Albeit, one that held promise of more than a suitable arrangement. His desire for her was evidence. And hers for him was a lure to passion greater than that she’d found so often in his arms. She must trust herself to risk losing her heart to him.
She descended the stairs, taking in the marvelous decor of the house. Its stately magnificence sent ripples of excitement up her spine. She was chatelaine here.
She grinned.
And stopped.
Julian stood at the bottom of the staircase, one foot to the first step, an elbow to the banister. He wore an onyx velvet smoking jacket and gray trousers, a soft white shirt open to his throat. With a finger across his lips, he stared up at her with glowing dark eyes. A marvelous specimen of manhood. And he was hers.
“You make this old house sparkle.”
She resumed the stairs down, an imp in her emerging to play. “You must be careful not to compliment me too much.”
“Will you grow proud and dismissive of me?” he asked, his question half joking, half serious.
“I don’t know how I could.”
His face froze.
“What did I say?” She paused again, anxiety eroding the romantic aura she’d felt ever since they’d kissed this afternoon.
“Come down,” he said, waggling his finge
rs at her and trying to be debonair. “I was obtuse.”
She stood a step above him, their eyes level. “I doubt it. What struck a wrong chord in you? Should I be proud and haughty? If that’s what you want—”
He sank both his hands in her hair and kissed her mightily. Her lips stung with his ardor. “I don’t want that. I want you as you are.”
She steadied herself with one hand on the banister and one around his waist. She searched his gaze and in his words, she heard truth. But only a portion of it.
“You’re perfect.” He winked at her, put a finger to the embroidered frog and offered his arm. “Come to the dining room. Do not look at the butler or the footman. They will be admiring the new mistress of the house. And then they’ll disappear.”
“Wonderful.” She inhaled, relieved that his plans focused only on her comfort. “Will you show me the house tonight?”
He patted her hand. “If you wish.”
“I want to absorb it all,” she said as they strolled by Chinese porcelains, two giant medieval tapestries and a huge landscape painting of a hunting party. “But my goodness. Such a tour may take days.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you have a catalogue?” He led her past a small red salon where two card tables sat beneath a portrait of the Tudor Queen Elizabeth.
“A list?” He seemed incredulous.
“Yes. You should. I mean, do look at all of this.” She waved a hand at the gold goblets on the table beside trencher plates made of Sèvres china. “Do you know where each piece came from? Country? Year? Purchaser?”
“No.” He led her to the dining table where only two places were elaborately set. “But I’m certain my estate agent must have an idea.”
The footman held out her chair and she sat.
“You may leave us,” Julian told his two servants. “I’ll serve Lady Chelton.”
The butler placed her napkin across her lap and bowed his way toward the far doors. Then he closed them.
“Will you drink?” Julian lifted a crystal decanter filled with red wine.
“I will. Thank you.” While he poured, she inhaled the aromas of the dishes on the sideboard. “I will compliment the cook when I meet her tomorrow. What do we have this evening?”
“Curried chicken. Baked ham. Young potatoes and squashes.” He recited the menu, nonchalant as she’d never seen him before. The charm of it suited him.
“Superb. I’ll have some of each.”
“A hearty appetite,” he said as he made his way over and picked up a china plate.
“Are you afraid I’ll become well-padded?”
“That’s up to you.” He heaped slices of ham over potatoes and ladled a sauce over it.
She craned her neck. “If you keep adding to that plate, I may not fit into any of my trousseau.”
As he marched over to her, he murmured something and deposited her supper before her.
“What did you say?”
He turned his back to fill up his own plate. But she heard him clearly. “Perhaps you might not need clothes for a while.”
She sputtered in laughter, her hands flying to her hot cheeks. “That ends my life as a debutante. Not only will I now waddle everywhere, but I will blush until Christmas.”
He shook with glee, his broad back in the exquisite jacket an alluring sight. He piled his own plate in silence punctuated by occasional outbursts of chuckles. Then he turned, his eyes dancing. “You are a treasure, my lady. Eat your dinner. Then I shall attempt to do the house justice with a decent description of its wares.”
* * * *
His tour was quickly done, his excuses for not knowing the provenances of his possessions numerous and apologetic. “I’ll have a list drawn up for you, ancestors included,” he said and led her into the salon where weeks ago he had kissed her and sealed both their fates.
“I’ll like that. But oh,” she enthused as she glanced around the room, rays of gaslight shining on the rich deep purple finish of the walls. In these glorious shadows, Julian took on a delicious, dangerous complexion. The rogue in his element, the aristocrat commanding all in his reach. “I love this.”
“The Violet Saloon. Designed by my great-grandmother to conceal the effects of her bout with smallpox.” He directed her to a large Chippendale chair before the fire. The subtle flames complemented his complexion and form. In the warm hues, his black eyes and hair were in handsome counterpoint. He was so suave, so devastating to her composure. Always had been. And soon he would see just how deeply he affected her. She’d surrender much to him tonight. Innocence. Loyalty. Some of her independence.
“Would you care for a brandy?” He raised a bottle from a glass cart. “Very good. French. And old.”
“That means strong, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
She lifted her chin, adventure always appealing to her. “I’d like to taste it. What I drank this morning was, I think, watered down.”
“Become a connessieur, would you?”
“Certainly.” She relaxed in her chair. “A lady must have unique qualities to recommend her. Plus if we finish that, then I’d need to buy more. I should purchase what I think is best for us and our guests.”
His grin was beguiling as he poured two small glasses and gave her one, only to leave her to walk to the other side of the room. He swirled his brandy in silence while he stared into the fire, legs splayed, a hand on his hip, his profile stern.
“What bothers you?” she asked him, thinking it ironic that he should be the one to be troubled on their wedding night.
“The marriage settlement. Did your father tell you what he offered?”
That topic could lead her to alcohol and so she took a hearty draught. “He did. Generous, it was. What did you think of it?”
“Bountiful is the word that springs to mind.”
“Ah.” She took another sip.
“I never wanted to marry for money.”
“So you said.”
“Did I?” He ran his hand over his mouth, his look bleak.
Had he forgotten their conversation? Or he wished to make a point of his position? Whatever it was, it irritated her. “I didn’t want to pay for a husband. That makes us equal.”
“Did he tell you about his purchase of the shipping line stock from my father?”
Now she grew angry. “He did. I know it all, Julian. I’m not proud of it.”
“You’re not?”
“I wanted to be wanted for myself.” She drained her glass and stood. “Might I have another?”
His gaze locked on hers. “I want you for yourself.”
Words stuck in her throat. But important ones rose. “And I for you.”
The tension fell from his face and he came to stand before her, then take her glass. “I can pour you another or we can go upstairs. It’s your choice.”
He wanted to undo that elaborate looking frog at her breasts. Open it. Reveal all that was beneath. Sweep every layer aside that divided them.
And here he was at sixes and sevens. Nerves eating at him. Asking her preference on their wedding night, of all damn things.
At thirty-one years of age, with a few mistresses to his credit, he should possess enough finesse to enchant his new wife. But she was a virgin, a novel entity for his jaded soul to deal with. Willing as she was, he perceived her anxiety—and, too, her dislike to discuss money. He’d been an ass to bring it up. He rued his folly. His experience, however copious, did not bear the patience nor skill that was now demanded of him.
“I’d like to go to our rooms,” she said and handed over her empty glass.
She did want to be his wife, in deed as well as law. Even in spirit. That he was happy about, but it was yet another reason to take her with caution and with care.
Commanding his wildly beating heart to slow, he found a smile and led her up the stairs.
He opened the door to his suite for her. The footman had turned the gas lamps to low earlier when Julian had gone down to supper. The
rooms shone to soft perfection.
Lily swept inside, the train of her wrapper softly scoring the Aubusson carpet, raising his pulse once more.
“I had my rooms redecorated after our engagement was announced,” he explained as he followed her into his sitting room, the glow of the lamps lighting the way toward his bedroom beyond. “I’d done with the place as it was for ten years, not wishing to spend the money on it nor having a need. The last time it had a re-fitting was more than fifty years ago when my grandfather welcomed his own bride here.”
She walked around, touching the blue settee, the backs of the sapphire brocaded arm chairs and the cream-colored chaise longue. The black lacquered chest caught her eye and she paused to admire it.
“Most of the furnishings here date from the period when the family traded in the Orient. That Chinese chest is more than a hundred years old. The chairs are from an Indian maharajah, a gift to my father. Only the upholstery is new. And the wallpaper.”
She continued around the walls, stopping here and there before a framed work. “This man is who?”
“My paternal grandfather. That lady there?” He indicated the portrait on the opposite side of the mantel. “That’s his wife. My grandmother.”
Lily put her hand to the pearls that she still wore around her throat. “Do you have a portrait of your great-aunt?”
“I do. Or rather, you do. She’s in your dressing room.”
Lily beamed at him. “I hoped that might be she. I saw her when I went in to change for supper. She was pretty, wasn’t she?”
“Very.”
“A pity she lived alone.”
“She didn’t want to marry for less than love,” he said and at once wished he hadn’t. That was what he and Lily had just done. And he wasn’t feeling particularly secure about it.
“Do you know if she regretted never marrying?” Lily asked, walking toward the entry to his bedroom.
Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1) Page 17
