“I thought perhaps you’d wear that light blue lawn today,” Anne said as she stepped out of the royal blue dress. “It seemed to be your favorite of all the things you chose.”
Indeed it had been, Felicity thought ruefully, until Lord Colford had ripped it yesterday. She had considered bringing it back for expert repair—until she realized that Anne would certainly ask questions about how Felicity had managed to tear a brand-new dress in such an unusual way. “I wore it yesterday,” she said. “That’s a lovely dressing gown.”
The gown Anne had donned was truly beautiful—a deep, rich scarlet velvet that made Anne’s black hair and pale skin even more dramatic. “It feels lovely, too,” Anne said. “You should get one, Fliss.”
“Too rich a color for me.”
“Oh, not red, of course. On you, the blue of a robin’s egg would look better. Or purple—yes, that’s it.” She glanced around for the modiste. “Do you have a light, clear purple velvet for Miss Mercer to look at?”
The modiste nodded and hurried off, coming back a few minutes later with an armful of fabric the color of lilac blossoms. She draped it around Felicity, who had to admit that the sheen and the feel of the cloth was incredibly sensuous, and the color was the perfect foil for her golden hair and fair skin.
“A dressing gown,” Anne decreed. “Made with a neckline that can be drawn up close around the throat for warmth or spread enticingly wide to show off your elegant shoulders…”
Felicity felt herself turning pink. She could picture herself in a purple dressing gown so loosely wrapped around her body that it had slid off one entirely bare shoulder… and she could see Lord Colford stooping to kiss the exposed hollow just under her collarbone…
“An unmarried woman does not need a thing like that,” Felicity managed to say.
“Oh, nonsense. Every woman needs to feel beautiful in her boudoir—even when she’s alone.” Anne turned slowly, studying her own red robe in the mirror. “Just a half-inch shorter, I think. I won’t be wearing shoes with it.”
Felicity’s heart was still skipping madly at the mental picture she had created. How had Lord Colford invaded her daydreams?
“She’ll take the velvet dressing gown,” Anne told the modiste. “And if she doesn’t, I’ll make it a gift—so it ends up being the same thing.”
Felicity drew in a deep breath to refuse—and found herself nodding instead. It was almost wrenching to let the modiste take away the velvet, for the whisper of the fabric against her skin had felt so comforting, so secure, so right. It had caressed her in much the same way that Lord Colford had done yesterday…
And that, she told herself, was quite enough of that.
Still, each time they brought out another gown to be fitted, she found herself touching the fabrics, testing each one for its sensual potential in a way she had never thought to do before.
Finally, however, they were finished and once more dressed for the street. As they left the modiste’s and settled into the carriage, Anne gave a sigh of satisfaction. “You won’t mind stopping at Hookham’s, I suppose?” The question was careless, as if the answer was never in doubt. “It’s just down the street, and I really want the next volume of Miss Austen’s Mansfield Park. If I don’t hurry, I won’t finish reading it before we leave London.”
Felicity checked the small watch pinned to her pelisse and sighed in relief. “Yes, I have time before—” She stopped too suddenly and felt herself coloring.
“Before what? I didn’t realize that you had become so very busy, Fliss. What wonderful things have you planned for this afternoon?” Anne’s gentle tone and the interest in her gaze were just a little too sweet to be truly innocent.
Felicity could have bitten off her wayward tongue. As the carriage lurched to a stop outside the lending library, she ran rapidly through a list of possible excuses. A friend is coming to call… No, that wouldn’t work, for Anne knew everyone Felicity did in the whole of London, and she’d be hurt if she wasn’t invited to join them.
I have an appointment… No, for Anne would likely ask what kind and with whom, and Felicity had no answer. I have to sort the linen… No, for Anne must know that Mrs. Mason had the whole of Number 5 Upper Seymour Street firmly in hand, and there was simply nothing left for Felicity to do in running the house.
Inspiration struck. “I’m expecting the manager of my mill to call on me with a report,” Felicity said. “He thought that he’d be in the city sometime this week.” Surely, she thought, the Countess of Hawthorne would not be interested in a report on the workings of a Yorkshire manufacturer—and the excuse had the advantage of being somewhere near the truth. Her manager had said he’d be making a trip to London sometime during her stay, and of course whenever he arrived, he would call on her to make a report.
“I see,” Anne murmured, and allowed the footman to assist her from the carriage. “How very… interesting… that will be.”
Relief flooded through Felicity, for the tone of Anne’s voice indicated that she expected the report to be anything but interesting—and therefore she wouldn’t give it another thought, much less wonder what her friend was really up to. “There’s Lady Stone,” Felicity said, pleased to spot another potential distraction. “I wonder if she’s going to Hookham’s, too.”
“No doubt,” Anne said, and waved at Lady Stone. “Lucinda—may I presume on your friendship to bear me company to Hookham’s? Miss Mercer wishes to return to Upper Seymour Street to await a caller.”
That, Felicity thought, would be the perfect solution. She really needed to go home right now… even though Lord Colford hadn’t said exactly when he’d arrive, just that he would call in the afternoon. Still, a bit of preparation seemed to be in order. After all that dressing and undressing at the modiste’s, she felt the need of some serious grooming.
“What’s his name?” Anne asked.
Felicity gulped and sputtered. Lady Stone’s beady black eyes fixed on her with interest, and Anne was watching her with fascination.
Finally Felicity remembered the excuse she’d given. The mill manager—that was who Anne was asking about. It was a sensible, logical question that had absolutely nothing to do with Lord Colford; her own guilty conscience had nearly tripped her up.
“Mr. Rivers,” she said.
“Well, have a good time with him,” Anne murmured. She gave an order to the footman to see Felicity home immediately and then return to Hookham’s to pick her up. Then she linked her arm into Lady Stone’s, and the two of them disappeared into the lending library as Felicity, feeling very warm and rumpled and absolutely coated with embarrassment, let the footman assist her in climbing back into the carriage.
Really, she thought. This business of carrying on an intrigue was most complicated!
***
Before the next hour had passed, however, Felicity was wishing that she’d stayed at Hookham’s and looked at books. It wasn’t that she was dreading Lord Colford’s arrival, for she wasn’t. If she was honest, she was already anticipating his lovemaking. The most uncomfortable little shivers kept running through her, making her ever so aware of her body. Her skin seemed to remember the way he had stroked her; her tongue had developed a distressing habit of running slowly along her lip in the same way that his had done yesterday; and as for her most secret places… well, if he happened to be in a hurry today for what he had called “the main event,” she wouldn’t mind at all, for she already felt warm and embarrassingly moist.
No, distaste for what they would do together was not what was making her uncomfortable. She knew what would happen in her bed, and she was not only ready but eager.
The problem was that she had no idea what to do in the meantime. Should she wait for him in the drawing room, as though he were an ordinary caller? Or now that she was his mistress, would he expect her to act the part?
Perhaps she should tell the butler to bring him directly up to the main bedroom… but she shuddered at the idea of that conversation.
Oddly,
however, she didn’t shudder at the idea of actually waiting for him in bed. Undressing in front of him, under that intense and brilliant blue glaze, would be no easier than it had been the day before. Of course, if he didn’t arrive at all, she’d feel a prize fool lying there waiting all afternoon…
But if she received him in the drawing room like any ordinary caller come to share tea and conversation, and he expected that she’d be already in bed… well, that would be equally awkward.
The very idea of tea and conversation reminded her that yesterday she’d ordered a tea tray that neither of them had even touched. Felicity didn’t want to think about what the servants had made of that fact. Though, considering they were Lord Hawthorne’s servants and no doubt used to that sort of thing…
This was all far too confusing.
In the end, she said nothing to the butler and retreated to the small sitting room next to the main bedroom. She sat there for what seemed hours, toying with a bit of needlepoint until finally the tangled yarns defeated her.
She had just tossed it aside when the butler came in. “Lord Colford has inquired whether you are at home to him.”
She took a deep breath. “Yes. Show him up, please, Mason.”
The butler seemed to take forever to descend the two flights of stairs and return with her caller. In the meantime, Felicity—suddenly breathless with nerves—looked around the perfect little room and straightened a pillow, twisted a vase round half an inch, pushed a china shepherdess just a fraction closer to the shepherd figurine on the mantel, and then put her back precisely where she had been.
The door opened, and she could feel him standing there behind her. Her very skin knew he was in the room and that they were alone.
His voice was soft and deep. “I regret that I’ve kept you waiting. I was unavoidably detained.”
Had he found it difficult to get away from his wife today? A tinge of guilt seeped through Felicity. Then she told herself firmly, I’m not taking anything from her. It’s just this once…
Well—all right. Twice.
But it wasn’t as if Felicity was going to continue to be in Colford’s life or to be the sort of mistress who would demand his time and attention. After today, they would likely never see each other again. Blanche would never know, so this interlude would make no difference in the Colfords’ marriage—such as it was.
What was it Lady Stone had said about Blanche making his life a living hell? Felicity decided she didn’t want to know the details—not that a gentleman would share them with his mistress anyway.
“It is no matter,” she said. “I realize you have other obligations. If you’re expected elsewhere…”
He stopped halfway across the room, looking at her thoughtfully with his head tipped to one side. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No,” Felicity whispered.
He smiled, and she felt a rush of warmth between her legs. It almost made her knees weak.
“No tea today?” he asked lightly.
Good manners kicked in. “If you would like…”
“What I would like isn’t to be found on a tea tray.” He tipped her face up to his and kissed her.
Only their lips were touching, but sensation swept over Felicity in waves as every inch of her body reacted to that isolated but all-encompassing caress. She swayed toward him, and without breaking the kiss, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, pushing the door open with the toe of his boot and finally setting her on her feet beside the bed.
Her hands trembling with anticipation, Felicity began to unfasten her dress—but he stopped her. “Allow me,” he said, and with infinite caution he dealt with buttons and ties. “I am reminded that I owe you a dress.” He released her breasts and bent his head to nuzzle first one and then the other.
Felicity was barely thinking. She only knew that he was taking too long—far too long—so she started to unbutton his shirt, seeking to get past the cool linen so that her skin could touch his.
He smiled at her eagerness, and with quiet efficiency he removed her chemise and then turned her away from him. Startled, she looked over her shoulder just as he began to remove the pins and clips from her hair.
“My lord,” she said. “There’s no need…”
“In a hurry, my sweet? I suggest you curb your impatience, for despite our late start, I’ve no intention of cutting our afternoon short.”
He released her coronet and unwound each braid, slowly and patiently. By the time he was done, she was vibrating as if each strand of hair was the string of a violin and he was the concertmaster, fine-tuning her body like a rare instrument. He scooped up the golden tresses and kissed them, and his mere touch made her thrum with desire.
Only then did he finish undressing himself. She watched and, with the experience of the day before, was quietly satisfied. He might speak of patience, but his body said otherwise. So she was not surprised when he immediately spread her legs and brushed her curls with his thumbs.
“I am ready, my lord,” she murmured.
He smiled, and humor as well as desire sparkled in his eyes. “That’s what you think.” He kissed her navel, flicking his tongue into the little depression. Then, instead of mounting her as she’d expected, he slowly worked his way down.
***
His fingertips gently parted her curls, exposing her secret places. She cried out incoherently, and Richard raised his head and said politely, “Yes? You were saying, Miss Mercer?”
“But that’s… it’s…”
He settled back between her knees, holding her open with gentle ruthlessness. His tongue flicked against her nub, and she gasped and stopped talking. He felt her shudder run all the way through him as well, roiling his senses.
Forbidden? Distasteful? He wondered what she had intended to say. Not that he cared much about the reasons for her objections, for by the time he was done with her this afternoon, she would have forgotten them. Demonstration was so much more effective than argument in these matters. But exercising his intellectual curiosity also helped him rein in passion—and a good thing, too, for as hot and wet as she already was, his self-control was eroding quickly. Only his determination that today she would give him every reaction a lover could want was allowing him to maintain the façade of cool control.
Though perhaps it would actually be a good idea to take her fast and hard the first time. Then, with his most urgent hunger slaked, he could truly focus on giving her pleasure and on wringing from her the admission that she never had, and never would, find such satisfaction with any other man…
But the urge to satisfy himself first was selfishness talking—and he was determined that she would have not the faintest reason to regret the bargain she had made. Almost lazily, he licked—and when she gave a little groan and bucked against him, sending a surge of heat to his groin, he had to grit his teeth for a moment to restrain himself.
He was bent on making certain that, if her wish was granted, she would never be able to look at the fruits of their lovemaking without remembering exactly how that child had come into being. Furthermore, he was intent on providing every possible opportunity for her wish to be granted…
Which was why when Thorne’s man of business had kept prosing on to the two of them this afternoon about that bloody canal he was so certain would make them both even more wealthy, Richard had excused himself—saying something vague about pressing business, if he recalled correctly.
But why was he thinking about canals when he had so many more interesting things to think about—like the way she was panting in short, sharp, almost painful breaths… or the way his own breath kept catching in his throat…
On the other hand, thinking about canals would at least keep him from embarrassing himself.
Maybe.
He nibbled gently, and she came apart.
He watched almost in awe as waves of sensation flooded over her, engulfing him as well. He’d never been with a woman who was so responsive. It was all he could do not to a
ct on his pressing business right then and press Miss Mercer between himself and the mattress.
Then she whimpered, and his self-control broke. He held her while she trembled, and while she was still quaking from the force of her climax, he slid inside her with one long, powerful thrust, a hot brand intended to mark her as his property, and felt as if he was coming home.
She was incredibly, supremely tight—cupping him closely with taut muscles still quivering from her own satisfaction—and yet she was hot and slick and eager. His mind reeled, and all he could do was thrust again and again, his goal tantalizingly near… Just one more… one more… and he exploded deep inside her, just as she called out his name and clenched tightly around him.
He sagged against her, their bodies slick with sweat, his lips pressed against her temple.
“Richard…” she breathed. Then he felt her body tighten under him. “I beg your pardon, my lord.” Her voice sounded hoarse. He was so closely pressed against her that the breath she drew rocked him as gently as a cradle.
He shifted enough to relieve her of his weight but took advantage of the opportunity to seat himself even more firmly inside her. “For presuming intimacy by using my name? Under the circumstances, I think it would be foolish to stand on ceremony. Richard will do… Felicity.”
***
Her name sounded different on his lips. She’d never particularly liked it—it was a silly name for a human being, she thought; who could possibly live up to being called the quality of happiness?—but he made it sound prettier. More sensuous. More appealing.
His voice was slow and soft and lazy, as if for the first time since they had met he was truly relaxed. She felt a rush of tenderness toward him. It was nonsense, perhaps, Felicity thought. But if she could help him forget his situation for a little while—give him some ease from Blanche and the living hell she was said to be making of his life—in return for all he was doing for her…
Definitely he was relaxed, she realized. His eyes were closed, his muscles slack. Surely he hadn’t actually dozed off… but if he had, how long was he likely to sleep?
The Mistress' House Page 12
