Improper Gentlemen

by Diane Whiteside

  The bodice fit her like a dream. Blushing, she remembered why. His strong hands had cupped her as they traced down to her waist, cupped her for far too long, as though Simon was a blind man trying to feel his way.

  “Zis dress, she iz divine!” Juliette crowed as she helped Lucy into it. “Regardez! Ze matching slippers.”

  Indeed, under the folds of the dress at the bottom of the box were gold satin slippers, gigantic satin slippers. Lucy would look like hammered copper from head to toe. The fabric was nearly identical in color to her hair.

  There was a letter beneath the shoes. Lucy recognized the bold yet illegible hand.

  Wear your ham down tonight.

  Sir Simon Keith

  As if she didn’t know his name, when all too well she did. Ham must be hair in Simon’s dreadful handwriting, although she was tempted to visit the kitchen and make Simon’s written wish come true. Imagine a rope of meat dangling from her waist. That would certainly cause talk.

  Lucy swallowed. She had been hidden away here for most of six years. She moved about only Jane Street with any freedom at the courtesan teas and card parties the girls hosted to keep ennui at bay while they waited for their gentlemen. Lucy may as well have been a nun.

  Tonight she would appear in public on Simon’s arm. She’d read plenty of Percy’s gossip rags over the years, and now knew who they meant when they occasionally mentioned “the brilliant and brawny industrialist Sir S——K.”

  And she was afraid.

  Percy had made her a pet project, so she knew which fork to lift. He’d taught her to stand tall and be proud of her height, calling her an ‘original.’ But she’d never had to acknowledge before the world that she was a whore.

  And now she did.

  Simon’s whore.

  Although she would not let the man anywhere near her again.

  Who was she fooling? She’d be trapped in a carriage with him in a few hours. If she knew Simon, he wouldn’t be satisfied sitting opposite and discussing the weather. Alone, most likely, in a darkened opera box. In this dress, she’d glow like a candle, inviting his caresses and kisses—it would be expected. She imagined hundreds of opera glasses trained upon them and shivered.

  At least she had her fox-fur cloak to guard against the crisp October night and her own stupidity. She’d wrap herself up to her eyelashes and claim she was cold.

  Simon had not expected Lucy to come downstairs in her cloak—he’d dreamed all day of seeing her float down the steps in the filmy dress he’d purchased for her. He’d been lucky—some other tall woman had fallen upon hard times and had been unable to pay for it. With a few minor adjustments, Madame Bernette had assured him it would be perfect for Lucy.

  And now he couldn’t see it.

  And he needed to, because he wasn’t quite finished dressing her.

  “Good evening, Sir Simon,” she said, her eyes cast down at her toes.

  “I see you are ready. But I am not.”

  She raised a sculpted brow. He remembered his Lucy having wilder eyebrows he’d had to smooth over with a thumb.

  “Take off those animal skins. It’s a wonder a soft-hearted girl like you can bear to wear the results of such cruelty.”

  Lucy stroked the pelt protectively. “Foxes are predators, Sir Simon. If you like an egg with your breakfast, don’t speak such nonsense to me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with good stout wool.”

  “And yet you leave the poor sheep naked and nicked. Nay, there’s fault to be found in most anything man does.”

  “And women too.”

  “But not in such proportion, and not with Society’s blessing. Did you not make your fortune designing weapons of destruction and death?”

  Her barb hit home, and he felt his face flush.

  “I saved many lives as well—English lives.”

  Lucy sniffed. “And you a good Scot.”

  Simon drew a breath, puffing his massive chest to even greater size. “We’re not going to fight a war between us now, Luce. I can see I’d better be on my guard against your philosophical discourses.”

  She batted her rust-colored eyelashes at him. “And me a mere woman. It’s a wonder I have a worthwhile idea in my head.”

  Simon was not interested in her ideas at present, just removing that monstrous red fur from her body. He stepped closer and unhooked it from under her chin, dropping it to a puddle at her feet.

  Sweet Jesu. His throat dried.

  Lucy glimmered in the hallway candlelight like a living flame. She had left her hair down, securing it back from her face with a twist of golden ribbon. Her pure oval face was untouched by any maquillage, her whiskey-colored eyes unblinking. The dress—Holy Mother of God—the dress was so perfect Simon wanted to tear it from her body. He allowed himself to touch a bare shoulder with one fingertip, and felt a sizzle right down to his groin.

  “Very nice,” he croaked.

  “Thank you. The dress is lovely. Now that you’ve seen it, may be go? We wouldn’t want to miss the chorus of nymphs and shepherds.”

  Simon was taken aback. “You know the story?”

  “MacTavish does. It’s not every butler that gets to accompany his master to the opera.”

  Simon knew he was a democrat to his toes—he treated all his employees, whether they were house servants or foundry workers, with the same courtesy as he would want to be treated himself. He was generous to a fault, but at least it meant there was no unrest in his foundry. The workers had no reason whatever to feel exploited. Simon had been on the receiving end of discrimination all his life—and it was still coming from the snooty peers whom he could buy and sell in one afternoon. That would change, and Lucy would help him.

  “Mac is very fond of opera. There’s no reason why cultural opportunities should be reserved for the rich.”

  “What a reformer you are! I quite agree, else two people like us would not be speaking of classical mythology and German composers to each other.”

  His mouth quirked. “We have come a long way, haven’t we, Luce?”

  “Not far enough. I shall be delighted to see the back of you in three months.” She bent to retrieve her fur.

  Did he believe her? He didn’t want to. He wrestled the fur out of her hands and threw it over the banister. “Not yet. I have something else for you.”

  Simon reached into his pocket. She’d have to have a heart as cold as the stones not to appreciate this necklace. He held the gold strand of topaz and diamond flowers between his fingers to catch the light, with satisfactory result. Lucy’s mouth opened, but no sound was expelled.

  “Hold still.” He walked behind her, sweeping her amber waves over a shoulder and fastened the catch. Her neck was so long and so white and his fingers trembled just a little. He was usually steady—the smallest gear or bearing gave him no trouble, but damn this catch was a vexing thing. He turned her to face him. The necklace settled just above her collarbone as he’d thought, the golden leaves connecting each dazzling cluster. The pulse leaped at her throat, and Simon was compelled to kiss it, brushing his chin against the hard jewels.

  They were not the only thing that was hard, but Lucy was loose, pliant in his arms. In his experience, women liked furs and jewelry, and Lucy was no different. She’d turned into quite the adventuress, living on Jane Street and becoming the bought lover of a peer. He shouldn’t blame her—her options had been limited by her gender. It wasn’t as if she could design cannon and rifles to arm a nation.

  He moved from her throat to the soft, smooth flesh under her chin, and nipped her where only he would see his mark. She flinched but was still silent, allowing him to continue his journey to her mouth. Her lips were naturally rosy and tasted of vanilla. Her eyes were closed, but not, he thought, in martyrdom. Her lashes fluttered and her cheeks pinked.

  But if he kept watching her as he kissed her, his eyes might cross permanently. Instead, he concentrated on the task of making love to her lips, relying on touch and taste and scent. And hearin
g too—her breaths hitched, and a little moan traveled from her mouth to his.

  Their tongues joined. There was nothing tentative about the kiss or the lust that was still shared between them. It was as if they were still fifteen, in the first flush of discovery. Simon had courted her for two years, if courting was the correct word for hurried couplings in convenient—and inconvenient—places.

  Fifteen was half a lifetime ago for both of them. So much had changed, but not this. Simon did not want to go to his favorite opera. He wanted to haul Lucy upstairs and ravish her until neither of them could walk.

  Her hand scrabbled at his chest. He’d never be able to tie his complicated neckcloth if she succeeded stripping him in the hallway. Unless she was trying to push him away, but he didn’t think so. He gave a final, shuddering sweep inside her mouth, then kissed her on her nose.

  “We’d better go.”

  Lucy’s pupils were huge, black, almost obscuring the brown of her eyes. How often had Simon picked up a glass of whiskey and saluted his lost love?

  “Um, yes.”

  She stood like a queen while he covered her shoulders with the dead foxes, counting the minutes until he could slip it from her and show her off, let the ton know that the mysterious Lucy Dellamar was his now.

  And would be far longer than three months if he had any say about it at all.

  Chapter 8

  The music soared over the chatter in the theatre as Simon scowled into the darkness. How could these infidels titter and laugh as tragedy played out on stage? To think the ton thought him uncivilized—it was they who did not appreciate a work of such genius. Women dripping in too many diamonds and gentlemen—if they could be called that—more than half in their cups. The opera to them was another place to ogle scantily-clad women and tell ribald jokes. To flaunt their alleged wit before other vulgarians such as themselves. He had half a mind to yank Lucy up and leave—his evening was spoilt by the drunken young lords below who came to the opera to prevent anyone from being heard and seen except themselves. Christoph Gluck must be rolling over in his grave.

  “Bluidy hell,” Simon grumbled.

  “I’m sorry, Simon,” Lucy whispered. “Is it always like this?”

  “Not always. Tonight is especially bad. Opera is appreciated on the Continent. Maybe I should take you there.”

  But now was not a propitious time to leave England, not with his financial future in the balance. But wouldn’t it be fun to introduce Lucy to the wider world? Maybe someday.

  He reached for her hand, reassured to find it was still rough in spots from working straw and stitching trim. Lucy’s aunt had taught her well, and the hats Lucy had designed had been the talk of Edinburgh until she left six years ago. Everyone he had met when he went back home had told him how successful she’d been, not that her aunt let her keep the profits of her labor.

  Simon still had to pinch himself that Lucy was sitting beside him and not lying in some graveyard. All this while she had been kept by Lord Percival Ferguson, still making hats, but for herself now.

  She wasn’t wearing one tonight. A hat would have covered the river of rippling hair he’d asked her to leave loose, and she had complied. He had never seen her look so magnificent—gilded, pale, aloof, her head raised as he guided her through the throngs in the lobby. People had parted as though for a queen, and an instant buzzing behind his back told him they were now talking of the woman with Sir Simon Keith. He’d waved off the few curious faces he knew, not wishing to introduce her. Keep her to himself.

  It was an odd feeling. He had wanted to show her off, claim her, raise himself in Society just by owning a house on Jane Street and keeping a beautiful mistress in it. But now that he had what he wanted—more or less—he wanted to protect Lucy from the prying eyes and vicious tongues of the ton.

  He had her to himself now in the dim opera box, so close he could smell her lilac perfume. She’d always loved lilacs—one spring he’d hacked off branches from a house on St. Andrew’s Square and brought them to her. He’d robbed the garden more easily than the house, and was somewhat more pleased with Lucy’s joy at her flowers than what his fence paid him for Lady Murray’s jewels. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, then the soft mound of her palm.

  The design of the dress assured her hands remained bare, and he had plans for each and every digit. His eyes never leaving the stage as Orfeo wept, he suckled each of Lucy’s talented fingers—the fingers he would soon turn from hat-making to making him hard. Harder. Her hand trembled in his, so he knew he was making progress. He ran his tongue lightly from base to the tip of her polished fingernails. She tasted of lilac soap and salt—her hands were damp. She had been nervous.

  Good. He wished to keep her off-balance, the better to topple her into a bed.

  “Stop licking me,” she hissed.

  He paid no attention, circling his tongue in the center of her palm. Lucy shifted in her seat, reminding him there were other places to kiss. He was about to find out if she tasted as good as she looked.

  Simon slid off his ruby-velvet padded chair to his knees.

  “What are you doing? Are you ill?”

  “Och, aye. Quite prostrate. There’s only one thing that will cure me.” He raised her skirts over her long legs so quickly she didn’t have a chance to pull them down.

  She slapped the top of his head. “Simon, you are mad! People will see!”

  He looked up to her in the shadows. “No they won’t. If anyone looks this way, they’ll think I left the box for a moment. Sit back and enjoy yourself, Luce.”

  Her mouth hung open, then she rapped his head again. “You will not—I cannot—Simon!”

  Good. Now she was quiet as a clam. He angled her hips in the chair for better reception. She was, mercifully, not wearing drawers, just sheer apricot stockings banded with butterfly garters. He left her legs alone this time and homed in to her center. Her nether hair tickled his nose as he dipped his tongue into her pink folds. He found her bud and sucked it swiftly into his mouth. Lucy shrieked at a conveniently loud time in the libretto, then sat rigid as he plied his skills.

  Not quite lilac. But all Lucy.

  Soon he made it impossible for her to sit still. She turned liquid beneath his hands and mouth, bucking under him until he worried he’d lose a tooth in her frenzy. What if he pulled her down to the floor with him, took her as poor Orpheus argued with the Furies for admission to the Underworld?

  Simon wanted admission to Lucy’s underworld in the very worst way.

  He knew the instant she came apart, her juices bursting on his tongue. He gentled her until she came down from her transports, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

  “How dare you?” came the furious whisper above his head. He ducked quickly as her hand came down again.

  “Fortuna favet audaci.”

  “What?”

  “Fortune favors the brave, Luce. It’s on my new crest.” Simon blotted his mouth, almost reluctant to wipe away traces of Lucy’s arousal. He’d paid good money for an escutcheon immortalizing his knighthood, for all it really meant—which was nothing.

  Lucy mumbled something unintelligible while Simon adjusted himself in his knee breeches. He had another act to sit through and was uncertain if that would be possible without some relief. It was unlikely Lucy would help him, despite what he’d just done for her.

  He bounced up and resumed his seat. Lucy was tugging frantically on her dress, removing her long white legs from Simon’s sight. Simon noted the silk tissue had been sadly wrinkled during the past few minutes.

  It hadn’t taken Lucy long to break down, he thought, smug. He’d been so busy lately he’d given little thought to sexual exercise, but that would change, whatever Lucy said. He observed her profile as she stared at the stage, her lashes batting a mile a minute. He pretended to concentrate on the music, but was aware of her vibrating angrily in the next chair, her rather large foot twirling in time to the orchestra.

  “Wait
a minute! Orpheus is a woman!” Lucy said suddenly.

  “Yes. The role is almost always performed by a woman. Unless it is sung by a castrato.” He shuddered at the thought. Simon might like opera, but his devotion to it only went so far.

  “How ridiculous. I want to go home.”

  “Use your imagination, Luce. Madame Olivetti is built like a munitions factory.”

  “I don’t care how big she is—how can she be singing about her love for another woman?”

  “Such things do occur, I assure you. Close your eyes and just listen to the music.”

  The vehemence of Lucy’s glare was lost in the gloom. But she sat back, her fingernails scratching at the velvet on the chair arms. Simon blocked out the rudeness from the audience and lost himself from his cares until Lucy’s huffs and puffs were impossible to ignore.

  “All right,” he sighed. “We’ll leave. Stay here and I’ll get the carriage brought round.”

  The evening had not turned out quite as he’d planned, but the night was still young. If he was sufficiently brave, who knew how it would end?

  She couldn’t blame the dark, or the mournful aria, especially now that she knew that Orpheus was a fat woman with a lyre. She had succumbed to Simon with such ease she wanted to bat herself over the head with her reticule. But he had surprised her, doing such a thing. He had never—well, she hadn’t known a man could do that to a woman when she was young. She knew it now, of course—Percy’s lessons had included many other things besides elocution and table manners. She had spent most of the last six years agog at all the new information, far from her aunt’s narrow restrictions.

  What Simon had done had felt wicked. And so very, very good. His tongue had been rough and hot and perfect. He’d known just where to swipe and swirl it. No doubt he’d had his head buried under skirts for years practicing. In opera boxes and out.