Lucy gathered up her fox cloak, although she was much too warm to put it on. The smoke from the limelight and the crush of the crowd could be felt even up here in Simon’s private box. She was sure she looked a fright, although at least her hair hadn’t fallen out of its pins because there had been no pins in it to begin with. She had shocked everyone wearing her hair down—she might as well have been wearing a sign that said ‘Courtesan.’
Her fingers reached for the topaz flowers, wondering if Simon would expect his gift back when she left him. At one time she’d had a tidy little fortune salted away, but when Percy lost his money—threw his money away—she had contributed to their little household by whatever means she could. If she could worm money out of Simon, perhaps she could repay her neighbors for their missing teaspoons and jewelry.
Damn Percy anyway. After all she had done for him, he had not even come to check on her yesterday or today, just abandoned her to Sir Simon Keith. She would summon him tomorrow to tell him his plan had worked only too well.
She watched the stage as the hinges of Hades opened, feeling much like Orpheus. Then a warm hand rested on her shoulder. It was Hades himself.
“Are you ready, Luce, or have you changed your mind? The ballet dancers are coming up.”
“And I’m sure you’d like to see their legs as they prance around, but we are leaving,” she said tartly.
“Och, I’ve seen the legs I wanted to tonight.” Simon grinned down at her, like a well-satisfied wolf.
“You won’t be seeing them again!”
But Lucy was afraid her words were empty of bite, just as her head was empty of rational thought when Simon Grant was near. He may have changed his name, but he was still the same Simon and she was still the same stupid, stupid girl.
Chapter 9
Three months. Ninety days. Two-thousand, one-hundred and sixty hours, give or take a few minutes. Lucy was very good with numbers—she’d kept her aunt’s books as well as surpassed the woman in creating the loveliest hats this side of Paris. Many a marquess’s wife would insist on a springtime trip to Edinburgh to purchase Lucy’s hats. In three months she might be able to set up a small business right here in London, if she could stay away from Simon.
Not likely. He sat opposite her in his expensive carriage, whistling as the horses clip-clopped to Jane Street. She snuggled into her fur, resentful of his good cheer.
Well, why shouldn’t he be cheerful? He’d seen half an opera and half of her. But that would be all, she swore it.
MacTavish opened the green-glazed door before they could alight from the carriage. “Is anything amiss, Sir Simon? The opera cannot be over so soon.”
“It is for us,” Lucy said, sailing into the house with her nose high.
“Miss Dellamar does not share our love for Gluck, I’m afraid. Mac, would you be so kind as to open a bottle of port and bring it upstairs to Miss Dellamar’s sitting room?”
Lucy turned on him. “You can’t stay!”
“Now, Luce. I remember to the letter what my limits here are. There’s nothing in our agreement that says I can’t have a drink with you upstairs any time I want.”
“I don’t drink!”
Simon raised a dark brow.
“I don’t! Not very often.” And when she did drink, it was good Scottish whiskey. “Mr. MacTavish, you may bring port for Sir Simon, but I’d just as soon have a glass of uisge beatha.”
The butler didn’t bat an eye. “Very good, Miss Dellamar.”
“And send Miss Dellamar’s maid off to bed, Mac. We’ll have no need of her tonight.” Simon unhooked her cape and tossed it to the butler, then extended an elbow for the trip upstairs.
“I suppose you think you’ll undress me.”
“Only if you ask,” Simon said innocently.
“I’ll never ask the likes of you to help me do anything!” Unfortunately in her anger, Lucy missed a step and Simon saved her from plummeting down the stairs.
“Lucy, Lucy. It is I who should be angry—I’ve been denied my rights in bed.”
“You have no rights, you wretched man! We are not married.” Lucy shook him off and threw herself down on a cozy chintz chair in her little parlor. The fire had been lit, and the room tidied. She didn’t like that one bit. Tomorrow she’d speak to MacTavish to have the staff leave her things alone.
“But I am your protector for the next three months. It’s not every man who would agree to keep a mistress and not make proper use of her.”
“Proper use?” Lucy saw stars, felt her blood pound at her temple. Simon would give her an apoplexy before those three months were done.
Simon stretched his legs before him on the sofa, knocking the table askew. “You know what I mean. A mistress is supposed to be biddable. Flatter a fellow. See to his needs. You wouldn’t even let me sit through my favorite opera.”
Lucy straightened the table between them, not that it was a sufficient barrier. “No one is keeping you here, Sir Simon. Perhaps you should go back. Right now. They’ll let an important man like you back in.”
“No doubt. I invested in the production, for all the pleasure I got out of it. The audience would have enjoyed a troupe of trained monkeys just as well.”
Lucy almost laughed, which would quite go against the animosity she was projecting. She was saved from herself by MacTavish, who carried a silver tray with two bottles, two glasses and a crystal bowl of shelled walnuts. He placed their refreshment on the table and left. To Lucy’s surprise, Simon leaned forward and poured two glasses of whiskey.
“How can you do without Mr. MacTavish at your house?” Lucy asked, taking the glass from Simon. She glared at his dirty fingertips on principle.
“Oh, I’ve an under-butler, and an under-under butler. Mac’s sons. One of them serves as my valet, too. They’re glad to be out from under his thumb and are out-Mac-Tavishing him at every turn. The house is so damned proper now I’m afraid to drop my stockings on the floor.”
Lucy did smile now. Once Simon had more holes than socks on his feet. He’d never known his parents, and his ancient grandmother had been too frail to fight his youthful follies.
Simon had been wild, and Lucy had been tame. They were doomed from the start.
She took a sip of whiskey and watched as Simon tossed a walnut up in the air and caught it between his teeth. He was like a blue-eyed lion, toying with his prey. Lucy did not want any part of her to wind up between his teeth again.
Although—what if she were to set more rules? Rules that only benefitted her? She might not allow him into her bed and into her, but what was stopping her from having Simon repeat his performance at the opera?
Lucy held the cards, or at least Simon thought she did. In truth, she could not imagine turning him into the authorities. And who would believe that rich Sir Simon Keith, industrialist extraordinaire, was once a scrawny Edinburgh thief? Simon had progressed even back then from pickpocket to cat burglar, so how natural it was for him to continuously rise and improve himself.
She’s seen the looks he’d received tonight at the opera—looks of curiosity, envy and grudging respect. She’d always known he was smart, and far too skilled with his hands. Now it seemed she had his tongue to add to his attributes.
“I have an alteration to our agreement, Simon,” Lucy said abruptly.
Simon put his drink down. “Oh?”
Lucy picked hers up and took an enormous swallow of Scotch courage. “Yes.” And then she proceeded to tell him, stumbling over only a word or two.
Simon did the best to keep a straight face. His plan was working even more quickly than he’d hoped. To have Lucy dependent on him for her pleasure would be the first step into getting her to give him his. She blushed and stammered her way through the new rules and Simon nodded his head like an old sage considering their wisdom. When she was done, he leaned back on the flowery couch and pursed his lips. He pulled out a bearing from his watch pocket and stroked it absently.
“And you say I may touch you ever
ywhere but you will not touch me?”
Lucy nodded.
“So, really, I’m to be your mistress and you’re to be my master.”
Her eyebrows knit. “That sounds very odd.”
“Odd it is. Let me get this straight. I’m to feed and clothe you. Keep you in style at Jane Street for the next three months. Make love to you from head to toe—”
“Not really!”
“Your distinctions are negligible, Luce. Just because I’m not thrusting my cock in your quim doesn’t make it any less satisfying for you. Be at your beck and call. Pay you off at the end of it—you haven’t yet mentioned the sum of your extortion, by the way—just so you will not have me arrested for my boyhood indiscretions.”
“They were a bit more than indiscretions. There was a price on your head.”
“Do you plan on collecting it?”
Lucy gaped at him.
“Suppose I say no to all this. Are you prepared to tap the night watchman’s shoulder and ask him to summon you a constable so he can take evidence?”
Lucy lifted her stubborn chin. “Aye. And don’t forget my seventeen shillings. With interest.”
Simon closed his eyes. She really was too beautiful when she was angry. “Very well. You’ve got me over a barrel, you do. I’m shaking in my boots.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I might not. But I can’t take the chance, can I now, Luce? I’ve built up a nice new life for myself—I’ve got hundreds of people dependent upon me for their livelihoods. I can’t change the face of England from a prison farm in Australia.”
“They might hang you instead.”
She said it with a great deal of enthusiasm. Aye, his Lucy was definitely angry at him. Damn it, he had come back for her. He couldn’t help it if she’d gotten impatient and run off with that popinjay Ferguson.
“An excellent point, and I’m fond of my neck.” He slipped the bearing back in his pocket and tugged at his neckcloth. There would not be much need to think tonight if he was lucky. “Well, I suppose I’d best begin these onerous duties, seeing to your comforts. You don’t mind if I remove my jacket and tie, do you?”
Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “N-now? But you just—”
Simon grinned. “I did, didn’t I? But it can’t hurt you to do it again. I don’t think anybody’s ever died of too many orgasms. Well, perhaps a lecherous old man may have met his Maker a time or two, but you’re still young yet, and in reasonably good health, I trust.”
Lucy had no answer to that. She continued to stare at him as he unbuttoned his figured black satin waistcoat. When he reached the top button of his fine lawn shirt, she shot up off her chair.
“That’s enough.”
“I live to serve. What would you like me to do?”
He was fairly certain she mumbled “Go to the devil.” He’d already been there and back—he could still hear the cannon and smell the sulfur.
“I need help with my dress.”
“Certainly, my lady.”
She was still as a marble statue as he twisted her gingery hair out of the way and attacked the row of golden thread and hooks. He’d always had nimble fingers, and in seconds the fabric gaped at her back. She wore a back-lacing demicorset over a plain white shift and he loosened the strings without being asked. “Now what?”
She pivoted to face him. “Now you are to sit back down on the sofa and finish your whiskey. I will call when I’m ready for you.”
So he was to be deprived of seeing her glorious naked body revealed, but he had his memory of yesterday morning. It was probably just as well he not see all of her tonight—he was already hideously uncomfortable in his nether regions.
Simon sipped his whiskey standing up, leaning an elbow on the marble mantel. The room was cozy, not like the lair of any courtesan he’d ever visited. There were no naughty inspirational pictures on the walls, or much in the way of valuable objets d’art. Sold, probably, to keep Ferguson afloat. The earl had been up to the tips of his ears in hopeless schemes—Simon would alter the man’s luck before too long.
And then would Ferguson want his mistress back?
He couldn’t have her.
Bluidy hell. Simon loved Lucy still, after all these years. He wasn’t sure why—she was no longer the stars-in-her-eyes girl who permitted him liberties in the shadows. She was, come to think of it, a bit of a shrew, her tongue as sharp as her cheekbones.
But he couldn’t marry her—she’d been Ferguson’s mistress for six years. Any idea he had of assuring his children’s place in Society would be shattered if he made a woman like Lucy his wife.
Double bluidy hell. Simon tossed the rest of his whiskey into the flames, where the flare was so bright he had to step back before he singed his silk stockings.
But no one had ever seen her.
Except for tonight—but he had not introduced her to a soul. She could have been his cousin come to town. She’d been around to the shops with a note that said just that, although it was not likely a country cousin would furnish a love nest on Jane Street for him. But Simon had the money enough to bribe the storekeepers. If Ferguson’s silence could be bought—and Simon was sure it wouldn’t take much as the man was fair desperate—Lucy might have a chance.
Triple bluidy hell. His investors’ dinner here next week. He’d have to cancel it.
Simon’s mind whirred like the gears to his inventions. He might not have a formal education, but no one could say that Sir Simon Keith was not a canny Scot. If anyone could see a way to turn wicked Lucy Dellamar back into innocent Lucy Dalhousie, it was he.
However, first he had to gentle Lucy with his hands and tongue, a task that was altogether more simple.
Chapter 10
Lucy’s hands shook as she tied the ribbon of her pale yellow robe. It had not been to Percy’s taste—he was altogether into more flamboyant jewel-tones. She smoothed her hands down the silk and contemplated kicking herself for changing her arrangement with Simon.
But damn it. She’d been without so much as a peck on the cheek in thirteen years. She was almost half-dead already, if she was lucky enough to live to be a septuagenarian. Her prospects for marriage were dismal at best—how could she explain to a decent man that she’d lived on Jane Street for six years? Everyone had heard of Jane Street.
Six years ago she’d jumped at the chance to escape her aunt and her empty future. It was even more empty now. Lucy was a fool then, and a fool now.
But she would have something to remember on those cold future nights as she tacked silk flowers onto the crown of a hat and shooed away her cats. She’d have a cat right now, but Percy claimed they made him sneeze.
Percy. Her brows scrunched. Simon. They scrunched even more. Men were impossible, but a necessary evil.
Lucy fluffed up her pillows and her hair, swallowed her reservations and called Simon’s name.
Her voice wavered, but he must have been listening closely. He walked through the connecting door in an instant, his dark hair gleaming like polished ebony in the candlelight.
His eyes were bright too, flicking over her form as she sat propped up on her bed.
“You’re lovely, Luce.”
“You don’t have to talk at all—there’s no point to your flattery.”
“It’s nae flattery. I mean it.” His voice was pitched low, his Scottish burr fighting back from the English civilization he’d imposed upon it. She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears.
“Words are cheap. Get on with it.”
Och, but she was bold as brass, when inside she felt like a puddle of oozy oatmeal. But it was rather fun to order Simon about. She had been much at his mercy when they were young, always waiting for a snatched kiss or a few minutes when she could simply look at him. He’d been beautiful in his way. But she had to admit he was far more beautiful now—he’d grown into his height, filled out. His body rippled with muscle as he walked across the room toward her.
However, she’d never ask him to remov
e his clothes. That would be too much temptation. Lucy might lose her head and forget that she was in charge here.
“What is it you want, Luce?”
She didn’t know. She shrugged. “You’ll think of something appropriate.”
“It’ll nae be appropriate,” he said, grinning like a wolf. He’d always had good teeth for a poor boy. Lucy was particular about teeth. Soon these teeth might be skimming down her skin, taking a wee nip here, a wee nip there—
“What was that, Luce? I didn’t quite hear.”
She must have let out a groan. She could barely think for the buzzing in her head. “N-nothing. Perhaps you can start by kissing me. That would be pleasant.”
“Aye. Pleasant. And how do you want me, Luce? Sitting next to you on the bed, or lying down?”
“Sitting is fine.”
He reached out and put a finger on her mouth. “So you’ll be wanting a kiss on these lips here then, not the other ones.”
He looked so terribly proud and pleased with himself for bringing up that wicked thing he’d done at the opera. She whacked his hand away. “To start.”
“Your wish is my command, my lady, else I’ll find myself in the bowels of a prison ship. I hear there are rats and very bad men aboard. ’T’would be a waste of my talents to be transported.” He scratched his shadowed chin—his beard was coming in dark at this late hour. “I’m not sure King George would let me go.”
Lucy sat up straight, forgetting all about kissing. “You know the new king?”
“Sure and I do. Who do you supposed knighted me? I’d met him several times before, o’course, when I—och, never you mind. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m not stupid!”
“Nae, you’re sharp as a tack, but you’re not an engineer, are you? I did some things for the Crown during the war—and after too—that are complicated. I should have asked for a pardon then.” He took a step backward. “Who knows, perhaps it’s not too late now.”
Lucy’s heart stilled. The evening was not turning out quite as she hoped. She should be in Simon’s arms and he should be kissing her senseless, not that she had much sense to begin with. “You’d admit your guilt? Let people know who Sir Simon Keith really is?”
Improper Gentlemen Page 13
