Improper Gentlemen

by Diane Whiteside

  She sat up, nearly breaking his nose. “Eat in bed?” She sounded fair horrified. What kind of imbecile was Percy Ferguson that he didn’t eat in bed with his mistress? There were any number of things that could be done with a pot of strawberry jam.

  “Never tell me your maid doesn’t bring you a pot of chocolate to your bedside.”

  “Your maid does. But I sit in my upstairs parlor with it and read the news sheets. I’m not a lazy slugabed. I have things to do.”

  Odd. He thought mistresses lolled about until their protectors came each night. “What are all these things?”

  “I read. I still make all my own hats. The girls on the street have their entertainments. Card parties and such.”

  “It sounds like a grueling schedule.”

  “You may mock me, but it’s not as though we women have as many choices as you men. You belong to some silly club, don’t you? I expect you read and play cards there, too.”

  “Not often. But I’ve got to be where the important men are.”

  “The rich men, you mean.”

  Simon laughed. “You make being rich sound like a crime. Perhaps you missed your century. You should have been born French fifty years ago.”

  “I don’t want anyone to part with their head. Only you,” she muttered.

  “Luce, tell me you’ve not enjoyed being Ferguson’s mistress all these years, here in the lap of luxury. It may have been a little lean these past few months, but you had a nice long ride while it lasted.”

  Damn it. There came her fist again. He ducked just in time. “Be reasonable, woman! Can you honestly tell me you’d rather be hunched over making hats in your aunt’s backroom, lucky to get a few farthings when she thought to pay you? I know I wouldn’t want to go back on the streets, cadging for my crusts of bread.”

  “You could have found a steady job.”

  “I was willing to do honest work, but there was so little of it.” And he had done all he could, legal or illegal, to keep his old gran in medicine and food. It still grieved him that his soldier’s pay was not enough to keep her alive longer. He’d sent every bit of it home.

  “You’re still a thief. You’re robbing me of my time.”

  Simon laughed. “And what is so pressing today that you must leap out of bed?”

  “Have you forgotten? I’m leaving. I need to pack.”

  Simon felt a deep stirring of anger. He’d gone long enough without what he needed in life. Lucy was not going to leave just when he’d found her again.

  “The devil you say. I forbid it.”

  “You forbid it? That makes me even more determined.” She squirmed in his arms, rubbing up against him in a delightfully vexing way.

  “We have an agreement. In writing.”

  “And who can read it with your dreadful penmanship? I signed it under duress. With a false name. You couldn’t possibly hold me to it.”

  “I can hold you to anything.” To emphasize his point, he squashed her to him. All of him. She made him randy as Pan, bless her. Lately he’d been reading up on Greek mythology to pass the time. Terrible, violent stuff. Those gods were capricious, they were. “And the duress was strictly on my end. You were, I believe, blackmailing me.”

  “And you’ve broken our bargain! You are in my bed!”

  “In my bed. I own every stick of furniture in this place.”

  “But you don’t own me.”

  Simon sighed and relaxed his grip. “Aye. That I do not. You are your own woman, Lucy Dalhousie.”

  She punched him in the shoulder feebly. “Stop calling me that! It’s a ridiculous name.”

  He could change that. If he could change Lucy’s mind about leaving. What she needed was a proper wooing. With strawberry jam.

  “Be sensible, Luce. You have nowhere to go now, do you? What harm can befall you by staying on Jane Street a wee bit longer?”

  “I wish I’d never come here,” she mumbled into his chest. Her breaths tickled a bit. So she was sorry she’d lived a life of sin. That was a start to getting her back on the straight and narrow. How strange that a lad such as he had turned out more respectable than she. Lucy had been one long lecture in the past, when he wasn’t kissing her to shut her up.

  What an excellent idea. He lifted her stubborn chin and swept his tongue against the seam of her lips. She didn’t make it easy for him, but she didn’t draw back. He toyed with the corner of her mouth, lifting it to a lopsided smile, then skimmed his way to the other side.

  Simon felt tentative fingertips exploring his jaw. He didn’t want to burn her delicate white skin with his beard, so he flipped her on top of him, giving her more control. He was rewarded with her opening mouth and the silken warmth of her long body. By all the saints, he never wanted to stand up again. Possibly couldn’t. He thumbed her pale nipples until they pebbled beneath his touch, wishing he could kiss her there as well as her soft, sweet mouth. Wishing he could kiss her everywhere all at once. Devour her with kisses. Every sharp angle. Every gentle curve. Taste her from tip to toe and make her come again and again.

  He opened his eyes to see Lucy’s closed, her gilt eyelashes fanning the blue flesh beneath her eyes. She had not slept well, then. He had not let her. It had been impossible not to take her at dawn as she drowsed in his arms, and then again just a scant half-hour ago, when she was wide awake and prickly. But he’d smoothed her the best way he knew how. She was temptation incarnate, and he was as starved for her as he’d been as a callow youth.

  Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her hips and impaled her on his cock. She shuddered around him, liquid and lush. She slid up as he raised her, came down as he sank into her, so deep they were one being. How could she think of leaving?

  Was her responsiveness just an act? His Lucy had never been a good liar. But many years had passed since she’d fibbed unconvincingly to her aunt and snuck out with him. She was a famous courtesan now, a woman Lord Ferguson bragged about throughout London. Did she kiss Percy like this, so hungry and angry? Did that fop ever cause that flush to her cheeks and the hammering pulse at her throat? It was torture for Simon to think of her with anyone else, for all that he’d been no saint himself.

  But there would be no other woman. No woman but Lucy. All he had to do was make her see their future the way he did. He was a persuasive fellow—he’d managed to wangle his way all the way up to the king. One mere commoner should be no problem.

  Ha. There was nothing common about her. He thrust up one final time, his seed spilling where it was meant to be. Lucy was his. For the next three months. For a lifetime.

  She struggled out of his arms and flopped on her back, her heated body fragrant with lilac scent. “You canna keep doing this, Simon.”

  He held back his chuckle. He was rather proud of his performance, not that he was about to take all the credit. “Doing what?”

  Lucy waved a limp arm. “This. I canna be your mistress. ’T’isn’t right.”

  “ ’T’was right for me, Luce. No more nonsense, now. It’s only for three months. Then you’ll have your money and go your own way.” Over his dead body.

  Lucy’s chin jutted skyward. Simon was beginning to dislike the ambition of that chin. But she said nothing, just huffed a little and pulled up the covers to rob him of seeing her beauty.

  He sat up. “I suppose I should leave you then. I have things to do, too.”

  “What, no breakfast in bed?” she asked, her tone sarcastic.

  “Not today. But tomorrow. Definitely.”

  He was rewarded with another huff. Simon got up and went to the pile of neatly folded clothing and dressed without the benefit of a valet. Today he’d have fresh sets of clothing sent around so he wouldn’t be seen in yesterday’s dirt and opera attire again. But so what if he was spotted unshaven and in evening wear in the daylight? That would only add to his reputation.

  It was Lucy’s reputation that concerned him. He hoped she wouldn’t wander all over town claiming to be his mistress.

  Not likely
. She did not seem completely won over to the idea, but he had to make sure.

  “You are not to leave the house today. I’ll instruct MacTavish to see to it.”

  Lucy flashed him an incredulous look. “I am to be kept prisoner here?”

  “It’s a pretty prison, Luce. We’ll discuss my plans for you when I return tonight.”

  “I won’t be here!”

  “Aye, you will, if Mac has to tether you to the bed.”

  “You bluidy bastard!”

  Simon grinned. “Tis true my mum wasn’t married when she had me. Everybody knows that.”

  Lucy gave a strangled cry and hurled a pillow. Simon deftly stepped out of its path and into his shoes.

  “You canna keep me here against my will!”

  She was sitting up now, blankets dropped, chest heaving. Lucy’s nipples were raspberry-hued and looked as if they’d taste even sweeter. If he kept staring he was never going to get any work done. He fiddled with his gold cufflinks.

  “As I said, we’ll talk tonight. Have a nice day, Luce.”

  Simon shut the door behind him. The thuds and shattering of objects and rather violent oaths were somewhat muted as he descended the stairs.

  MacTavish awaited him, looking understandably nervous. “Good morning, Mac. Please see to it that Miss Dellamar is confined to the house today. She’s in a bit of a temper, so do whatever you think is necessary.”

  The butler paled. “Is she not amenable to this arrangement, Sir Simon?”

  “Don’t worry. She will be.”

  Mac opened the front door for him, and Simon took a deep breath of Jane Street air. The other eleven houses were quiet, their mistresses probably sleeping the day away. Maybe Lucy would nap too, if she wasn’t too cross. Simon wanted her awake tonight, however. He was going to do more than talk to her.

  Chapter 12

  MacTavish had raised a silvery butler-brow but sent the footman to Percy’s house with Lucy’s desperate message. If she was not allowed to go out of the house—as if she were a criminal—well, she thought ruefully, she supposed she was a criminal what with the pilfering she’d done, just uncaught—then Percy would have to come to her. Simon had said nothing about her receiving visitors. By the time he got around to forbidding them too, she would be gone.

  Percy would help her. He’d have to. And she wouldn’t have MacTavish or anyone else spying on her when she talked to him. She sat now in her little back garden, wrapped in her necessary fox fur against the fall chill. She hoped MacTavish didn’t notice that all the back gardens were connected by doors set into the brick walls. Most of the doors were unlocked, so the courtesans could visit each other when the spirit moved them. More than a bit of gossip was passed or a cup of sugar borrowed—one never knew when one needed a good weep, an extra French letter or bottle of champagne.

  But Lucy’s neighbors had locked their garden-wall doors, fearing Lucy’s light fingers. Smart girls. Lucy was sorry for all the thefts, she truly was. If she ever had a way to make it up to her neighbors, she would do so.

  She tapped her foot on the brick path. She felt the cold of the marble bench on her bottom even with the barrier of fur. What was keeping Percy anyway? She had been most explicit.

  Her impatience was stilled by the site of Lord Ferguson stepping from the dining room French door. It was obvious he’d taken considerable care in his toilette—his shirtpoints were so high they might poke an eye out if he wasn’t careful. He was wrapped in a Ferguson plaid great coat, its predominant color royal purple. Oh dear. The man really was not subtle at all in his preferences.

  “Lucy, my love, whatever is the matter? I came as soon as I could. Your note sounded quite dire.”

  She grimaced. “Dire indeed, Percy, and it is all your fault.”

  Percy swept his many capes behind him and sat down. “Whatever do you mean, love? What has happened?”

  “Sir Simon Keith has happened, Percy.”

  “Ah, your gallant Scottish knight.”

  “Not mine!” Lucy snapped. “I don’t want him. He’s keeping me a prisoner in this house, even worse than you did.”

  “Now, buttercup. You were never my prisoner, just my mystery. We ventured out now and again.” Percy reached for her hands, but she jumped off the bench and began to pace on the short brick path between the browning shrubbery. She was not about to succumb to his excuses or his boyish charm.

  “Listen to me, Percy. Sir Simon is not who you think he is. He is my Simon.”

  “I thought you just said he wasn’t yours,” Percy said, frowning.

  “He’s not! I mean he is the Simon I knew when I was a girl.”

  “The thief?” Percy asked, his plucked eyebrows rising to his receding hairline.

  “The very same. And worse than ever. You have to help me escape.”

  “Where will you go? You know I cannot bring you to Mama’s. She’s met you.”

  Lucy shivered. She remembered the occasion well. She’d rather pitch herself down an extremely tall cliff than live with Countess Ferguson. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I want you to go next door to Victorina Castellano’s and ask her to unlock the garden gate for me. I can get out that way.”

  Percy rubbed his chin. “The Spanish Spitfire? I thought you were not on good terms with her. Why should she help you?”

  “Of course we are not on good terms! I’ve robbed her blind—for you, you ridiculous man—and she suspects me. Tell her I’ve changed my ways. Tell her I’ll pay her back. Eventually.”

  “I don’t know, Lucy. I shouldn’t want to jeopardize my investment in Keith’s consortium. He’s bound to find out I assisted you. Can’t you stay and just make the best of things?”

  Lucy broke a fallen branch in half, not sure whether it was Simon’s or Percy’s neck she was snapping in her imagination. “Percy, you are a lily-livered coward.”

  “I’m a poor lily-livered coward. You of all people know that. You stole for me, Lucy, and I shan’t forget that. Ever. It shames me, it truly does. But helping you run off from Jane Street, with no place to go, no money—why, I would be doing you a dreadful disservice. You can’t just fly off into the mist like this. You need a plan.”

  “I don’t have time for a plan,” Lucy said crossly, sitting back down. “Will you at least take a note to Victorina?”

  “I—I suppose I could. She wears the most marvelous mantillas.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes heavenward and was rewarded with a piece of ash falling from a neighbor’s chimney. “Bluidy hell.” She stuck a finger under her lid and rooted around.

  “Don’t rub it in!” Percy fished a lace-edged handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Now, Lucy, such language. What of our lady lessons?”

  “I doona give a rat’s arse about our lady lessons. Ouch.”

  “Hold still, I’ve almost got it. There. Good as new, although your eyeball’s quite pink. You should go inside and rest.”

  “Doona change the subject, Percy. I’ll go inside, but only to write to Victorina. Will you take the letter to her?”

  Percy nodded. “If you can wait a day or two to leave, I’ll see if I can’t sell something to give you a little going-away gift.”

  Lucy squinted at him with her one good eye. “I thought you sold everything of value already.”

  Percy colored. “There may be something I overlooked. Yates can help me.”

  “All right. But the day after tomorrow is my absolute deadline. I shall simply die if I have to put up with Simon for longer than that.”

  “Is he no’ a braw, strapping laddie?” Percy asked, mimicking her accent.

  “He’s too braw and strapping. You would faint dead away if you saw his ballocks.”

  “Lucy! Your language.” Percy looked more titillated than disapproving. Lucy was not about to share what she had done with Simon, however. It was all too mortifying how easily she had fallen under his spell again.

  “Let’s go inside to write the note. You can go str
aight to Victorina’s and then come back to tell me what she says. If it’s no, I’ll ask Sophie Rydell on the other side.”

  “I shall try to be as persuasive as possible. I’ll make her my bosom-bow.”

  “Just don’t ask if you can see her closet,” Lucy grumbled.

  Lucy resumed her pacing, this time in her upstairs sitting room. She would miss this space—it had taken her six years to make it cozy and comfortable. She’d sewn the slipcovers and collected the books and arranged every stick of furniture to suit herself. It was her little kingdom—well, queendom might be more appropriate, as Percy had shared many afternoons and evenings here with her while he waited for Yates to finish up his various duties. Lucy had lost count of the number of hats she’d made or the pages she’d cut from romance novels and poetry books in six years of keeping loneliness at bay.

  Percy had been good company when he was there, but Lucy had never really warmed up to the other women on the street. Their innate elegance had been intimidating, making her feel even more unlovely and awkward than she had as a girl in Edinburgh. Plus she had been afraid that somehow the true nature of her relationship with her benefactor would be revealed. Lucy certainly could not hold up her end of the conversation when the Janes compared notes and positions. Her dim recollection of adolescent sex with Simon was entirely inadequate.

  After the bedroom—and opera—activity of the last few days, she had more of a base of knowledge to discuss from now. But since her thieving, the girls shunned her, and rightfully so. One day she’d make it up to them, even if she had to supply them with a lifetime of new bonnets.

  Which reminded her. While she waited for Percy to return, she could work on the straw capote. The hat was intended for him anyway. How and where he’d wear it was no longer of concern to her, but braiding trim for it would keep her busy. If Victorina refused to help her, Lucy would simply send Percy to her other neighbor. Sophie was so high in the instep she could pass as a duchess, though a very naughty one. Sophie might be cooperative—she would be delighted to see the back of her. Lucy had never quite fit in, her Edinburgh edges roughing up the Jane Street silk.