by Candice Hern
She opened the folded parchment and her eye was first drawn to the large and forceful "Thayne" scrawled across the bottom. His penmanship was a perfect reflection of his personality: arrogant, resolute, powerful. She read on.
It is arranged. We will meet tonight.
Tonight? So soon?
Do not change your plans for the evening. Go to the opera. I will see you there. Dress your hair simply, for I intend to take it down.
That last line sent a little shiver across her shoulders. She fell back against the bed, flung her arms out wide, and grinned up at the canopy.
And so, it was to happen. The oh-so-proper Lady Somerfield was about to embark upon her first love affair. She felt a bit wicked. Certainly more worldly than ever before. She supposed she ought to feel foolish for succumbing to this ridiculous passion for a younger man. But she did not. Instead, she felt alive, invigorated, rejuvenated. Yes, she felt young again. And something more. A new air of confidence filled her, made her feel strong and invincible.
It was similar to the overwhelming sense of independence she'd felt when she'd made her first financial decisions after Somerfield died. He had never allowed her to be involved in anything regarding money, despite the fact that she had a head for figures and took a real interest in markets and investments. Whenever she had offered an opinion, her husband had given her an indulgent pat on the cheek and told her not to worry her pretty head about such things that were beyond the understanding of the female mind.
Beatrice had hated that condescension from him, and it was the source of a great many arguments over the years. She had so wanted to be involved in investment decisions, not out of any sense of entitlement, but because she enjoyed it and was good at it. But Somerfield had been intransigent on the subject. He had been conservative to a fault in regard to their finances. He'd inherited a profitable earldom, but had done almost nothing to increase that profit, to build his fortune. He was too afraid of losing it. Beatrice, on the other hand, had seen that they had quite enough money to risk an occasional interesting investment, but Somerfield would not budge.
After his death, when a sizable fortune had been left in her hands—thanks to her father's sound management of her marriage contract—Beatrice had begun to dabble in a few schemes that had paid off handsomely. For the first time in her adult life, she had taken risks.
And now she was taking another one with Thayne. A very big risk. To make such a decision by herself, for herself, to be so completely in charge of her own destiny, made her feel . . . powerful. She was quite giddy with it, in fact. She even felt confident that everything would work out satisfactorily where Emily was concerned. Some other rich young man would win the day.
But for now, Beatrice could think only of one particular rich young man who was about to win the night.
She clutched his note to her breast and giggled like a girl.
Where was he?
Beatrice was growing jittery waiting for Thayne to show up at the opera. His parents were in a box on the opposite side of the stage, but Thayne had not joined them yet. She supposed he was waiting until close to the end to make an appearance. Orfeo ed Euridice, though one of Beatrice's favorites, was a very long opera. How was she to be expected to maintain her composure for several hours until it was over? And then what? Was she simply to walk away on his arm, begging Emily to excuse her while she went off to make love with Lord Thayne?
That would certainly spike the girl's guns. And send Ophelia into a murderous rage.
No, he must have something else in mind, though Beatrice could not imagine what it was. She would have to trust in his resourcefulness and his discretion. He was too much of a gentleman to manage things in a way that might damage her reputation.
She had dressed with extra care this evening, wearing one of her most revealing dresses. Not that she needed to entice the man further, but it enhanced her confidence to know that she looked desirable. And she had done as he'd asked regarding her hair. She wore a simple coiffure gathered up at the back of her head and fastened with two small combs. If Thayne took her hair down, and she had no doubt he would do so, she was fairly certain she could recreate the hairstyle easily enough afterward. It would not do to return home with her hair hanging about her shoulders.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft wail beside her. Beatrice turned to find Wilhelmina bent over, her face buried in her hands. The duchess had been looking forward to seeing this particular opera for some time, and had been pleased to receive Beatrice's invitation to share her box. But she had been quiet and reserved all evening. Was she ill?
Beatrice slipped an arm around her friend's shoulder. "Wimelmina?" she whispered. "Are you all right?"
The duchess shook her head but said nothing.
"Are you ill?"
After a few moments, Wilhelmina raised her head and Beatrice was startled to see tears streaming down her face. "My dear, whatever is the matter?"
"I am not feeling myself tonight, I fear," Wilhelmina said in a shaky voice. "Forgive me."
"You must go home, then," Beatrice said. "You are not well and should not sit through this long performance."
Wilhelmina choked back a sob. "You are right. I should go."
"Of course you must. Let me help you. I'll go downstairs with you and see you to your carriage."
Wilhelmina clutched at her arm. "Oh, Beatrice, I don't think I could bear to be alone tonight. I do hate to trouble you, but . . . would you go with me? Would you take me home? I am afraid I shall need a shoulder to cry on."
The poor woman was overset about something. Beatrice wondered what could have happened to so discompose her even-tempered, normally unflappable friend. Was it something to do with Lord Ingleby, the man with whom Wilhelmina was carrying on a discreet love affair? Had he thrown her over?
"Of course I will come with you," she said, "and stay with you as long as you need. Just let me make arrangements for Emily to be taken home later."
Beatrice experienced a momentary pang of regret that her plans with Thayne, whatever they were, would have to wait for another night. She would not leave her friend alone when she was so upset.
She spoke quietly to Lady Billingsley, who was there with her daughter Sarah, a particular friend of Emily's, and told her the duchess was unwell. "I would like to see her home, and to stay with her a while to make sure she is all right. Would you mind terribly looking after Emily for me?"
"Not at all," Lady Billingsley said. "I am sorry Her Grace is ill, but you must not fret over Emily. I will keep an eye on her and see that she gets home safely."
Beatrice had a word with Emily, who was properly concerned for the duchess, but was pleased to stay behind with her friend. "May I still go to the card party at Drake House after the opera? Sarah is planning to go, I am certain."
"If Lady Billingsley does not object, you may go. But you must stay with her, as she is to bring you home. Ah, the first act is over. Blast. I had hoped to get the duchess outside without everyone gaping at her. I must hurry before the corridors become too crowded."
Beatrice grabbed her shawl and helped a listless Wilhelmina with her wrap. They made their way to the door of the box just as it opened and several young gentlemen entered. One of them was Mr. Burnett.
He bowed, offered his endearing grin, and said, "You are leaving, Lady Somerfield? What unfortunate timing. I was just coming to pay my respects."
Beatrice smiled at the young man as she tried to usher Wilhelmina through the door. "Do not worry, sir, Miss Thirkill is not leaving with me. You may pay your respects to her instead."
As she and Wilhelmina stepped into the corridor, Beatrice overheard Emily say, "Ah, Mr. Burnett. And where is your friend Lord Thayne tonight?"
"He is not here, I am afraid," Mr. Burnett replied. "He had other business this evening."
So Thayne hadn't even planned to come to the opera. Beatrice wondered for a moment what exactly his plan had been, but she concentrated on her friend, who kept her head bowe
d as they walked through the crowded corridor and down the main staircase.
When they reached the entrance and walked out into the cool night air, Beatrice was just about to ask a footman to call her carriage when Wilhelmina placed a firm hand on her arm.
"No, this way," she said in a steady voice.
She moved quickly, tugging Beatrice behind her, and there was no longer the slightest indication that she was ill or upset. The plumes in her yellow hair bobbed jauntily as she hurried along to the rows of carriages that stood waiting.
"What is going on?" Beatrice asked, somewhat breathless as she tried to keep up.
Wilhelmina stopped in front of an elegant carriage, and the door swung open from the inside. "Go on," she said. "Step inside."
Beatrice walked to the open door and saw a dark figure inside the carriage. It reached out a hand. "Come on in, Artemis."
Beatrice gasped, then turned to Wilhelmina, who was beaming. "Go on," the duchess said. "He is waiting."
Beatrice smiled at her friend, who had obviously been instrumental in Lord Thayne's plans. "So, all that weeping and drooping about was merely an act?"
"Remember, my dear, that for a short time many years ago I trod the boards. Ha. It seems I still have a bit of the thespian left in me. What fun! Now, go. Have a lovely time with your young man. I have my own carriage waiting, with my own gentleman inside. Go. Go!"
Beatrice took Thayne's hand and stepped into the carriage. Wilhelmina smiled as she shut the door, gave a signal to the driver, then waved as she walked away.
"At last," Thayne said. He reached across Beatrice and pulled down the window shade.
"At last."
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her.
Now that there was no hindrance to their passion, no guessing where it might lead, they each fell into the kiss with raw, unbridled hunger before the carriage even moved.
When the carriage finally lurched forward, they were already entwined, reaching and groping as they kissed and kissed and kissed. After a while, Thayne pulled Beatrice onto his lap and buried his face in her full cleavage, dipping his tongue into its depths. One hand, warm and ungloved, reached up her skirts and stroked her bare thigh. She gave a moan of pleasure, and Thayne took her mouth again. He eased her down until she was lying on the soft velvet of the squabs, her skirts hiked up around her thighs and Thayne urging them apart with his knee.
His hand crept higher until it found the damp place between her legs. His fingers had just begun to work their magic when the carriage came to a jolting halt.
"Damn." Thayne removed his mouth from hers and pulled away. He tugged down her skirts and lifted her upright again. "We need not be in such a rush when a soft bed awaits us. I believe we have arrived."
A bit flustered for having so completely forgotten herself in the carriage, Beatrice adjusted her clothing and hair. She looked at Thayne, who was smiling.
"You look adorably rumpled," he said, and touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I cannot wait to see you even more thoroughly undone."
Thayne opened the carriage door, jumped down, and offered his hand to Beatrice. She stepped out and looked around to see where they'd been taken.
"Why, this is Wilhelmina's house," she said, recognizing the handsome brick home on Charles Street with its classical white pediment and elaborate ironwork.
"The duchess sensed our dilemma," he said, "and offered it for our use. She will be spending this night . . . elsewhere, or so she told me."
"Really? She did this for us?"
"She is an excellent ally, your duchess. A remarkable woman."
"You do know who she is, do you not? Or who she was?"
"Yes, of course. I remember infamous tales from my university days. But she's risen above it all and made a good life for herself. I quite like her."
Beatrice laid a hand on his arm. "I'm so glad. Many people are still cruel to her. She pretends not to care, but it cannot be easy."
He laid his hand over hers. "You are a good friend to her. And, heaven be praised, she is a friend to us both tonight. She has given all but one servant the night off, and he is said to be the soul of discretion. Come, my huntress."
A butler held open the front door. Beatrice had been to Wilhelmina's house several times before and knew that face. It was not easily forgotten—large, crooked nose, heavy brow, and long scar running across his chin. He would surely recognize her, as well. She must remember to tip him handsomely to further ensure that he kept quiet about this little rendezvous.
"Good evening, my lady." He might have the face of a thug, but he had the voice of a refined gentleman. It always surprised her. He made a crisp bow. "And my lord."
"Good evening, Smeaton," she said, and walked through to the entry hall.
"Her Grace has told me to expect you. Follow me, please."
Thayne took her arm and they followed Smeaton up two flights of stairs. He led them to an open doorway and gestured that they should enter. Beatrice stepped into the bedchamber—not Wilhelmina's, but a guest chamber—to find a cozy fire burning and a heavily canopied bed with the coverlet turned down. Beside the fireplace was a table that held a decanter of wine and two glasses, as well as a plate of fruit and cheeses. Bless Wilhelmina's heart, she had thought of everything. Beatrice turned to Thayne and smiled.
"Perfect," he said, and placed something in the butler's hand. Smeaton nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. Thayne looked at Beatrice with open desire. "Perfect," he repeated.
He pulled her to him and kissed her, then went to work on her clothes. "I promise more finesse the next time, but I am too eager to go slowly just now."
She was equally eager, and so they quickly undressed each other, flinging bits of clothing this way and that until they both stood naked in the firelight. Good Lord, but he was beautiful. Broad shoulders and a well-muscled chest, a tapering waist and slim hips, a rampant sex, fully erect and large—he was the picture of masculine perfection. His chest was covered in dark hair, as were his legs and forearms, and a thick, dark cushion surrounded his sex. Somehow all that dark hair, not to mention the robust erection, dispelled any notion she might have had that he was too young a man for her. Thayne was no boy.
He was staring at her body with the same curiosity, and Beatrice suddenly lost some of her confidence. She knew what he saw. Her waist had begun to thicken slightly and her stomach was not flat as it had once been. Her breasts were no longer pert and plump, but had graduated into matronly fullness. She could never pass for a young girl again.
She made an instinctive move to cover herself. But he grabbed her hand and held it out to her side.
"You are magnificent," he said, and lifted his other hand to her hair. He removed one comb, then the other, and a few hairpins later, her hair fell loose about her shoulders. He stood back and gazed at her. "Positively magnificent."
"No, I'm not. I'm not young anymore. My body has aged. Oh, how I wish you could have seen me before I had two children, before I lost my youth."
"I like you just the way you are, Artemis. You have a woman's body. A beautiful woman's body." He swooped down and lifted her into his arms. "Now, let me worship it."
He deposited her on the bed, lay down beside her, and began to do precisely that. With mouth and tongue and hands and eyes he explored—worshipped—every inch of her, using all the tricks he'd learned in India to pleasure her. Her hair was glorious and skeined red across the pale linen of the bedsheets. He combed his fingers through it and buried his nose in it, inhaling the sweet fragrance of soap and lavender.
Her skin was a marvel. Creamy white and flawless, it felt like silk against him. He couldn't get enough of it, wanted to wrap himself up in it. He rubbed his cheek against the silky skin of her belly, and moved his way upward. Thayne adored her breasts. They were full, though not too large, and amazingly soft. He kneaded them with his thumbs and teased them with his tongue until the nipples were taut pebbles. She squirmed and moaned beneath him, an
d set him on fire.
He wanted to take more time. She deserved more time. But he could wait no longer. If he did not bury himself in her now, the consequences could be embarrassing. And so he nudged her legs apart and positioned himself at the entrance to her sex. "I'm sorry, Beatrice. I want you too much. I want you now." And he plunged inside her with a single stroke. She was slick and warm and welcoming. He almost came at once, but steadied himself and breathed the way he'd been taught in India.
When he had himself under control, he began to move in her, slowly at first. She lifted her legs to give him better access, and wrapped them around his back. And then she began to move with him, rocking and bucking against him with uninhibited passion. God, he loved the way she moved, the way she unashamedly sought her own pleasure. No woman, not even the skilled courtesans of the Punjab or Hyderabad courts, had ever moved like this, with such open, honest, unrestrained desire. They had always been working hard to please him. Strangely enough, Thayne found it infinitely more arousing that she greedily took as much pleasure as she gave.
