The second factor discouraging Hessian from tucking tail and decamping for parts north was now kissing him witless.
Lily Ferguson was a puzzle. She marched about, exuding pragmatism and self-possession when, in fact, she was full of passion and contradictions. In the silence of the library, her kiss shouted her desire for him. She melded her body to his—all the best curves in all the best places—and fisted her fingers in his hair.
As if he’d be able to resist her overtures? The last person with whom Hessian had attempted more than a fleeting encounter had been Daisy’s mama, and that had been friendly, a little awkward, and ultimately bewildering.
Lily Ferguson was not bewildered. She was a woman intent on plundering Hess’s self-restraint. She was making excellent progress toward her goal too.
Lily knew what she was about—almost. Her kisses were bold, her grip on Hessian bolder, and yet, he tasted a hint of rage in her ardor. Her kiss communicated desire, but also the loneliness and self-doubt that went with years of not being desired by anybody. Years of making up the numbers, being invited for the sake of courtesy, and being danced with out of politeness.
Hessian well knew the tribulations endured on the margins of polite society, and Lily deserved so much more. He gathered her close, reveling in the abundance of womanliness in his arms. The particular rustle of fabric when she pressed nearer and her soft sigh when she was unapologetically embraced told him she wanted to be not only desired, but also cherished.
Hessian longed to give her that and more. He started with a soft swipe of his tongue, and Lily startled, then settled in to investigate, reciprocate, and explore.
He stroked his fingers over her nape, and some of her desperation eased. Her first forays into a deeper kiss were tentative, and in his response, Hessian assured her that she could take her time and linger over her discoveries.
As he lingered over his.
Lily used no padding, no excesses of corsetry. She might be wearing a double chemise or jumps instead of stays, her shape was so genuinely evident beneath his hands. Her shoulders, back and arms were sturdy, and the thought of her legs wrapped around Hessian’s flanks…
He eased out of the kiss, but not out of the embrace.
“Why did you stop?” Lily’s question was adorably disgruntled.
“I don’t pretend to know much about children, but I have younger siblings. Worth’s greatest talent growing up was coming upon me when I was most in need of solitude. The children would not abandon us here for long, and I was growing…”
He shifted his hips, enough that Lily would feel the results of their intimacies—a rousing salute to pleasures too long ignored.
“You’re…? From kissing me?”
Lily was delighted with herself, and Hessian was delighted with her too. “I hope you are similarly carried away, else I shall have to reconsider my technique.”
She patted his lapel and stepped aside, studying the shelves to the right. According to Hessian’s organizational scheme, she’d become fascinated with etymological treatises.
“I wanted to kiss you,” she said, taking down a slender red volume.
Hess wanted to nuzzle the place where her neck and shoulder joined. She’d smell good there—good there too—like flowers and mischief. He stared hard at the molding, except smirking Cupids were not the stuff of regained self-control.
“I account myself singularly well favored to have been the recipient of your overtures.”
Lily opened the book, which was written in French. “Does that mean you liked kissing me?”
In the garden, somebody shrieked, a happy noise that suggested happy relationships were blossoming all over the property. And yet, Lily’s question had been genuine rather than coy.
“I like you, Lily Ferguson. For a first effort, I liked our kiss. You needn’t fret that I’ll take you to task for a pleasure about which we both grew enthusiastic.”
“This book on insects is easier to translate than your lordly pronouncements. What do you mean for a first effort you liked our kiss?”
In bed, Lily would be fearless. She wouldn’t ask for what she wanted, she’d demand it and give as good as she got.
Hessian risked repositioning a curl that lay against her neck. “I mean, I’m out of practice. I suspect you are too.”
She paced off, book in hand. “I’m not in the habit of accosting men to kiss them, or for any other purpose. Yesterday surprised me.”
He wanted to chase after her, to get his hands on her, touch her hair, her clothes, her bare skin, and put her hands on him. In defense of his ability to hold a conversation, he withdrew to the hearth and propped an elbow on the mantel.
“You aren’t fond of surprises. Neither am I.” And yet, as the sharp edge of desire faded, heat lingered. Hessian was awake in a way he hadn’t been before Lily had kissed him. His senses were keener, his imagination focused on matters other than correspondence, social invitations, and Daisy’s concerns.
“Surprises can be good,” Lily said, running her finger down a page of French. “You took me in your arms yesterday, so Lady Humplewit wouldn’t see me. You smell of goodness. I can’t think when you put your arms around me.”
Hessian could think—of beds, pillows, naked limbs, and pleasure. “Sometimes, to abandon reason for a moment is a relief. I’d forgotten that. You never used to be able to stand even the sight of a bug, and now the subject appears to fascinate you.”
He’d forgotten so much that was good and sweet.
Lily snapped the book closed. Her stillness vibrated with more unpredictable, interesting questions—and with anxiety?
“I wasn’t able to abide the sight of a bug?”
“I was raised with only one sister, but I suspect few girls enjoy insects. I’m glad you kissed me.” Hessian hoped that was what she needed to hear, because it was the truth. “I enjoyed kissing you. I’ve grown duller than I realized, which was dull indeed, and content in my dullness. Lily, I thank you for… for your interest. You needn’t worry that I’ll develop expectations or spread tales. For a moment, a butterfly lit on my windowsill, and she must be allowed to flutter off and be about her business, if that’s what she wishes. A gentleman never presumes on a lady’s favor.”
Good God, he was making a hash out of what was meant to be a compliment.
Lily clutched the book with a curious desperation. “A butterfly, my lord?”
My lord was not good, but if Hessian took her in his arms again, then the sofa before the hearth would become the scene of a debauch. If Lily were to lie back against the pillows, then Hessian could brace himself—
He studied the spiral staircase, but even those curves were fraught. “My point, madam, is that a stolen moment needn’t become the basis for any worries on your part. I’m not Lady Humplewit, to take advantage of another’s trust.”
Lily turned her back to him, which was no damned help at all. Some of her hair was in a soft, twisty bun, and some of it curled over her shoulder, a perfect metaphor for Hessian’s emotional state. He was half pleased and half embarrassed to have taken liberties with a lady’s person.
Though she’d taken liberties with his person too, and about that he was delighted. He resisted the temptation to adjust his falls, though the nape of Lily’s neck was stirring him in exactly the wrong direction.
He’d taken two steps closer to her when voices on the terrace stopped him.
Lily tossed him the book. He sat and opened it to a random page, the rising evidence of his wayward thoughts hidden behind a chapter titled “Common Butterflies Native to Southern Britain.”
Lily sank into a chair two yards away and folded her hands in her lap just as Daisy, her guest, and Lady Rosecroft came through the French doors.
“The upper side of the male’s wings are the same blue as hyacinths in bloom,” Hessian said. “The underside is a grayish-brown, and red spots adorn his hind wings.” He stared at the book as if reading, though the topic on the page was a biographical sketch o
f some French lepidopterist. “The markings on the female are less uniform across individuals, but are no less attractive for being more subtle and unique.”
“Thank you,” Lily said. “Your translations are quite enlightening. Bronwyn, is that a grass stain on your pinafore?”
The children chattered, the countess fussed, and Lily did a creditable imitation of a woman slightly bored with a visit that was more charitable than social. Hessian pretended to turn the pages of the book and occasionally volunteered an answer to a childish inquiry. When it was time for the guests to take their leave, he saw them to the door and thanked them cordially for paying a call.
He even invited Miss Bronwyn to come again at the earliest opportunity, and the countess allowed as how that would suit agreeably on Monday next. He bowed them on their way and managed to not kiss Miss Ferguson farewell or even stare at her mouth.
He did, however, admire her retreating form, until Bronwyn turned around and waved farewell to him.
Chapter Five
* * *
“I had not taken Dorie Humplewit for a hoyden,” Roberta said.
She and Penelope were returning from donating to the poor box at St. George’s on Hanover Square. The outing was timed to coincide with the carriage parade in Hyde Park a half-dozen streets to the west.
Conspicuous charity was the only kind Roberta could justify, not that a widow needed to justify good stewardship of her limited resources.
The biweekly trek to St. George’s allowed Roberta to see and be seen without going to the expense of maintaining a team. She hadn’t sold the colonel’s town carriage yet, but she was considering it.
The dratted thing still stank of his pipes and probably always would.
“I’m sorry Lady Humplewit disappointed you,” Penelope said.
“For God’s sake, we’re not in a footrace. How am I to greet friends passing by if you insist on subjecting me to a forced march?”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“You can’t help it, I know. A long meg doesn’t realize how much harder she must work to exude womanly grace. Having some height myself, I do sympathize, but you must—”
As they crossed Bond Street, the traitor herself, Lady Dorothy Humplewit, tooled past in a red-wheeled vis-à-vis, one of her daughters at her side. The unfortunate young lady had buck teeth, which she tried to hide by affecting a serious demeanor. Difficult to do when she hadn’t a brain in her pretty head.
Roberta smiled gaily and gave a small, ladylike wave. Dorie waved back more boisterously than she ought, but then, Dorie had to affect good spirits. Her plans for Grampion had failed utterly.
“To think I call that brazen creature my friend. I barely mentioned to her that my only niece has been given into the keeping of a bachelor earl, and the next thing I know, Lady Dremel conveys the most shocking confidences. Mrs. Chuzzleton had best review the guest list for her future garden parties more carefully.”
Two years ago, Roberta would have been invited to that garden party.
“I thought Lord Grampion was a widower, ma’am.”
“And thus he’s a bachelor. Don’t be tedious, Penelope.”
“My apologies, ma’am.”
Penelope had to apologize frequently, for she had no sense of guile, no ability to anticipate the subtler currents in a conversation. She would have made a good solicitor, taking satisfaction in a life of tedium and routine.
“We shall find a bench and enjoy the fresh spring air for one-quarter of an hour.” Grosvenor Square lay across the next street, a lovely green expanse where the less socially ambitious could spend some time out of doors. “I must consider how to go on with Lady Humplewit. She is a friend of long standing, and one doesn’t discard friends lightly.”
Roberta needed to have a stern word with her dressmaker, for today’s walking dress was too snug about the bodice. One could not march across Mayfair in such ill-constructed attire without becoming quite winded.
Two young men vacated a bench at the approach of the ladies. The handsomer of the two tipped his hat and swept a bow in the direction of the bench.
“Such nonsense,” Roberta muttered. “I’m a woman of mature years and have no time for flirting dandies.”
“Of course not, ma’am.”
The bench was hard, the sunshine bright enough to give a widow in first mourning freckles despite her veil, and the day a disappointment from every perspective.
Dorie Humplewit was known for enjoying her widowhood, but according to Lady Dremel, that enjoyment had become a business venture. Dorie would accost single gentlemen of means in private locations and arrange for friends to come upon the couple at the wrong moment. The gentleman would face a choice of offering marriage or purchasing silence—from the very woman who’d drawn him into the interlude.
“The most vexing part,” Roberta muttered, “is that she needn’t even… well, you know. She simply endures a few kisses from a man she, herself, has chosen.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking.” Dorie’s scheme was disgraceful and undeniably clever. The worst that might happen was she’d end up married to a man of her own choosing. If the fellow took umbrage at being kissed, well, a gentleman ought to have known better. That he ended up married to a woman more clever and daring than he was his own fault.
The fellows who’d given up the bench lounged beneath the shade of a nearby maple, showing off their tailoring and trying to catch Roberta’s eye.
Her finances had grown perilous, and she didn’t have time for foolish young men and their silly behavior. Something about Dorie’s scheme begged for further examination, though Roberta herself had no interest in being kissed.
Fourteen years of marriage to the colonel had been penance enough. For a lifetime of financial security, she might endure some groping, but then, marriage should have provided her that security—and in exchange for a great deal more than mere groping.
Alas, the colonel had not enjoyed much business acumen.
“Grampion’s brother is excessively wealthy.” And dear little Amy Marguerite was in Grampion’s care, without the comfort of even a female member of the earl’s household to take the girl in hand.
A devoted auntie—and Roberta was entirely prepared to fulfill that office—ought to shower the child with boundless affection, becoming the next thing to a fixture in Grampion’s household.
Roberta considered that prospect and considered inveigling Grampion into marriage.
He was a widower. He’d know how to deal with his base urges without overly troubling his wife, or Roberta would soon provide him instruction on the matter.
He was titled—never a bad thing.
He danced well enough and did justice to his evening finery, which would make all the other widows jealous—also not a bad thing.
He was very likely wealthy, and the family wealth was vulgarly abundant—the best kind.
“I’m still very much in my prime.”
Penelope was too busy admiring the foliage to comment, or she accepted that statement as so obvious, it required no assent.
Then too, Roberta was dear Amy Marguerite’s only living female relation. Grampion, being dull as a discarded boot, would see a certain economy in marriage to the person who by rights ought to have responsibility for the child’s moral development.
And yet… any earl would expect his wife to produce an heir, a spare, and who knew how many little insurance policies against the crown’s greedy ambitions.
Marriage to Grampion was out of the question. “Come along,” Roberta said, rising. “You have enough burdens in the appearance department that you ought not to risk freckles, my dear.”
“Very true, ma’am.”
One of the dandies blew Roberta a kiss.
“Wretched beasts,” Roberta said, hastening her step. “A woman is never free from the admiration of such as those when she has decent looks and a fine figure. I hope you grasp that in your very plainness, the Almigh
ty has spared you much tribulation.”
“I’m most grateful for heaven’s mercies.”
Roberta was too, especially when heaven gave a lady a brain to equal her other endowments. Dorie Humplewit’s scheme was clever, as far as it went. More clever still would be a scheme that assured that Amy Marguerite’s doting auntie became a fixture not in the earl’s household—what an excruciating fate that would be—but in his expense ledger.
And if Roberta had to put up with a child underfoot to achieve that goal, well… nursery maids and governesses could be had for coin, and coin was something Grampion would be happy to provide to the woman who took the brat off his hands.
The poor, bereaved child, rather.
* * *
“Mama said if ever I’m in trouble, and she or Papa couldn’t come to me, I was to write to the Earl of Grampion and he’d help me.”
Daisy tucked a pink tulip into her boat. The boat was paper, so it could carry only one blossom at a time around the fountain.
Bronwyn waited for the boat to bob across to her side. “My papa would help me, and so would my mama. Then would come Grandpapa and Grandmama and the uncles and aunties. The earl seems nice.”
Daisy was nice too, even though she was an orphan without a pony, puppy, or cat.
“I knew the earl before,” Daisy said, watching the little boat. “At home, we’re neighbors. Mama sometimes went to visit him, and I came along.”
“You miss your mama,” Bronwyn said as the boat came closer. The tulip weighed it down, and in another few passes, the little boat would sink. “Do you miss your papa too?” Daisy never mentioned her papa.
“My papa was old. He liked my brothers a lot, even though he said they made too much noise. Papa wasn’t mean. He smelled like his pipe.”
The boat arrived at Bronwyn’s side of the fountain. “Why did you choose a pink tulip?”
“They were my mama’s favorite.”
Making friends with somebody who was sad was hard, because if she was your friend, you felt sad too.
His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen Book 4) Page 6
