My Lady's Pleasure

by Julia Justiss

  But her courses, always extremely regular, would be upon her in a day or so. Mercy had blessed that very fact three years ago, confiding on Valeria’s wedding night that as no woman Mercy had ever known had conceived so near her time, Valeria would be spared the possibility of bearing a child who might never see its soldier father.

  There wouldn’t be a child. But there could be pleasure—pleasure such as she’d never known and likely would never have a chance to find again.

  She wouldn’t dare.

  How could she not?

  Trying to squelch the unaccustomed turmoil in her normally well-regulated mind, Valeria rose on shaky legs and went to dispose of the broken pottery bits. Noticing the blood pooling from the cut, she brought her finger to her mouth.

  The suction of her lips against her throbbing digit set her body tingling again. How would it feel were it his lips against her hand…her belly, suckling her puckered, aching nipples?

  Another wave of heat swept her, then a light-headedness that made her dizzy. She stumbled into the kitchen, startling Cook by leaning against the dry sink to splash water on her flaming cheeks.

  She would think on this no longer. Let fate decide.

  She would ride tomorrow as usual. If she happened to encounter Teagan Fitzwilliams…let happen what may.

  In the late afternoon, after a thorough washing and pleasant dreams of a certain dark-haired lady in a black riding habit, Teagan went looking for his host. He ran him to ground in the back parlor, playing billiards for pound points with several other gentlemen. For a few moments Teagan simply watched, gauging the mood and degree of sobriety of the group so as to decide how best to discreetly obtain the information he sought.

  Rafe, as usual, had a half-empty glass of brandy in hand. Markham and Westerley, dissipated younger sons of an earl and a marquess respectively, looked equally live to go. Only the last member of the group, a plainly dressed older gentleman, appeared completely sober.

  In fact, as he was normally rather a straight-laced government man, Lord Riverton made an odd addition to Rafe’s assemblage of hard-drinking, high-stakes rowdies. However, as the man had cheerfully lost a considerable sum to him last evening, Teagan was prepared to be affable.

  “Gentlemen.” Teagan greeted the group.

  “Ah, Jester.” His host turned spirit-brightened eyes toward him. “Good night you had, eh? Riverton went down by several thousand, and Markham here should have provided you enough to pay off your tailor.”

  Teagan gritted his teeth. Suppressing the automatic anger that still flared at his well-bred, well-heeled acquaintances’ mockery, even after ten years of playing this role, he forced himself to make a light reply. “Aye, and it’s a new pair of Hoby’s best boots I intend on winning from him tonight.”

  “Here, here!” Westerley called as Rafe slapped Markham on the back.

  “Before that, I’ve a mind to do some riding. I wondered—” Teagan began.

  “Try the red-haired tart,” Rafe interrupted.

  As the other men hooted, Markham added, “The blond filly’s got a nice tight saddle as well.”

  After waiting for the merriment to subside—and noticing Lord Riverton’s curious glance focused on him, Teagan continued. “I appreciate your recommendations, gentlemen, but ’twas riding of a more equine nature I intended. My black needs exercise.”

  “Damme, why won’t you sell that beauty to me?” Markham complained. “Don’t know how you afford him.”

  “Why, by winning blunt from obliging gentlemen such as yourself,” Teagan replied.

  “For the black I’d pay you more than enough to keep you in booze and strumpets for a year!”

  “A tempting prospect.” Teagan assumed a thoughtful pose, as if considering Markham’s offer. “But then, were I to turn Ailainn over to the likes of a rider like you, sure and the stallion would never forgive me.”

  While the other gentlemen laughed, Teagan addressed Rafe. “Can I ride in any direction, or have you left a jealous husband hereabouts who’s like to shoot at me if I stray onto his land?”

  Rafe grinned. “Jealous husbands are your forte—I stick to doxies. Might want to stay away from the north—Sir Arthur Hardesty’s just the sort of sanctimonious prig to chastise a fellow for trespassing. Not much of a view to the west, but the woods to the east are pretty enough.” His grin widened. “Especially if the widowed Lady Arnold happens to be riding.”

  “A widow, you say?” Westerley chimed in. “Sounds like just the thing for the Jester! Wealthy, is she?”

  “Alas, no—sorry, Jester, she’s nearly as indigent as you,” Rafe answered. “When her soldier-husband cocked up his toes, the barony and its land went to a cousin. He grew up here at Eastwoods—his mama’s property, so it wasn’t entailed. If that little sheep farm brings his widow above five hundred a year, I’d be vastly surprised.”

  “Definitely not for the Jester, then,” Westerley said. “He prefers ’em rich—and grateful.”

  Teagan merely raised a noncommittal eyebrow. Outwardly he followed the conversation, nodding or commenting as required, while his mind ticked off the tidbits of information. So she was “Lady Arnold.” Well, until he learned her given name he’d continue to call her Lady Mystery. He didn’t wish to think of her by the mark another man had left on her.

  About all he’d left her, apparently. No wonder she looked so hungry. He felt an answering hunger sharpen within him.

  “Pretty widow, you said, Rafe?” Markham was asking. “Maybe ’tis my duty as a gentleman to ease her loneliness.”

  That comment jolted him out of reverie. The idea of the corpulent Markham forcing his inebriated hands and whore-mongering body onto Teagan’s slender Lady Mystery spiked the rage that always smoked beneath his surface.

  “Really, Markham,” he drawled, “if the lady’s truly as comely as Rafe says, I fear she’d prefer the sheep.”

  Markham glared, but with the other men seconding Teagan, didn’t hazard a reply. When he stopped laughing, Rafe added, “Even were Markham as handsome as Jester, I doubt the widow’d have him. Totally devoted to poor old Hugh, she was. He’d taken some sort of ghastly wound, and she nursed him for months. Died in her arms, the story goes.” Rafe thumped his chest and sighed. “So romantic.”

  “Stop, you’ll have me in tears.” Westerley tittered. “I might have to make a condolence call—if she’s worth the trip, Rafe?”

  “Only if you like a heart-shaped face with big brown eyes, lots of wavy dark hair and a figure…” He traced an hourglass shape with his hands.

  Enough, thought Teagan. Lady Mystery was his. “Doubtless you’ll sober up sufficiently en route that you won’t run your mount into a tree,” he said. “Best hurry off, though, since you’ll have to sit an interminable time sipping tea in a stuffy parlor while you figure how to charm her out of her skirts. But if you’d rather do that than avail yourself of the beauteous company our kind host has so thoughtfully provided…” He let the sentence trail off and shrugged. “The redhead’s a hot one, you said?”

  His irritation apparently forgotten, Markham brightened. “Aye. Come to think of it, this game is cursed flat. Think I’ll go find that little ladybird.”

  “Give me your cue, then, Markham,” Teagan said. “Westerley, are you off, or can I count on lining my pockets with more of your gold?”

  Teagan held his breath while the man stood frowning, knowing he could not push further without arousing suspicion. “I’m in,” Westerley said at last. “No female’s worth sobering up for, ’specially not one that needs persuading. Save me the blonde, eh?” he told Markham, and leveled his cue.

  Relieved, Teagan looked up to find Riverton studying him. His lordship had taken no part in the banter, continuing with his game as if oblivious. As he looked at Teagan now, though, the man’s lips slowly formed a grin.

  Teagan had the oddest feeling Lord Riverton realized exactly what he’d wished to accomplish in that conversation.

  Nonsense, he thought, sh
aking off the notion. He raised his cue, took a careful breath and sighted the ball. If Lady Luck continued to smile, when next he went riding, his pockets would be plumper by several hundred pounds. Business accomplished, he’d have earned the leisure to pursue only pleasure—his, and that of one special dark-haired lady.

  Chapter Three

  A s her mare crested the ridge, Valeria looked down across the pasture to the stone roof of Eastwoods and tried to quell a sharp disappointment. She had nearly completed her normal route—had dawdled, even—but had caught no glimpse of a cat-eyed rogue. Either he did not ride this morning, or he’d taken care to avoid censorious widows.

  The depth of her disappointment irritated her nearly as much as the pitifully nervous, flustered state in which she’d begun her ride. Specter, her gray mare, had sidestepped as Valeria mounted, and shied at every turn during the first half hour, unsettled by her equally unsettled rider. At least now Valeria had herself well in hand.

  Irritation drained away, and, as she gazed at the view that signaled the end of her ride, a deep sadness welled up. There’d be no knight on a white charger to steal her from the tedium of her day and lift her to a glorious, fleeting pinnacle of delight.

  No, she thought as she let the mare pick her way down the steep hill to the mowed pasture, today would settle into the same rhythm as all her yesterdays since Hugh’s death, offering nothing more exciting than bills to pay, the shearing to schedule, Cook’s complaints to soothe and Sukey Mae’s inattention to correct.

  Reaching level ground, she tautened the reins. Enough lamenting. Valeria Winters Arnold, soldier’s daughter, would simply make the best of whatever life offered, which at this moment meant urging her mare to one last gallop across the meadow into the orchard.

  Sensing her mistress’s mood, Specter whinnied, clearly eager for the run. After spurring the horse to a gallop, Valeria narrowed her eyes, the better to savor the tempest of wind through her hair, against her face. Almost, she could imagine herself back on the vast brown plains of India, racing with Papa and Elliot on her first pony. Sharp longing pierced her for that lazy long-ago when every day brought new vistas, new experiences, and life seemed brimming with possibility. Tears, not entirely from the bite of the wind, pricked at her eyes.

  Not until she was pulling up under the canopy of apple branches did she hear the pounding of hooves behind her. Surprise and dread clenching her chest in nearly equal measure, she turned in the saddle.

  Racing toward her on a magnificent black stallion, golden hair incandescent in the sunlight, came Teagan Fitzwilliams.

  Her hands went to ice, her mind to a blank. When he reined in beside her, laughing, she could think of absolutely nothing to say.

  “Sure, and a fine morning it is for riding, ma’am. ’Tis a lovely mount you’ve got there.”

  His unusual cat-eyes seemed to catch and refract every golden sunbeam, appearing ten times more luminous now than in the shadowed barn yesterday. “Y-your stallion is finer…” she began before, captivated by the twinkle in their kaleidoscope depths, her words trailed off.

  Lady Hardesty was right, she thought wonderingly. His eyes did hypnotize.

  She realized she was still staring, her lips half-open. Lud, she must look like a drooling dimwit.

  So much for enticing him! She felt the heat of embarrassment all the way to her toes.

  Before she wrenched her glance away, though, she got a good enough look to realize that full sunlight magnified not just the attraction of his eyes, but the perfection of every feature—straight nose, high cheekbones, sensual lips, thick hair of a shade that mingled corn silk and strawberry, and cried out for a woman’s fingers to comb through it. Even his tanned skin was marvelous, dusted with an endearing sprinkle of freckles.

  Merciful heavens, how could plain little Valeria Arnold think such a godlike creature would ever give her a second glance?

  Her fingers trembling again, she fumbled to pull the slack reins taut, ready to kick Specter to a canter and ride away before she humiliated herself totally. But when Mr. Fitzwilliams spoke again, courtesy forced her to halt.

  “What reward shall we offer for so capital a run?”

  Kisses was the only idea that popped into her head. As she could scarcely say that, she said nothing.

  “Have you brought no treats? Whist, and with the trees so bare. Mayhap your mare can wait, but the stallion must have his now.”

  Struck by all the double meanings, she jumped when he reached out—then pulled an apple from his jacket pocket.

  He meant the horses. Of course he meant the horses. Another wave of heat scorched her cheeks.

  She ducked her head, mortified. She couldn’t do this. She simply wasn’t cut out for it.

  At last she dared to raise her face, compelled by a need so acute she could taste it, helpless to depart without stealing one last, longing look into the forbidden face of pleasure.

  Motionless, he stared back while she simply watched him, enraptured once more by the dancing light in his eyes.

  Before she could summon the will to tighten her reins and kick her horse forward, Mr. Fitzwilliams jumped down from the saddle and stepped over to trap her gloved hand.

  Her gaze flew back to his.

  “Don’t go, sweet lady,” he whispered.

  Bittersweet anxiety paralyzed her chest, robbed her of breath. She must turn away, she must, before his knowing eyes read in hers the naked hunger blazing there.

  Then he smiled again. “Dismount, if you would. I’ve enough for us both.”

  It took an instant for her to realize he meant the apple. Breaking it in two, he held up a piece and waited.

  She eased herself to the ground. After she took the chunk he offered, he turned to feed his half to the stallion. Specter nipped her fingers when she held on too long to the mare’s portion, watching him, her heartbeat quick-stepping like infantrymen on the attack.

  “T-thank you,” she managed finally.

  “Did you not think I’d come back?” he asked, facing her once more.

  She moistened her dry lips enough to speak. “Nay.”

  “How could I not? There’s unfinished business between us, Lady Arnold.”

  “What busi—oh! You know my name!”

  “I made sure to find out.”

  Panic swept through her and she rifled a glance toward the house. “But I mustn’t be seen—”

  “Whoa, steady now. No one knows I came.”

  “Is a rogue discreet, then?”

  His eyebrows lifted, the half smile fading. “Ah, I see you’ve been warned. It’s flattered I should be, I suppose, if my very appearance in a neighborhood is enough for good folk to spread the alarm.”

  To her surprise, she heard bitterness under the banter.

  “I’m a desperate character, a thief and a rogue. Have I the right of it?”

  “’Tis what I was told,” she admitted.

  “And what does the lady think?”

  Her next words seemed to form of their own accord, without thought or volition. “I want you to kiss me.”

  Aghast when she realized she’d actually spoken the thought aloud, she braced herself for his laughter.

  Instead, the cynical twist left his lips and his smile turned brilliant. “Anything for my lady’s pleasure.”

  After looping his reins around one gloved hand, he stepped to her and tilted her chin up with the other.

  The bottom dropped out of her stomach and she couldn’t feel her fingertips. Every nerve in her body switched off save those at her lips, which awaited in screaming impatience the slow descent of his mouth.

  Her eyes fluttered shut as she felt the warmth of his breath, then the gentle brush of his lips, soft as butterfly wings, teasing. When he brushed her lips again, this time tracing them with the wet blade of his tongue, he had to grab at her waist to keep her from falling.

  The stallion shifted, tugging at the reins, and Teagan backed away. “So sweet,” she thought he murmured, his voice t
hick, his breathing rough. But she wasn’t sure she was hearing properly over the roaring in her ears.

  She simply couldn’t let him ride off yet.

  Desperate purpose stiffened her and she called out, her voice sounding odd and breathy. “Mr. Fitzwilliams! Your…your horse. There’s hay. In—in the barn.” With a jerky motion she indicated the trail toward the manor.

  To her mingled horror and relief, he nodded. And after he assisted her to remount, when she kicked Specter to a trot, his black followed.

  She’d waited for him. A grin of pure delight on his face, Teagan kept Ailainn in line behind Lady Arnold, the better to savor the sight of her trim posterior bouncing on the sidesaddle.

  The black habit was more threadbare than he remembered, but that confirmation of her poverty he readily excused, for the thin material molded that much more closely over the full breasts, slender shoulders and long, graceful line of leg. Curves as enchanting, as enticing as he remembered, and more.

  A day of fantasizing over what he would do with and to those curves had strengthened desire to a fine edge. Teagan wanted his Lady Mystery as he’d not wanted any woman in a very long time.

  But desire was only partly responsible for the savage, purely male satisfaction that swelled his chest. In her every hesitant move, in the enormous dark eyes clouded with confusion and hunger, he read the incredible truth.

  Lady Arnold had never done this before.

  All the women with whom he’d trysted, back to the very first, had been in greater or lesser degree masters of the game of seduction, using with practiced skill all the feminine weapons of enticement.

  Lady Arnold, though, like the half-gentled colts he’d trained in his youth, was attracted but wary, ready to bolt at the first alarm. Her indecision, her utter vulnerability spoke strongly to him on some deep level beyond reason or explanation.

  It sharpened his need, honed every sense knife-blade keen—and filled him with an odd tenderness. Lady Arnold, he vowed, would never regret taking her first lover. He would give her everything for which that yearning, doe-eyed glance begged—everything and more.