My Lady's Pleasure

by Julia Justiss

  But for the first time in her life, she was with a man who not only could bring her to a level of pleasure she hadn’t dreamed possible, but one who stimulated her mind and evoked her laughter as readily as he stirred her senses. No love she’d before experienced, certainly not for her father or Elliot or even for Hugh, had made her feel so closely bonded to another human soul.

  If only to herself, Valeria admitted she had committed the unpardonable sin of falling in love with Teagan Fitzwilliams. She knew the catechism of punishment well enough to realize she would probably soon be suffering the torments of the damned. But for now, she intended to drain every honeyed drop in the wine of this short-lived, unexpected gift. And let the future worry about itself.

  She’d managed to keep herself from asking how long Teagan meant to stay, knowing any answer shorter than “forever” would be impossible to bear, knowing she dare not count on her increasingly feeble pride to prevent her begging him to remain longer.

  He would be here until he rode away, she thought as she climbed out of bed. And he would not ride away today.

  The Lord be praised for Wilkins’s busy tongue, Teagan concluded as his brown gelding trotted beside Valeria’s gig. He’d feared when he recklessly invited himself along today that his presence might be met with wary hostility or, even worse, give rise to immediate suspicions about their relationship. But the story of his dashing rescue had apparently spread about the countryside, for he was greeted wherever they went with almost as much curiosity and acclaim as Valeria herself.

  ’Twas quite a novelty, being welcomed as a hero.

  His enjoyment of that notoriety did not approach the pleasure of spending a whole day in Valeria’s stimulating and knowledgeable company. He’d managed his grandfather’s stud farm over several summers, and was impressed by the breadth of her acquaintance with agricultural procedures. As was the estate manager, Mr. Parker, who accompanied them and often sought her opinion.

  But what enchanted Teagan most was simply contemplating the contrast between the decorously gowned Lady Arnold conducting estate business with her retainers—and the naked, candlelight-dappled enchantress who only a few hours ago had acted out his most erotic fantasies.

  The proper decorum they had to maintain before the estate agent and the various tenants, rather than frustrating him, seemed to enhance the power of their wordless communication. The lingering glances, hands that almost but not quite touched, the brush of his sleeve against her skirts as he helped her down from the gig—each revived a bit of the magic of that midnight interlude. Who would have thought propriety could be so arousing?

  As the hour approached noon, Valeria pull up the gig.

  “Mr. Fitzwilliams and I will lunch by the river, Mr. Parker. You are welcome to join us, or since we are near your sister’s farm, you might wish to visit there.”

  Mr. Parker’s face brightened. “That is most kind, Lady Arnold. If you are perfectly sure you will not need me, I should like to stop at Susan’s.”

  “Please go, then, and give your sister my regards.”

  “Of course, Lady Arnold. Thank you again.”

  Teagan’s pulses sped as the estate agent departed. “Freeing us from our chaperone, my lady?”

  Valeria gave him a demure look from under her lowered lashes. “Mr. Parker fair dotes on his nephews, and never misses an opportunity to see them. And with you to carry the basket, I don’t expect I shall need his assistance at luncheon. Unless you would like to recall him?”

  “Certainly not. I am here to serve your pleasure,” Teagan said, taking the basket she indicated.

  “I hope so,” she murmured. “Follow me, please?”

  Bemused, Teagan followed, not sure what his Lady Mystery had in mind. But after they crossed a field and penetrated beyond a screen of trees, he stopped short. “Ah, ’tis lovely!”

  Valeria turned back to him, his awe mirrored on her face. “Is it not beautiful?”

  Down a steep, wooded incline he saw a sun-dappled clearing beside a swiftly flowing, crystalline river, its far bank protected by a thick copse of oaks.

  “Mr. Parker showed me the place on my first tour of Winterpark,” she told him as they picked their way down the trail. “’Tis where all the lads swim in summer, he said.”

  Teagan noted the river’s shallowness and seclusion. “It looks ideal for that. And for a picnic.” He chose a wide oak at the clearing’s edge and set down the basket. “My lady, your banquet awaits.”

  She offered her hand, and he eased her to a seat on the blanket she’d spread, then sat beside her, her hand still in his. The afterglow of intimacy shared, the promise of passion to come, shimmered in the air.

  Teagan stared at her lips, already thirsting to kiss her. “This,” he said, “is going to be a very long day.”

  “And I thought you were enjoying yourself!”

  “Your company is a delight. But after last night, I find myself impatient to be your close friend once more.”

  Her lips curved into a smile. Slowly she lowered her eyes to his neck cloth.

  Best redirect this conversation, lest he forget Mr. Parker would soon be rejoining them. Shifting uncomfortably, Teagan released her hand. “Whist, my naughty sprite, how you set me ablaze with only a glance! But tell me, are you enjoying yourself here? Winterpark looks to be a heavy responsibility. Will you stay here to manage it, or leave it in Mr. Parker’s capable hands and return to London? If rumors of Lady Winterdale’s wealth are correct, you have the freedom to do whichever you like.”

  Valeria looked up from the package of cold chicken she was unwrapping. “Perhaps I shall stay here…I’m not sure as yet. I’ve never had a settled home. Given Papa’s numerous postings, we never stayed long in one location.”

  Nor, shuffled from one unwilling relative to the next, had he. He could well understand her uncertainty.

  She offered Teagan the meat and cheese, then accepted the glass of wine he’d poured. “Having experienced the whirlwind of a Season once, I’ve little desire to return to London and live among Society. Once I have Winterpark settled, perhaps I shall travel.”

  “And where would you go, Miss Adventurer?”

  “I’ve always envied gentlemen, who, if they had the funds might journey wherever they wished. Now that I have funds, perhaps I shall become one of those eccentric ladies who tour exotic foreign lands. Before I resign myself to a lifetime of Ladies Aid Society meetings and parish charity work, there is so much left to see!”

  She made a sweeping gesture toward the river near their feet. “I’d like to barge the Euphrates and pole down the Nile. Cross the Alps and climb the foothills of the Himalayas. Sleep in the shadows of the Pyramids, and walk barefoot on the sands of Cadiz!”

  Her ardent enthusiasm brought a smile to his face. But recalling the wealth that would enable such travels led him to the unpleasant truth that so rich a widow was most unlikely to end up an eccentric explorer. A surge of indignation rose in his chest at the thought of his Lady Mystery being cajoled by some gentleman into giving up control of her estates—and her dreams.

  And suddenly he felt compelled to ask, “Would you take no companion on those adventures?”

  She grew still, then looked up at him. “I might.”

  He grew still as well, trapped by the yearning in her gaze. Helpless, he leaned toward her. She met him halfway, just a gentle nuzzle of lips, sweet and impossibly arousing.

  “Perhaps we should have kept our chaperone, after all,” Teagan murmured unsteadily.

  “And why is that?”

  “With no maid to attend you and no ironing girl in sight, I cannot proceed where I’d like if we’re to emerge from this glen with your reputation intact.”

  A sparkle danced in her eyes. “A dilemma, but…”

  His temperature shot up at that small hesitation.

  “’Tis true,” she said in a musing tone, as if calculating a problem in mathematics, “that I cannot remove or replace so fashionable a gown without proper
assistance—quite an argument against fashion, I must say! Nor is there a way to conceal a neck cloth wrinkled beyond repair. But—” she reached for the top button of his waistcoat “—even if your cravat remains tied, I see…possibilities.”

  His heartbeat sped to a gallop and his mouth dried. “D-do you?” he stuttered.

  “The army teaches one to be very resourceful,” she murmured, freeing the two top buttons of his waistcoat and one in the shirt beneath.

  “Praise the Lord for army training.”

  He reached for her, but she batted away his hand. “We’ve already established that Lady Arnold must remain pristine. You, my dear close friend, are easier to tidy.”

  By the saints, she had learned her lessons well. She pushed him gently back against the tree trunk and slipped one more button free, her fingers dipping beneath the cloth such that the edge of her nail just grazed his nipple.

  A moan escaped him. “Valeria, love—”

  She shushed him with a finger to his lips, and he abandoned any attempt to speak. One button at a time, she bared his chest from collarbone to waist, all the while watching him, just watching, eyes avid and plump lips pursed. Slower still, she freed the fastenings of his breeches, careful now to touch only fabric.

  The soft breeze brought shivers to the intimate skin she exposed, further hardened his aching fullness. Though almost completely clothed, he felt more naked now than he’d ever felt undressed.

  “Valeria, torturess, what are you doing?” he groaned, when for long charged moments she neither stroked nor kissed, touching him only with her eyes.

  She smiled. “Admiring the…scenery. But I suppose you should find it difficult riding in that state?”

  The mere thought dragged from him another strangled moan, which apparently was answer enough, for she nodded. “Then I shall have to correct that. So, mo muirnin.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What would you have me do?”

  The cool air caressing his nakedness seemed to fan, rather than mitigate, the inferno scorching his heavily clad back, legs and shoulders. As did her naughty, knowing look while she awaited his answer. Imagining what she might do with her cool satin fingers and hot velvet mouth nearly brought him to climax.

  Not being at all shy, he had no trouble voicing his preferences. And with a hungry intensity that suggested she’d been saving him for dessert, she hurried to comply.

  By the time, a heart-stopping interval of supreme bliss later, he had revived sufficiently to recover sight and breath, Valeria was gathering the remnants of the picnic food. She took the last sip of wine and conveyed it from her mouth to his.

  “Don’t,” she ordered when he moved his still-shaking hands to try to rebutton his garments. “I shall attend to those directly.”

  And so, while he sat there bemused, she proceeded to put up food, glasses, napkins, plates, pausing at intervals to cast lingering, provocative glances at the unclothed portion of his anatomy. After finishing with the picnic things, she knelt beside him, once more making a leisurely exploration of his mouth while refastening his garments with soft, glancing touches, until he was nearly ready to begin all over again.

  “That,” he pronounced after she’d dismissed with an airy wave of her hand his protest at being informed they must now return to the gig, “was definitely cheating.”

  She made a little moue of her lips, prim as a nun. “No more so than you were last night.”

  “Ah, but last night we played more than one hand. Whereas you’ve just called the game to a halt.”

  “There’s always tonight, isn’t there?”

  He caught her by the shoulders and pulled her to him, claimed her lips in a quick assault that within seconds splintered her facade of matronly composure.

  “Yes, sweeting,” he whispered, bracing her shaking body against him, savage satisfaction filling him at the intensity of the response he evoked in her, “you can wager on tonight.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  W ith a whistle and a spring in his step, Teagan entered the breakfast parlor. Valeria was not present, but he hadn’t expected her to be. Given the paucity of rest they’d had last night, he wouldn’t be surprised if, her duties requiring her to remain at the manor today, she slept until noon.

  However, awakened by the bright sun streaming in his window, despite his scant two hours’ slumber Teagan had never felt more alive, more energized. Since, having crept back to his own room in the predawn stillness, he could not doze with Valeria in his arms, he’d decided to rise and dress. He was, he’d realized with a grin, quite famished.

  As if she’d been watching for him, a moment later Valeria’s nurse Mercy walked in. Even the dour look on the woman’s face as she gazed at him could not dent his high spirits.

  “And a lovely good day to ye, Mistress Mercy,” he sang out, strolling over to fill a plate at the sideboard.

  “Mr. Fitzwilliams,” the nurse responded.

  “Do you bring me a message? Or is it just that, it bein’ such a beauteous morning, ye’re wishful of conversin’ with me today.”

  “I bring no message…from my mistress.”

  Grinning, Teagan continued. “Sure, on such a day a stroll in the gardens would be just the thing. Or, as I remember ye’re not much for strollin,’ perhaps later I could take ye and your mistress for a drive.”

  “My mistress, having work to do, has departed.”

  Teagan looked up in surprise. “I thought she wasn’t to ride out today.”

  “Parker summoned her early. An accident at the mill. She went to assist.”

  Teagan halted in the midst of buttering his toast. How early? he wondered with a spurt of unease. He recalled her bedchamber as he’d left it in the misty predawn—sheets in disarray, her night rail flung on the side chair, the lingering odor of lovemaking potent in the air.

  Mercy would have gone to awaken her.

  He glanced over to find the nurse staring at him, accusation in her eyes, and felt a flush mount his cheeks.

  She watched him steadily while the attending footman poured him coffee, waiting until the servant left the room.

  “’Tis I who have a message for you, Mr. Fitzwilliams,” Mercy said quietly after the man’s exit. “Don’t do this to her. ’Tis crime enough that you’ll shatter my poor mistress’s heart when you go. Winterpark can be a haven for her, with work to help her heal. Go now, before ’tis too late. Don’t leave her to deal with the shame of a bastard brat.”

  Before he could think what to reply, she walked out.

  His high spirits vanishing with his appetite, Teagan stared at his chilling toast and cooling coffee.

  He knew Mercy had disapproved of their London excursions together. For the first time, he saw his sojourn here through her eyes as well.

  A feckless, indigent gamester with no money and few prospects. Valeria’s irresponsible lover, taking advantage of her goodwill, living off her largesse.

  The image sickened him.

  Though he’d never sunk to accepting the hospitality of a lady to whom he was not sincerely attracted, he had on several occasions dallied with women who supplied him with comforts for the duration of their liaison. Those females weren’t fit to mention in the same breath as Valeria.

  Their time together, from the very first meeting at Eastwoods, had been far more than a meaningless tryst based on lust and mutual convenience. Regardless of how it might appear to Mercy—or any other uninvolved outsider.

  Surely Valeria knew the truth of that, didn’t she?

  For a moment the need overwhelmed him to run to the stables, ride out to find her, assure her…of what?

  That he loved her? That a half-breed Irish gambler of no income and dubious reputation begged the honor of the pure, lovely, rich Lady Arnold’s affection?

  What did he know of love, beyond the hazy memory of a six-year-old in his dying mother’s embrace? But if it meant the mere sight of her filled him with gladness, her wit and intelligence drew him so strongly he wanted to be nowhere el
se but at her side, and her touch had the power to melt him where he stood, then love her he did.

  Buttressed by the hope of asking for her hand, he could steel himself to a new round of gaming, and having redeemed his debts, could return and ask her to marry him.

  But though that would protect her from the dishonor of conceiving a bastard, it would do little to preserve her reputation. In fact, he thought, remembering with humiliation and chagrin the tarnish still clinging to his mother’s name, it might well expose her to permanent derision for being, like Lady Gwyneth, foolish—and wanton—enough to cast herself away on an Irish wastrel.

  If he truly wished to protect her, the best thing, as Mercy urged, was to leave her. Leave, and never come back.

  The very idea of it made him want to howl with anguish. Only then did he realize how completely Valeria’s essence had seeped into every pore of his being, so that the thought of living without her seemed no life at all.

  He might as well choose the pistol.

  Mercy was right, though; he should leave soon, before the servants began to murmur about his nocturnal wanderings. Before the full significance of the energy flashing between himself and Valeria became apparent to more than her faithful nurse. Before her credit and her credibility suffered in her household and her neighborhood.

  How much longer was safe—a day, maybe two? And even that, if he touched her, would risk the possibility of a child. How could he manage to stay without touching her?

  The enormity of impending loss sucked the energy from his body, left him too listless even to rise from the table. After Robbin, brow creased in concern, asked him for the third time if he wished more coffee, Teagan forced himself up and drifted down the hall, feeling already like a sacrificial offering about to be stripped of his soul.

  Without remembering how he’d gotten there, he found himself in the library. Mechanically he began to reshelve the volumes he’d left strewn on the library desk—a task so reminiscent of his exit in disgrace from Oxford that he had to choke down a bitter laugh at the irony.