“Of course not, but he would hate for you to be putting yourself—”
“But he’s not here. He was never here. My father didn’t know me at all.”
The statement took his breath away. He could imagine a younger Miss Mirren, ever in search of her father’s attention—and ever disappointed. He knew what that felt like.
“If you’ve a mind to act as his proxy,” she continued, “I ask you to disabuse yourself of it. You can’t control me,” she added, as if she wasn’t sure he was getting her point.
He was getting it, all right. It was exactly why he was going to marry her. “Why do you go to St. Dunstan’s every day at three o’clock?” She recoiled a bit—he’d shocked her. “I told you I’m a good spy.”
Her eyes bored into his. “We’re really in this together now?”
“Yes.”
“I go to St. Dunstan’s each day to wait for a man named William Smith, Sally’s son and my best friend. My only friend, really, until Mrs. Burnham came along. He will escape his master—I have reason to believe he already has—and come to us.”
W. Smith—the runaway apprentice from the advertisement! Billy. Was he the reason she’d vowed not to marry? Of course he could not ask that question. “Manning is not his master?”
It seemed she really did trust him now, because she answered unhesitatingly. “He was, but he sold him to another man to apprentice in a cotton mill.”
Why?”
She rose and walked back to the fire, staring at the orange flames for a moment. “Because he was caught trying to escape. Sending him away was a punishment—for all of us.” She looked over her shoulder at him and then glanced at her back.
The gesture hit Blackstone with enough force to take his breath away. The scar. He had known, of course, but to have her confirm that Manning was responsible for it was something else entirely. Fury rose, propelling him to his feet. He welcomed it. “And what will you do when you find Billy?” he asked, striving for a tone that conveyed mild interest instead of the righteous rage that was roiling just below the surface.
“He’ll come to live with us.” Her chin inched up defiantly.
A stab of jealousy took him by surprise. “You mean he’ll come to live with your grandmother. An unwed woman of twenty-three can’t have her own household.”
She pressed her lips together. “He will come to live in my grandmother’s house, yes.”
He couldn’t stand it anymore. “You carry a tendre for him.”
Miss Mirren’s eyes flew open, and for a moment he thought she would slap him. Instead, she let loose a peal of laughter. “Oh my goodness, no!”
He allowed himself a small smile. But as he realized the warm feeling surging through his chest was relief, the smile became a frown.
“Though I did kiss him once.” Laughing again at what was no doubt the incredulous reaction he could not hide, she waved her hands in the air to stave off an indignant response from him. “We were eleven! I forced him. I wanted to practice because I had—”
“Read about kissing in a novel?”
She rolled her eyes. “The point is, it was awful. Like kissing one’s brother. Billy is my brother, or as good as.”
“So your vendetta against Manning has a personal element.”
She did not shrink from the question, but met his eyes and said, simply, “Yes.”
…
Emily didn’t like to think of herself as the kind of person who was motivated by hatred. But when Lord Blackstone asked if her vendetta was personal, the truth rose up inside her, huge and undeniable. “Yes,” she said.
Apparently it was the right answer because he quirked a smile and extended his hand again. She took it this time, and they shook in the masculine style. But unlike the way men did it, he did not let go, causing her to shiver a little, despite the fact that his hand was warm. He tugged until she stumbled forward, and he steered her onto the sofa next to him. Only then did he release her hand.
“Is your vendetta against Mr. Manning personal?” she asked, in part to distract herself from the sense of loss that hit her when he dropped her hand.
“No. It’s never personal.” He spoke quickly enough that she wondered if he was being entirely truthful.
“This other spy,” she said, “Le Cafard? It’s not personal with him?”
“I should go. If we are for Essex tomorrow, there are preparations to make.”
Emily still could not believe he wasn’t going to insist she remain in town while he dealt with the smugglers himself.
“I will go,” he said, sagging against the sofa. She noticed for the first time how tired he looked. “Just tell me something mindless first. Something unrelated to this whole bloody business. Tell me how Angela is working out. How is your hair faring?”
She didn’t know what to make of the request. Since his eyes were closed, she took the opportunity to study his face. The lines around his mouth looked more severe than they had a fortnight ago.
“Angela is working out marvelously,” she said softly, understanding that he wanted to set aside his cares for a while. “It’s a good thing Clareford Manor hasn’t a lady of the house, because she’d have my hide. The girl is a marvel with curls. You probably have no idea, being a gentleman, but curls like mine are very difficult to wrangle.”
Emily talked. And talked some more. Although Blackstone continued to sit with his head on the back of the sofa and his eyes closed, he smiled at all the right places. Eventually, though, his responses ceased and his breath deepened. The infamous insomniac, it seemed, was fast asleep on the sofa in her bedchamber. Rousing him seemed cruel. Perhaps she would just let him sleep for an hour before sending him back into the night.
…
Blackstone awoke to find Miss Mirren asleep, nestled against his chest. He didn’t know which was more unusual, her presence or the fact that he had slept. Waking up with a woman was a curious thing. He’d never done it. Certainly, he’d enjoyed female companionship over the years, but he had never seen the need to remain beyond the main event.
Miss Mirren was warm and soft. He closed his eyes, feeling as if some of her heat was seeping into him. To think, this was the person in all the world that he had feared most. He wondered how Plan B would unfold at the estate. After he did what he needed to do, would they sleep together? Wake up together in a bed? The thought stiffened his already insistent morning erection.
She began to stir. Before she opened her eyes, she smiled and stretched, catlike. It was amusing to watch her realize where she was—or rather, with whom. “We fell asleep,” she said, stating the obvious in a way that was impossible not to find charming.
He tilted his head down to press his forehead against hers. “That was the best sleep I’ve had in…I don’t know when. Years. Thank you.” It was the truth. That’s why the Miss Mirren mission was so confusing—there were bits of truth mixed up in the all the scheming.
She rewarded him with a great, wide smile. Another stretch and she inadvertently brushed a leg against the bulge in his breeches. That gave her pause—but only for a moment. “You don’t appear sleepy now.”
He nearly choked.
Sitting up straighter, she wiped the smile from her face, turning a grave countenance on him. “I should like to speak to you about something.”
He straightened his own spine, preparing to be scolded. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure, but certainly it would be nothing less than he deserved.
“You’ve been very kind to me. I was hoping I could prevail upon you to grant me a favor.”
“Anything. Name it.”
“I’d like to see your…appendage.”
“My what?”
“Your, ah, male appendage. I wouldn’t ask, but I notice that it’s already, um, somewhat visible. You see, I’ve been speaking to Mrs. Burnham, and I don’t want to go to my grave—”
He groaned.
…
“You don’t want to go to your grave without seeing a male appendage,”
Blackstone echoed, standing and walking a few paces away, as if to keep himself safe from her.
It had all seemed so reasonable when she’d rehearsed it in her head just now. But hearing him repeat her request in that affronted, incredulous tone did make it sound rather ridiculous. She stood, too, and tried to clarify. “It’s just that since I’m not going to marry, I’ll never get the opportunity. I hadn’t thought I would be missing anything, but recent events have set me to wondering, and Mrs. Burnham said—”
“Let’s leave Mrs. Burnham out of it, shall we?” His words had a strangled quality to them, but he was facing away from her, so she couldn’t judge how annoyed he was.
Embarrassment became mortification. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, wishing she could disappear. “Never mind. I’m sorry I—oh!”
Her eyes opened to the very sight she’d just requested. Lord Blackstone stood before her dressed only in his shirt, which he was holding bunched at his waist so as not to obscure his…
“Cock,” he said, finishing her thought. “Cock. You should call things what they are.”
The tips of her ears were on fire. She had felt his…cock before, that night in the lake, when their bodies had been pressed together. But to see it here, in all its slightly frightening glory, was a different thing altogether.
“It’s very large,” she said. Large, rippling with veins, and standing at attention. The heat that had started on her face seemed now to be leapfrogging through her body, leaving little pinpricks at her nipples before pooling between her legs.
“Thank you.”
Had she complimented him?
“Is there anything else, or shall I dress?” He took a step toward her, and she tried to compensate by taking a step back, but her legs hit the sofa and buckled, landing her on the soft damask with a muffled thump.
She’d come this far, made herself quite ridiculous, so why not? “May I touch it?” she dared to whisper.
“Yes.” He took another step. “But not too much, or I shall reach the point of no return.”
“And you shall have to ravish me?” she said, trying for a teasing tone, but instead sounding as if she had a frog in her throat.
“No. But I shall have to go behind your privacy screen and bring myself off.” His eyes bored into hers. “Do you know what that means?”
She was a little surprised that he had abandoned all euphemism, talking of his cock, and bringing himself off. She cleared her throat. “I do, ah, surmise your meaning.”
Another step. It bobbed a little as he walked. He was now standing directly in front of her. All she had to do was reach out her hand.
“You’ve read books on the topic, I suspect?”
“I have,” she confirmed. “Yet I must concede your point in this particular case.” Plucking up all her courage, she used her forefinger to barely stroke the shaft, starting at the base.
“My point?” he said, sounding as if someone were strangling him.
It was so hard. Like iron. And yet she knew it to be flesh. How oddly compelling. “Yes. In this case, I concede that practical knowledge trumps theoretical.” Her finger had finished its journey.
“If it’s practical knowledge you want,” he growled, placing his hand over hers, “let me show you.” He placed her whole palm around his shaft and used his own to exert a good amount of pressure. Then he began stroking up and down, swirling their joined hands over the red, engorged head of his member—his cock—every time they came to the tip.
“This is how you would, ah, bring yourself off?” His breath was growing shallower. So was hers.
“Yes.” He dropped his hand. Though she did not look up, she felt his eyes on her face. If she looked at him, she would have to drop her hand. The mortification would be too much.
So she didn’t look at him, just kept her hand moving in the best approximation she could of the caress he had shown her. “And the physical pressure of your own hand is enough?”
“It helps to think of something,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “Or someone.”
She could still feel him watching her. Purposefully, she shrank the circle of her concentration, so she wouldn’t have to feel his regard.
“You have to stop now,” he gasped.
She didn’t want to.
What a revelation! Touching him like this was not only kindling the fires of desire in her own belly, it made her feel powerful. Like she was in charge, and he was the vulnerable one, despite the unyielding steel he was made of.
So she didn’t stop. A little giddy with her command of the situation, she finally raised her eyes to meet his, which sparkled like black diamonds. She saw desire there. And she was its source. “There’s no need to go behind the privacy screen.”
He never took his eyes off hers as his breathing quickened. After a few more strokes, it stopped altogether, and it was as if everything inside him paused for a moment before his legs began to shake slightly.
She felt it then, hot and wet on her hand. “Oh!”
He slumped onto the sofa next to her, naked from the waist down. “I’m sorry,” he panted, letting his head loll back. “You probably didn’t know that would happen.”
“I am acquainted with the mechanics of the act. I just thought it would be more…granular.”
He righted himself to look at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Seed, they call it, do they not? The man plants his seed to make a baby? I just thought it would be less liquid and more—”
“Seedlike?” He quirked a smile, but it didn’t feel as if he were mocking her.
“We should have tried it.” She clasped her hand over her mouth. Dear God! Had she really said that? He was making her impossibly bold.
He coughed. “Making a baby?”
“Good heavens, no! It’s not the right time for that for at least another week.” Oh, heavens, she was making it worse.
He narrowed his eyes. Finally, he said, “You are well-read in the theory of the matter.”
There was no way to explain her brazenness but the truth. “I just thought that, um, all of this is turning out to be less unpleasant than I had expected.” Indeed, who could have predicted the skittering, hot feelings that could be summoned by being in proximity with a man like Lord Blackstone? “I’d like to have some nontheoretical experiences since I’m—”
“Not going to marry,” he finished for her.
He understood! She nodded, hoping the sudden rush of desire shooting up her spine was not too obvious.
“While you flatter me with your interest, this isn’t the right time.”
“But I just told you that my courses just finished and—oh.”
He had walked to the window and lifted the curtain to reveal the dawn. Dash, it was morning, come too soon, just like in Juliet’s bedroom. She nodded her understanding, and he quickly dressed.
She looked down at herself. How was it possible she was still wearing the same unremarkable cotton gown she’d worn to St. Dunstan’s yesterday? After all that had occurred, shouldn’t she appear more…ruined?
“I will send my carriage around at noon,” he said, opening the window.
“Hadn’t I better go in Catharine’s?”
“Why? Because proper chaperonage is so important to you all of a sudden?”
She didn’t know how to answer that. Clearly, she was no longer a woman who could claim to care for propriety.
A finger darted out to smooth the space between her eyebrows. “Stop that. Everything is going to be fine.”
Not waiting for a response, he turned and leaped to the closest bough, leaving her alone. Alone and very, very curious.
Chapter Fifteen
It was the goddamned Smythe twins. “Blast,” Blackstone muttered, slowing his horse as he spied them waving in the distance. He sighed as they drew closer to the giggling girls, dressed in muslin dresses identical save for their color. As usual, one wore yellow, the other, blue.
“Lord Blackstone,” one of them
called, as the carriage came to a halt. Catharine poked her head out, followed by Miss Mirren.
“What a wonderful surprise!” trilled the other twin, scrambling over a low fence that marked the line between Blackstone’s lands and their father’s.
He and Bailey bowed from atop their horses as they approached. “You will remember Mrs. Burnham and Miss Mirren,” he said, gesturing to the ladies, who made their greetings from inside the carriage.
The yellow twin looked from him to the ladies, a question in her eyes. The blue one stepped forward and remarked, “We didn’t know you were coming for another visit so soon, Lord Blackstone.”
“It’s not really a visit.” An idiotic thing to say—of course it was a visit. They were here, weren’t they? He couldn’t blame the blue girl for acquiring a look of confusion to match her sister’s. “It’s not a social visit,” he amended. “We’re here on business.” Bailey issued a warning cough, but Blackstone had a cover story at the ready. And this one would do double duty. It would explain the presence of the ladies, and it would be distasteful enough that the Smythes would not call while they were here—he hoped. “I am thinking of opening a school for pauper children at the manor,” he said, relishing the girls’ shocked gasps.
“Perhaps you have heard of Mrs. Burnham’s school?” he asked mildly, knowing full well they had.
He didn’t wait for them to do more than nod. “I’m thinking of opening a sister school. We’re here to assess the possibility. All this fresh sea air would be so beneficial for the little ones, don’t you think?” Their slack jaws made it hard for him to keep his face neutral. “Miss Mirren”—he gestured toward but did not look back at the carriage—“will serve as headmistress.” He heard a gasp he recognized as Miss Mirren’s, lower and less dramatic than those of the Smythe twins. This must be why people were so fond of jests. Knowing one was alarming one’s friends was surprisingly satisfying.
He bowed. “Give my regards to your family.” The party set off again, leaving the dumbfounded Misses Smythe standing by the side of the road, eyes wide and mouths ajar.
…
In her limited experience with the aristocracy, Emily found that most of its members did not properly appreciate their portrait galleries. Admittedly, though, her sample size was limited to the handful of houses she had visited with Sarah—and here, Clareford Manor.
The Miss Mirren Mission Page 19
