by Jess Russell
She stared stiffly in front of her.
Did she not mean to even favor him with an answer? Unprepared for the possibility of refusal, he was unsure how to go forward.
Finally she spoke, her words barely above a whisper. “I wish to go home.”
A bitter rawness filled his chest. “You make me no answer?”
She looked at him then. He almost wished she hadn’t. “Trust me; you will not like my answer.”
“On the contrary, I am most anxious to hear what you have to say.” He heard the words as they left his mouth, but they were a lie. He wanted to stop her answer with his hands, with his mouth.
“Ah, you are used to being answered. You are used to having your way in things. But I assure you, you will not have me.” The ribbon snapped on her golden mask, and she threw it aside. “No doubt, I am insanely foolish to refuse your most generous offer, but it is much too costly for me. Oh yes, I’m sure I would be draped in silks and jewels and have servants galore, but I would not have myself, you see. I would be just one more thing for you to own. No, I thank you; be assured your entire dukedom could not buy my freedom.”
Was his offer so abhorrent? His person?
The image of his father swelled like a hideous phantom.
She did not want him.
The pain and humiliation of this realization would have knocked him sideways if he had allowed it, but he did not. Instead he gave her his most freezing look, his shield now firmly in place.
“Ah, I see. My deepest apologies. I will trouble you no further.” He looked away, dismissing her.
As if on cue, the coach pulled to a stop and the door opened. She slid past him. He dug his fingers into his thighs and pressed his tongue painfully against his teeth. A mist of fine rain dampened his face as his footman lowered the steps and assisted Mrs. Weston out of the carriage. She murmured something. But before she could turn, Rhys pulled the door shut and rapped on the roof. The coach lurched forward.
Olivia’s hand shook trying to fit the key in the door. Blasted rain! It had turned from gentle to an outright downpour in a matter of seconds, now running down her forehead, into her eyes and down her cheeks. Finally, the lock clicked, and she pushed into the dank vestibule pausing only to slam the door home. She rushed up the narrow set of stairs while working at the frog closures of her soggy cloak. Her foot caught in its hem, and she yanked the heavy wool to her knees. At the top of the stairs, her breath roaring in her ears, she ripped the cape off as if it were the cause of her distress and kicked at the mangled heap.
Why? Why was she so furious?
Stepping over the cloak, Olivia laid her hand and then ear against the door listening for any rustlings or coughs from within the next room. All was quiet. Thank goodness. She was in no mood to face Egg.
Picking up her cloak from the floor, she moved into the main room.
The dinner had been hideous.
The man had absolutely no skills at conversation, much less wooing. He had been extremely polite, almost to the point of absurdity. As if he had practiced his words like a piece to be recited, and even he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. But as stilted pleasantries fell from his lips, his eyes, often shuttered and remote, were telling a different story.
She had glimpsed sorrow, even despair.
And lust. Yes, his head and heart were most defiantly at odds with each other; strict denial paired with intense hunger. Banal gibberish underscored with white hot lust. She knew it to be lust because she felt the same tug and fullness in her own body.
She had tried to ignore these baser feelings and draw him out, to divine anything that might prove fertile ground for a mental connection. But there was nothing there to divine. Oh, he made an ineffectual pass at speaking of his work in the Lords, and possibly there was a bit of passion when he spoke of his estates and his horse, but not one of these topics included an actual person. But why should she even care? She would never have to see him again. She should be thrilled.
She kicked off her slippers and then rubbed the small of her back as she laid her cloak over a chair, fingering a ruined clasp.
And why had she been so indignant at his offer? She was no priggish miss. She knew the way of the world and all the signs that made it a man’s dominion. She knew as a mere female her space within that sphere was narrow and confined. And, as a woman nearing her twenty-ninth birthday, with no real family or connections, her own personal realm was infinitely smaller still.
Lud, what had she expected from the man? And a duke no less? Did she expect marriage? This last thought brought her over the edge into hysterical laughter. She found herself on the floor, tasting tears.
They had danced. They had waltzed to Vivaldi. He had held her within his arms and, heaven help her, it had been magic. The world had opened up wide, and they were the only two figures within that freeing space. She had opened.
Punishing herself, she pushed to expose the emotion that lay under her sorrow, welcoming the stab of humiliation. She had made herself vulnerable, had let herself yearn and want. The realization brought clarity to her weeping, and now released, she heaved her sadness in great gulping sobs at the embers smoldering in the cooling grate.
Finally calm, she stood and quietly removed the gold gown and found her wrapper where Egg must have thoughtfully left it.
She touched her mouth where his lips had been, finding where her teeth had cut into the inner flesh, and welcomed the sting. His kiss was certainly not that of a consummate lover, far from it. It was elemental and raw, almost sloppy, teeth and lips banging and bruising. But, oh, what he lacked in finesse he more than made up with…want. Like a starving child who had suddenly been given heavenly bread and treacle. The kiss had been that of a starved man. It made her both want to cry and to fill him till he was bursting, to give him that which he so craved. What he desired. Herself. And if she were honest, what she desired as well.
She would never willingly be his mistress, never be his on contractual terms. Being bought and paid for was loathsome but to be with him, to fill him…
Olivia pulled pins from her hair. What would he look like? Would he be hairless? Or would he have a mat of fine black hair trailing down to an arrow over his flat stomach ending in a nest of dark at his cock?
Absently, she smoothed the placket opening of her wrapper feeling the soft, worn cotton. How big would he be? She gasped as her fingers brushed her nipple. How would his testicles fill her hands? Would they be loose and flowing or would they be drawn up tight and hard with need? She squeezed her breast. And what would he smell like—his particular musk? Would it be sweet or earthy? Would he cry out with his release, or would he be mute?
Her hands had found her own secret place. It had been so long since she had touched herself, but she was wet and ready. She moved one of her hands up again to her breast—the barest touch—and then plunged her longest finger into her waiting flesh and convulsed around skin and bone.
Dear God, she wanted him.
****
It was truly raining now.
James was stammering his eighth apology as Rhys descended from the coach.
“It is finished,” Rhys said, almost to himself. Then, in a firmer tone, “See to that wheel and give an extra measure to the cattle.” He brushed aside the proffered umbrella and made his way into the house.
Yes, it was finished. He would not have his heart’s desire. Well, it wasn’t as if he was unused to the feeling. Yet, with this woman, it was so hard to bear.
Tinsley was at the bedchamber door. Rhys submitted to the valet’s ministrations, raising the appropriate arm or leg. It was a ritual they knew as well as breathing.
Quiet and efficient, Tinsley finished quickly and left with a brief, “Goodnight, Your Grace.”
Long after the valet had left the chamber, Rhys lay in bed and stared into the deep blue silk canopy. The ribbon from her mask slid over and over between his fingers. He felt an enormous pressure behind his eyelids—as if his eyeballs were to
o big for their sockets—and then the sensation of wetness. The wet slid slowly across his cheeks and rolled into his ears.
Chapter Ten
“Foster!” Daria shouted as she thrust her dripping ice into her maid’s waiting hands.
“May I dispose of it, madam?” Foster whined.
Daria stopped in the process of drawing on her gloves.
“Oh, bother.” She turned back, gesturing for the sweet. “No, no, you hold it.” The cream threatened to ooze over its paper cone onto Foster gloves as Daria savored a last lapping bite, and then she dismissed the maid and cone at once.
“Madam—”
Daria held up her hand to silence the woman and then paused, torn between another bite and her business ahead. “Enough. I have had enough.” She stepped away from the carriage.
“But, madam—” Foster shifted the dripping cone.
“Confound it, woman, I have no need of you. Wait in the carriage.”
The maid, her face pinched, gave up and switched the dripping cone to her other hand.
Daria turned away, barely registering the sound of a splat followed by a “Bloody hell” from somewhere behind her. She jerked on her last glove, adjusted her tippet, and pushed into Weston’s shop ready for battle.
“I vow I have never seen such a rig,” Weston exclaimed when Daria stepped through the door. “I tell you it housed an entire three-tiered birdcage complete with finches singing ‘Ode to Thee.’” Weston had piled a wad of netting atop her head and was swanning about the shop, tweeting and flapping like a bird as her partner, Wiggins, doubled over with laughter.
The women had not even heard the bell. Daria cleared her throat. “I presume you must be describing old lady Fitzhugh’s latest coiffure?”
“Mrs. Battersby,” the older woman stammered, glancing sideways at her partner, who, still swathed in netting, was wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Oh, Mrs. Battersby, I do beg your pardon.” Weston began unwinding the yards of netting from her head. “I am afraid you caught us in a moment of levity.”
“Think nothing of it,” Daria said, drawn to the beautiful length of sarcenet draping the large cutting table. “Fitz is as ridiculous as she is old. Several years ago, she painted her entire body black—and I do mean entire—and dressed herself as a page from East Africa. And as if that was not enough, she had a footman lower the chandelier and he hoisted her—” Daria stopped. “Never mind.” She abandoned the fabric. “Suffice to say she has become quite tame of late.” She turned her full attention to the younger woman, who had successfully removed the netting and was just managing to pat her hair into some semblance of order. Her mussed beauty set Daria’s teeth on edge.
“So, Mrs. Weston, it would appear you have been quite busy in these last few weeks.”
“Busy?” Weston’s brows rose and then settled. “Oh, yes. We are busy now. Mrs. Wiggins and I have just received a most generous order.”
“Yes, Eveline Barton.” Daria waved her hand.
The two women exchanged a surprised look.
“You know very well, I am not talking of Barton or her dresses. I am speaking of Roydan. The Duke of Roydan.”
“The duke? I am not sure I comprehend.” Weston glanced at her partner, and Daria caught Wiggins’s look of confusion and surprise. Ah, so Weston was keeping the Roydan affair to herself. Daria filed this tidbit away. Possibly something she could mine later.
“Oh, please, there is no need to be missish with me, Mrs. Weston. You know all too well how busy you have been and with whom.”
The woman had the good sense to remain silent.
“Now, let us set about how we—”
“Excuse me, madam, but I don’t think we have anything to discuss.”
Insufferable chit. “I see.” Daria’s eyes narrowed. “We will play it your way.” Adopting her most regal attitude, she looked about and lowered herself into the nearest of a pair of chairs, her performance only slightly hindered by the fact that the chair was obviously made for a child and not a reasonably sized person. Now settled, she turned her entire attention to the woman standing before her. In her experience this usually reduced an inferior to a quivering mass; however, it seemed less than effective in Weston’s case. No matter.
Daria cleared her throat. “If I must spell it out, I refer to your appearance with Roydan at Mrs. Parkington’s mask last evening.” Weston seemed genuinely surprised, and her partner, totally shocked. “You have certainly changed your spots, Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth. Well, I give you full marks for seeing an opportunity and taking it.”
Weston squared her shoulders. “Madam, I do not begin to know to what you are referring.”
“Come now,” Daria chided. “You saw an opening and you took it. You slipped right in shall we say.”
“Now listen here, Mrs. Battersby!” Wiggins started forward.
“No, Egg. Let her finish.”
“You are wise, Mrs. Weston. Yes, I think it is best we get this all settled as soon as may be. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Wiggins? It is loathsome to have secrets among friends, is it not?” Satisfied the older woman got the message, she gave her attention back to Weston.
“I would hate for you to get your hopes up for naught.” Daria looked the younger woman and down. “Oh la, what a joke! You are not even his type. As slim as a willow with no bosom to speak of. I could hardly credit it when I saw you arrive at the mask with my dear Rhys. It is obvious he chose Parkington’s mask, knowing I would be in attendance. I am very much afraid you were only a pawn in his scheme to make me jealous, my dear Mrs. Weston. Poor Roydan, he was never much for an apology.”
Weston shared a speaking look with her partner. “Mrs. Battersby, I am sorry to contradict you, but it was I who wanted to attend Mrs. Parkington’s affair. Your ‘Dear Rhys’ begged me to have him as my escort.”
Daria itched to pop the obnoxious woman on her pert nose, but realized it would be difficult to rise with any real grace and abandoned the idea. Instead, she held her place, looking as much down her nose as possible, which was rather difficult being situated so much lower than Weston. “Do you take me for a fool? The duke does not beg anyone to do anything. And he never allows the use of his Christian name—excepting by myself of course,” she added hastily. “I can see you know nothing of him and his ways.” A wicked thought occurred to her. “I collect you have not even shared his bed yet, have you?” Sweet Jezebel, the woman actually blushed. “No, I can see you have not.”
“Mrs. Battersby, I will have to ask you to remove yourself now, as we are expecting a paying customer.”
“I had hoped we could be civil about this, Weston. But I see that will not be the case. How dare you presume to poach on my territory? You who are no one? You may deceive the duke with your games and eye flutterings, but you will not deceive me! I have put down ten times the likes of you, and I will again. You mark my words.”
“My dear Mrs. Battersby, I would not dream of interfering in your conjugal bliss. By all means take him,” Weston paused and with a nasty smile continued, “if you can.”
Daria felt the beginnings of what felt, shockingly, like defeat. Livid, she hefted herself out of her chair.
“Oh you think you are so clever, but let me give you a word to the wise. Roydan is not called the Monk for nothing. Believe me, I have used my considerable prowess to inspire him to, shall we say, greater heights, but to no avail. He is, quite simply, a dullard in the boudoir. I told him so last evening when he cornered me to beg me to come back to him.”
The woman only smiled wider.
Daria felt very much like a small child who had just had the head of her favorite doll snapped off by an evil playfellow.
How had this interview got away from her? And why the devil did they keep the room so bloody warm? She had allowed this woman to rile her when she was here to set the hook. His lordship was very specific in his instructions, and she had made a hash of it with her jealousy.
Daria resisted the
urge to swipe her upper lip. “Believe it or not Weston, I came as a friend. I, like you, have been disappointed with life’s trials once or twice in my life. I know what it is to make your way in an unfair world, and I wanted to extend an opportunity to you.”
“An opportunity?”
“Well, an invitation really, to the Dillingham ball.” She drew a card out of her reticule and placed it on the cutting table. “I happen to know her ladyship personally, and though she is newly raised from her humble beginnings, she still has the taste of an actress. She would be the perfect patroness for your shop.” Weston’s gaze went to the card.
“Well,” Daria continued, “I will not keep you. You obviously have much to do.”
Daria moved swiftly to the shop door. Weston did not know with whom she was dealing. But she would, oh yes, she would.
“Oh madam—” Wiggins ran after her.
Daria turned with slow dignity.
“Yes, woman?”
“I do beg your pardon…”
Daria cast her most magnanimous look at Weston and turned back to Mrs. Wiggins. “It is not for you to apologize, Wiggins. But we women must stick together and let bygones be bygones.”
“No, Mrs. Battersby, I only meant to mention you seem to have some residual food crusted to your—chins.”
Daria’s hand shot halfway to her mouth before she recovered her composure. Wiggins raised a small hand mirror to Daria’s face along with a handkerchief.
Looking in the mirror Daria saw, as plain as the nose on her face, a large blob of dried whitish cream on her chin. Her mind flashed back to Foster and her nattering. Drat.
She darted a look at Weston but saw only studied composure. Daria calmly took the proffered handkerchief, dabbed at the mess, folded it neatly and handed it carefully back to Wiggins. Turning, she waited for the woman to open the door, and walked through it without a backward glance, but not before she heard the eruption of laughter.
