by Stacy Reid
“Mrs. Layton,” he said, a bit too icily, for in her widened eyes he spied confusion at his terseness. Directing his attention back to his mother, he asked, “Have you compiled the list of eligible ladies?”
“Oh, Oliver, I am so pleased you are taking such interest. Mrs. Layton and I were just discussing the best candidates,” she said, plucking a sheaf of paper from the small table and handing it to him.
More likely his mother had been chatting constantly, and Mrs. Layton had politely listened with that fascinating expression she wore of genuine interest and sympathy. He was glad his mother had hired her. She had been somewhat melancholy of late and had seemed to be sinking further away. He had encouraged her to be out more in society and hadn’t protested when she informed him the late Vicar Layton’s widow would take up residence at Belgrave Manor. Mrs. Layton had been an unexpected surprise. She seemed to be witty and charming and, to his mother’s delight, engaged her quite artfully on various topics. The last discussion he had overheard was on the mating habits of rabbits.
His lips twitched at the recollection. “I will leave you ladies to your needlework and peruse this list at leisure in the library.”
“Wonderful,” his mother said with a wide smile. “Dinner will be at eight. I will arrange for Lady Victoria to be seated beside you. The earl’s daughter is quite a delight and a very accomplished painter. I thought that would give you something to talk about, given your common interest.”
He dipped his head in farewell then spun on his heel. As he neared the door he faltered, an awareness teasing his consciousness. He glanced back at Mrs. Layton, who had been watching him depart. She flushed but curiously did not look away.
“You are out of mourning, Mrs. Layton.” He was used to her in widow’s weeds. Black or dark gray had been her choice for the six months she had been within his household.
“I… Yes, it has been two years.”
Inexplicably, he lingered over her features. There was something else different about her. Ah…her hair. No longer did she wear the odious white cap that normally hid her hair. He’d seen wisps peeking from beneath the cap, but never could Oliver have imagined the glorious beauty she had suppressed.
She had the darkest, wine-colored red hair he had ever seen. God’s blood.
She graced him with a tentative smile. He stared at her mouth, unable to take his eyes off her sensual lips. By some thoroughly irritating twist of fate, his mother had hired the one woman he found himself unwillingly attracted to. A dependent in his home. And the undoubtedly prudish widow of a vicar. The lady would possibly descend into hysterics and quit his mother’s service had she any notion of the thoughts she inspired.
Biting back a savage curse, he gritted his teeth and left the drawing room before he said something foolish. Oliver made his way to the library and went over to the side mantel, where he poured a generous splash of brandy into a glass. He took several swallows then sat in the chair closest to the fire. There were fifteen names on his mother’s list of eligible young ladies he could consider for courtship. A few he was familiar with from last season.
A name leaped from the page. Lady Penelope Dodge. Oliver had once spied her in a compromising situation with one of his closest friends, the Earl of Bainbridge. It had been a masquerade ball last season. Oliver had concealed himself in the library when Bainbridge had entered with the young lady. He had been caught in a quandary, for to reveal himself would have caused the young lady great embarrassment and possibly started a scandal. So, he’d sat in the dark and listened as his friend coaxed Lady Penelope to her knees to suck his cock. From the dim light of the fireplace, Oliver had watched her innocent hunger as she’d taken the earl in her mouth and had felt that jerk in his gut for a similar pleasure.
Bainbridge had taken her that night on the carpeted floor, and Oliver had watched her deflowering, sipping his brandy. He knew his friend had made an offer for Lady Penelope’s hand a few days later, but he was rejected by the lady herself when society became aware of the precarious state of his finances. Many doors had been closed to the earl once it was discovered he did not have money even that of obtaining a wife. It seemed her loss of virtue had been inconsequential, for a husband without wealth wasn’t to be tolerated.
Oliver mentally struck her from the list. Not because she was no longer pure, but because he had no interest in a marriage that at the foundation was only a business transaction—and, not inconsequentially, because Bainbridge was still in love with her. Oliver assessed the list, appreciating the selections his mother made. The rest of the ladies were all from fine families, with suitable dowries, impeccable bloodlines, and without any stain or scandal attached to their names. It was a great pity there was no indication of the young ladies’ characters. He wanted the opposite of what his parents had—there should be no cold silence at his dinner table, no stilted dances at balls, no weeping when he visited his wife’s bedchambers.
In fact, there would be no appointments to bed his marchioness, as many lords arranged. He wanted passion, the more spontaneous, the better, and they would be sharing a bedchamber. With his wife, they would have rousing debates and engage in inconsequential discourse. They would be playful and attentive with their children. He would make love with her, but he would also take her raw when his mood demanded it, and she would be with him every step of the way.
He closed his eyes with a sigh of defeat. He was setting himself up for profound disappointment. Could such a woman truly exist?
Perhaps not, but he would start his search with the authoress of the diary.
Tonight, he would step into the secret passages to encounter disappointment…or temptation.
Chapter Two
The marquess had noticed something about her. The shock at the very idea of a man so self-assured, powerful, and sensually appealing deigning to notice her did not ease the panic churning in her stomach, tempting her to cast up her breakfast of eggs, ham, and toast. Lily Layton held her smile in place through sheer willpower. The Dowager Marchioness of Ambrose prattled on, completely oblivious to the turmoil Lily currently endured.
Her diary was missing.
Her thoughts raced, trying to remember if there was anything within its pages to identify her as the authoress. She’d been careful to leave no trace of her identity as she poured out the improper cravings in her body and soul onto paper. But how could she have been so careless as to not realize it had slipped from her basket when she’d taken her morning stroll? Lily blamed it on the shocking news she had received prior to indulging in her early walk. Lady Ambrose no longer desired Lily to continue as her lady’s companion.
Several months after the death of her second husband, the local vicar, the marchioness had imperiously ordered Lily to move into Belgrave Manor and attend to her. The vicar had been a puritanical, social-climbing despot who had done everything to ingratiate himself with Lady Ambrose. The marchioness had tolerated his reverent obsequiousness, and she had been incredibly kind and courteous to Lily. She’d accepted the position of companion to the marchioness, for her widow’s portion had been only one hundred pounds, and the cottage she had resided in with Robert was needed for the new vicar.
Lily had staunchly insisted that the position must be a paid one, though she was quite aware of the graciousness of Lady Ambrose. She’d had nowhere to go. Her parents could not afford for her to return home to their small cottage and be an added burden to their already strained resources.
Lady Ambrose, bless her heart, had acceded to Lily’s exorbitant request for three guineas a month for her services. She had been saving whatever she could, but she had not put away enough to ensure a future for herself that would not rely on her choosing another husband. The last thing she wanted to do was marry for the third time, especially if another husband required children.
Familiar pain and grief welled in her heart, and she had to push it away before the tide of despair could suck her under.
“It is time, my dear Mrs. Layton, for you to s
ecure your future.”
Lily lowered the teapot carefully onto the beautifully designed French rococo table. “I am not sure I comprehend your meaning, your ladyship,” she said with a small smile that felt too tight. Though the marchioness meant well, Lily did not appreciate her future being decided by anyone but herself.
“Come now, surely you wondered why I no longer require your companionship. You are delightful, to be certain, but it would be selfish of me to keep you to myself when you need to set up your nursery with another husband. I’ve recently found an unmatched happiness with Lord Clayton,” she said, blushing prettily and patting her elegantly arranged coiffure.
Viscount Clayton had been paying particular attention to the marchioness, and Lily had suspected they were lovers. Lady Ambrose tended to blush whenever she met his gaze, and, once, she had even seen the viscount sneaking from her bedchamber at dawn. Lily had been quite happy the melancholia that had weighed the marchioness down seemed to be melting away. She was still a very beautiful lady, with only a few streaks of gray in her dark hair and some soft wrinkles on her face. Her beauty was ageless, and Lily was pleased when the sparkle had returned to her hazel eyes.
She did feel a pinch of pain at being discarded so easily, but she brushed it aside. It was not as if she had planned to reside at the manor for the rest of her life. She had hoped to stay only until she had saved enough to open her shop in London and had made a few notable connections through the marchioness.
It seemed like an impossible dream on most days, becoming a premier modiste with a shop on Bond Street or Cavendish Square or even High Holborn. She would specialize in riding habits and rival even the most notable dressmakers with her unique and elegant creations.
“My lady, it is kind of you to think of me, but I am quite happy here at Belgrave manor with you.”
“You need a husband to help you manage, my dear. It’s the way of the world.”
Lily barely resisted scoffing. “That, I assure you, Lady Ambrose, is the last thing I require. I do not need a husband to supervise my life and restrict my dreams and passions. I’m five and twenty. I quite believe I am capable.”
A twinkle appeared in the marchioness’s eyes. “My dear, there are those husbands who happily allow their wives freedom.”
“I am more interested in safeguarding my future using my skills and intellect, my lady. Husbands do not last forever, and I may marry a third time and find myself widowed again, with my future unsecured.”
“Pish!” The marchioness waved aside her protest. “I’ve seen the longing on your face when you think I am not looking. I’ve already hired another companion, and Miss Julia Waverly will be here by the month’s end. I will host our local ball early this year, and you will find a suitable gentleman from the village. You are young, with very pretty eyes and lovely smile. It will not do for you to waste away here.”
“Thank you, your ladyship, but—”
“I’ll not hear your objection,” the marchioness said with a harrumph. “I’ve seen the looks you’ve been casting at my son.”
Dear God in Heaven.
Lily could only stare at Lady Ambrose, frozen in indecision. “You are quite mistaken, my lady. I cannot imagine a more ludicrous notion. If you have seen me staring, I assure you, I have only been admiring the cut of his jacket or studying the richness of the material. You know I am forever fascinated with fashion, and I am quite determined to be a sought-after modiste of the ton.”
The marchioness could have no idea that Lily’s dreams had been filled with the marquess doing wicked things to her body with those firm and sensual lips. She had never acted inappropriately within his presence. In fact, the man hardly acknowledged her. It was as if he did not see her, so faded was Lily into the background of their lavish lifestyle. She was simply the hired help with the lovely euphemism of lady’s companion.
The marchioness pinned her with a searching glance, her lips pursed in a moue of disapproval. “You must come to the ball on Friday, my dear,” she said, giving a benevolent wave of her hand.
A ball! A shimmer of excitement went through her. “My lady—”
“Sir Ellington is in attendance, and I’ve detected the keen regard he pays to you. Mr. Crauford also seems decidedly interested. He is the grandnephew of Baron Hayford, so Mr. Crauford is not without connections, and he commands two thousand pounds a year. My dear, I don’t believe you will be able to secure better.”
“Oh, no, my lady. The offer is most kind of you, but I must politely decline.”
“Nonsense. If you are worried about your wardrobe, I have the most delightful gown that with only a few alterations will fit you quite well. If you are a seamstress worth her salt, two days should be sufficient to make the changes to your satisfaction.”
Lily stood and strolled to the window overlooking the lake. She did not like the fierce burn of excitement that had flared through her. She had never been to a prestigious ball before—only several country routs, which had been immensely delightful.
“Your ladyship, I appreciate the kind offer, but I truly have no desire to attend a fashionable ball.” Liar, her heart cried softly. It was vastly appealing, but what would be the point? She did not belong to that extravagant world.
“Every young lady wishes to attend one of my balls,” the marchioness rejoined, with an arrogant lift of her chin. “If you have any hopes of capturing Mr. Crauford’s attention, Friday’s ball will see it done. When he sees how you comport yourself within high society, he will be more apt to court you, despite you having no dowry or suitable connections.”
There was little point in reminding the marchioness that she did not desire marriage. She had already endured two, and despite the saying, the third time would not be charming, pleasant, or amiable, but a reoccurrence of banality and shame at her wanton heart. However, Lily could not ignore the opportunity that attending the ball presented. This could be her chance to impress the ladies of high society with her designs. She could alter the gown in several ways, ensuring she outshone many there, and perhaps they would be compelled to ask after her dressmaker. That was the way to foster the connections of which she had been dreaming.
“Thank you, your ladyship. I believe I will accept your offer of the ball gown.”
The marchioness nodded approvingly. “Wonderful, Mrs. Layton. The dress is from last season, and I only wore it once, for I did not find the color flattering. The soft rose would look quite charming on you, my dear.”
She rang the bell, and a maid hurried in shortly after. The marchioness ordered the gown to be delivered to Lily’s room and also for a picnic hamper to be prepared.
Lily smiled. “Do you need me for the rest of the morning, my lady?”
“You may have the rest of the day.” She cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing pink. “Lord Clayton and I will be having a light repast in the south gardens before joining in the outdoor games.”
Lily dipped into a quick curtsy and departed, belatedly realizing the marchioness had required her presence less of late. Their afternoon readings had been canceled for more than a week now, and their last weekly jaunt into the village had occurred almost two months ago. She faltered, pressing a hand to her stomach. How had she not noticed? Because of her inattentiveness, she had less than a month to plan for her unencumbered future.
She pushed open the door and collided with Lady Lucinda, the marquess’s younger sister, a petite, blue-eyed brunette with slender curves, a winsome smile, and a most charming personality.
“Oh, dear me!”
Lily smiled. “Lady Lucinda, how are you today?”
Her eyes twinkled, and Lily had the sneaking suspicion the girl had been eavesdropping.
“Dear Mrs. Layton, may I prevail upon you for assistance?”
“In regard to…?”
A generous smile curved the girl’s lips as she considered Lily with an odd sort of anxious scrutiny. “I need you briefly in the music room. I am trying to practice my steps for the waltz, but
Mr. Potter doesn’t seem inclined to indulge me today.”
Lucinda waited expectantly, and Lily stared at her for several seconds, embarrassed but delighted at the girl’s kindness. “You are very thoughtful, Lady Lucinda, but it is very unlikely I will be asked to dance at the ball. And you should not eavesdrop.”
Lucinda flushed. She had a romantic soul and was quite naive in the matters of the heart, and Lily loathed the day the girl would realize marriage was not all that she imagined it to be. Lady Luciana was eager for her debut and had spoken of little else for the past few weeks.
“Please, Mrs. Layton, indulge me. It will also help me prepare for when I am launched into society. I want to be as graceful as a swan when my beaux twirl me about the floor. And you just may be asked to dance. Imagine how mortified you would be if you had to decline because you are unable to.”
Lily smiled at her earnestness. “I’ve been persuaded, but not now. Perhaps in a few hours.”
Her entire face lit with her smile. “How glorious. You will not regret it!”
“You are welcome, and I thank you for thinking of me,” Lily said, smiling. She hurried to her room to collect her bonnet. She would also select a book from the library so that, under the pretext of reading outdoors, she could surreptitiously search for her diary. That was all she would direct her attention to now, for she could not imagine the ghastly effect of her personal reflections falling into someone’s clasp, especially if they discovered that Mrs. Lily Layton, widow of their beloved vicar, was the author of such sinful thoughts.
Several hours later, Lily stared at the ceiling of her bedchamber, unable to settle. Worry had wrested her slumber away, and she feared it would not return. She had retraced her steps several times, and there had been no sign of her diary on the lawns, the sitting benches, or on any table or mantel anywhere. She had even searched the library shelves and tables in the event someone had mistaken it for a book and thought to return it. There was nowhere else to look, and she hated the tight band of anxiety across her chest and the tears forming behind her eyes.
