by Stacy Reid
Oliver frowned as no response stirred within him. “I am not enticed.”
“Come, man. Anna’s charms are delightful.” Radbourne paused in the act of drinking and slowly lowered his glass. “You are really not interested.” His tone suggested how ridiculous he found the notion.
“I’m not.”
“Is it your bloody investments? Or are you painting?”
“Neither.” Though he wanted nothing more than to climb the stairs to his studio and immerse himself in the dark, provocative images that leaped to life on his canvas whenever he sought to quiet his thoughts. Frequently, it was if a madness seized him, and he would lose himself for hours—days, perhaps—while he painted, pouring his emotions into swirling colors of oil paint until provoking images of raw sensuality emerged. Rarely did he produce a tranquil picture.
“Ah, then it’s this blasted rumor I’ve heard of you wanting to marry and fill your nursery.”
Oliver merely smiled in reply and tipped his glass to his mouth, swallowing some brandy.
“Good God, man, say it isn’t so,” Radbourne demanded, appearing aghast and a bit shocked.
“It is so,” Oliver said firmly. “Pray do not bother wasting my time with protests. I am decided. I need…no, I want a wife.”
“Why in God’s name would you desire the old ball and shackle?”
Radbourne had been declared one of the most profligate rakes of society and had been running from the parson’s mousetrap for as long as Oliver had known him. The earl believed marriage for love to be a ridiculous notion. In truth, he seemed to disdain the institution of marriage altogether. Oliver had never uncovered the reason from his tightlipped friend and had been shocked when he’d declared his cousin would be his heir.
“Have you ever felt something is missing in your life, Radbourne?”
The earl considered him for a few seconds. “No.”
“I hunger for something more. And I know I will find it with a suitable companion.”
“You are indecently wealthy, powerful, and healthy. What more could you want to be content?”
Oliver smiled. “Someone to love.”
“Do not tell me you still believe that blathering nonsense about not keeping a mistress after you’ve wed. Upon my word, man, that is one woman to tup until death does part you and your marchioness.”
“I’ll not dishonor my wife. Only a dishonorable bounder would break vows made before his woman and God.”
The earl scowled. “You forget I know your sexuality. We’ve taken women together, Ambrose. What gentlewoman will allow herself to be debased so? You are not thinking straight. Every man has a mistress; it is natural.”
Was he being foolish in his desires? Oliver recalled hovering at his mother’s door, listening to her sob to her maid of how his father had shamed her when he took her to bed. He remembered the guilt on his father’s face that night as he drank several tumblers of brandy. It was then his father had reaffirmed his lessons, his voice rough with regret. His father’s instructions had been explicit—when Oliver took a wife, he must never strip her naked, he should always protect her modesty and delicate sensibilities under the banner of darkness, he must never ask of her any unnatural coupling. Those requests must only be done with whores…or mistresses.
He had a duty to his family and bloodline and knew he would one day take a wife to fulfill that obligation. Oliver had never dreamed that his sense of duty would have translated that to the need for a companion, a friend, a lover, a wife he could adore and be adored by in return.
“What I want is not impossible. Basil and his duchess are blissfully happy.”
His friend sobered and lifted his glass toward Oliver. “I wish you the best of luck…and when you find it, be sure to let me in on the secret.”
“I will,” Oliver promised, suppressing the insidious thought that he might be deluding himself and would never find that which he sought.
Or worse, it might just be another fleeting passion to chase, which would eventually fade, once more returning him to that world painted in shades of gray.
Except, not long ago, though wrapped in the arms of darkness, pleasure had been like a kaleidoscope of burning colors.
I must know who my secret lover is.
Oliver stared into the flickering fireplace, wondering if his mysterious lady would ever forgive him when he uncovered her identity. He had sworn on his honor that he wouldn’t, but how could he allow her to slip through his fingers without truly exploring who she was? And it was the pleasures and the privilege she had granted him that made him want to know her, even though the tight grip of her sheath on his cock was the sweetest torture he had ever endured.
She could be a credible candidate for his wife. He already knew she could meet his needs on a physical and the most elemental level. Even if she were not able to handle all his desires, he would have a wife that was lustful, adventurous, and not overly worried about sensibilities.
What was she like? Bold, brave, quick with her repartee, that much he was certain. He needed to know more. Despite the evidence suggesting they had perfect sexual compatibility, he wouldn’t marry a woman on such a meager basis alone. He was probably a damn fool, for many in the ton married with no true attachment in their hearts. But he wanted more than just an enthusiastic bed partner. He wanted a friend, someone with whom he could share matters of the estates or discuss the debates he had within Parliament, with whom he could take long walks and simply enjoy their marriage.
He didn’t covet beauty, and he could tell even in the dark her curves were ample and delightful. But was she kind? Thoughtful of others beyond her desires? Would she make a suitable marchioness? What were her connections? How in God’s name could he discover her identity and assess if she would make him an appropriate wife?
I don’t yet know how…but I will find you.
Chapter Four
Lily had been sitting on the chair in front of her dressing table for at least half an hour. As a companion to Lady Ambrose, Lily had a room only a few doors from the marchioness. Her ladyship had rung her bell, quite demandingly a few times, but Lily had been unable to respond. It appeared the marchioness had forgotten today was her off day. And Lily was also finding it challenging to exit her room, knowing she may encounter her midnight lover in one of the guests.
I’ve lost all the good sense I possessed.
How could she have allowed a stranger inside her body…and she hadn’t just invited him, she had been another person with him, wild and wanton…a whore. Her behavior had been ill-judged and beyond the pale.
Her throat tightened, and she leaned forward, studying her face in the mirror. Would anyone know she had been debauched? Her lips were red and kiss-swollen. Other than that, she could find no visible signs that she had been thoroughly ravished. Last night, she had fled to her room as if the devil had been on her heels, where she had tidied to the best of her ability with the small pitcher of water by her bedside. Lily had blushed furiously as she cleaned away his seed from her body.
Her hand had lingered across her stomach, and unable to suppress the emotions tearing through her heart, she had wept. Failing to conceive in two marriages had been a blow she was still recovering from. On most days, Lily mourned that she would never have a child in her arms, a daughter with her inquisitiveness, or a sweet boy who reminded her of Papa’s generosity of spirit and quaint handsomeness. Pursuing her passion to be a stellar seamstress sometimes buried the pain, and she quite looked forward to the day when the ache of loss wouldn’t be so sharp.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had missed breakfast. With a sigh, she pinched her cheeks, hoping to bring some color to her face. Who are you? she mouthed silently and then felt silly when the pale woman staring back at her did not burst into speech. Lily was grateful it would not be evident that she had been altered on such a profound level. She shifted, and the tender, well-used flesh between her thighs ached. If not for that tenderness, she would have thought it another of h
er fevered fantasies. But it was all too real. She had been wanton with a man in a dark, secret passage. A horrified giggle slipped from her, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.
Who was the lustful creature that had possessed her body last night? Who was the woman who had begged to be tupped harder? And who was the man who had fulfilled years of pent-up longings?
“Oh God, who is he?”
It was an unrelenting desire to know who was in possession of her diary and her most passionate yearnings. Who was it that had made her unravel so powerfully? She had been exactly as her last husband had described her, a harlot, and he must have been correct in his assessment, for he’d possessed the ear of God. She had married a clergyman because he had been so sweet and amiable. Lily had felt tender sentiments toward him and believed what they had would grow to love. It had not, and she had felt bereft, adrift without a companion she could truly be herself with.
She waited for shame to wrap her in its arms, but no such emotion swelled within her heart. Lily smiled. How delightful to not feel guilty of something so carnal and wonderful.
A knock sounded, and the maid assigned to the marchioness entered. “Mrs. Layton, her ladyship has been ringing for you. I told her I would check if you were in your room.”
Lily stood, smoothing her palms over her dress, though it was wrinkle free. “Thank you, Mary, I shall be right there.”
“She is in the large drawing room, Mrs. Layton,” the maid said with a quick bob, before disappearing down the corridor.
Taking an even breath and trying to find a reasonable excuse as to why she had been unavailable, Lily collected her walking basket from where she’d placed it on the small sofa by the fireplace. She hurried from the room and down the hallway then the winding stairs. She desperately needed to fortify her nerves. Perhaps she could steal into the library for a splash of the marquess’s brandy.
No, she mustn’t keep her ladyship waiting. Lily approached the drawing room and took a steady breath before entering through a door that stood slightly ajar. She faltered when she spied Mr. Barnabas Crauford, the man whom Lady Ambrose was encouraging Lily to take as her third husband.
The man’s face lit up with genuine pleasure at seeing her, and she suppressed her groan. This was the last thing she needed now, the trouble of fending off his unwanted attention.
“My lady,” Lily greeted with a quick curtsy, then turning to the dreaded suitor, she dipped into another curtsy. “Mr. Crauford.”
“Mrs. Layton, how delightful you appear this morning.” His eyes roamed her body in appreciation, and she was almost regretful she had abandoned her mourning garb and mobcap.
She wore a dress she had made and knew she looked quite fetching. She had needed to bolster her confidence after last night’s farce and had adorned a dark yellow morning dress with a cinched high waistline that was very flattering to her figure. It was out of character, though, and she noticed Lady Ambrose considering her with a peculiar frown. Lily had also left her hair uncovered, catching it in an artful chignon while leaving several tendrils loose.
“You do look very pretty, my dear,” the marchioness said, smiling. “I’m sure you will be delighted to take a turn on the estate grounds with Mr. Crauford.”
“Of course, of course,” he heartily agreed.
“I’d planned on visiting my parents. Today is my off day.” She lifted her traveling basket for their perusal.
“I would be most obliged to take you in my coach, Mrs. Layton,” Mr. Crauford declared.
Swallowing her sigh, she glanced out the windows. “I’d planned on walking.”
Startled shock bloomed on his face. “To the village?”
“Yes, I find long strolls help me to clear my head, and I do so enjoy it.”
“Capital! Allow me to at least keep your company part way.”
He appeared so earnest that a smile tugged at her lips. She would be rude to reject him once more. “Thank you, Mr. Crauford.”
The marchioness beamed her approval, and in short order, they departed the manor and headed south toward the beaten track that cut across the marquess’s land. They ambled for a few minutes, and unable to endure another cleared throat from Mr. Crauford, Lily was prompted to speak.
“It is very kind of you to walk with me thus far. There is no need for you to continue.”
“My dear Mrs. Layton,” he said, a bit too warmly. “I would not be much of a gentleman if I abandoned you to the elements.”
“I’ve been traipsing this path by myself for at least five years, Mr. Crauford. There is certainly no need to worry about my sturdiness.”
“I am appalled the vicar allowed it.”
She faltered momentarily. “My husband did not disapprove of my weekly visit to the village to see my family. And if he had, I assure you I would still have seen them.”
“Upon my word, surely you would not have disobeyed him?”
Gripping her basket, she forged ahead. “In that regard, yes.”
Mr. Crauford huffed disapprovingly, and Lily smiled, uncaring of what he thought. They rounded the corner.
“Look out,” he yelled, shoving her aside with too much strength.
Lily gasped and tumbled into the bushes as thunderous hooves darted past. Surely it was only the grace of God that prevented them from being trampled by Lord Ambrose’s stallion. Shocking and profane curses spilled from the marquess as he dragged on his reins, bringing the animal to a shuddering halt. Still, Mr. Crauford’s act of chivalry saw her backside firmly planted on the ground and the contents of her basket spilled. “Blast it!”
“Are you hurt?” the marquess demanded, vaulting from his horse and rushing to her side.
For a wild moment, his concern warmed her before she recalled he was the reason she was sprawled inelegantly amongst the bushes.
“Are you afflicted? You were rounding the corner far too fast. If Mr. Crauford hadn’t been quick thinking, we could have both been under your horse.”
Lord Ambrose’s left brow rose at her audacious reprimand. “You exaggerate. I had control of my steed. He was simply overanxious.”
“Mrs. Layton,” Mr. Crauford said, tugging her attention to where he was gathering the contents of her basket. “This is not a proper book for a woman to read,” he said picking up her copy of Northanger Abbey, which she had planned to read later while her parents slept. She had bought a couple of candles and had wrapped and stowed them carefully away. It was a relief they had not been damaged.
A severe frown split his brows. “This is unacceptable.”
“Is that so?” she asked frostily, struggling to her feet and attempting to bat away the marquess’s hand as he helped. The dratted man would have none of it, and with a gentle clasp, assisted her upright. “Thank you,” she muttered grudgingly.
“Forgive me for startling you.”
Sincerity glowed from his dark blue eyes, and that warm sensation once more unfurled in her stomach. The man was very handsome with his lean but powerfully built physique. Lily stepped away, desperate to create more space between them, hating that she was so ardently admiring his handsomeness.
“Forgiven,” she said with a firm nod. “Please continue your ride.” Then she hurried over to Mr. Crauford and collected her basket. After ensuring her sketchpad and her book were safely stowed, she assessed her clothes.
“I must say, your father has been derelict in taking you in hand.”
Lily faltered in dusting the grass from her dress and glared at Mr. Crauford. “Papa is the one who sent me a copy,” she said, refusing to give in to the irritation surging through her veins. “The book is hardly scandalous.”
“Then he has most certainly failed in his duty to you, and—”
“Sir!”
His jaw slackened at her sharp tone.
“You will not cast any aspersions on Papa. That would not endear you to me.” She had been given every advantage possible in education by her father, despite their lack of wealth. He’d encouraged her to rea
d and taught her French and some Greek. Her father had never been a man of great property or fortune, but he had done everything possible to see his daughters looked after. He had never taught her that being able to think for herself was an unladylike thing to do. He supported her dreams wholeheartedly and had never pressured her to find a third husband. Not that he could force her, since she was of age to make her own decisions, but his support meant the world to her.
“You give your opinion too freely, Mrs. Layton,” Mr. Crauford said with a pompous air. “I will forgive it in this instance, for you were not reared in a genteel household, but you must learn what proper conduct is for a lady.”
His barbed criticism missed its mark, and the man dared to narrow his eyes at her lack of response. She glanced away to find the marquess’s arrested stare on her person.
“You’re still here,” she said and then flushed at her bad manners. “My lord, I—”
He waved away her apology with a suspiciously charming smile. “Pay me no heed, I find I am of a mind to stroll.”
She glanced back at the horse grazing the grass.
“Attila is trained to return to the stables when he is riderless. A footman will take him in hand soon,” Lord Ambrose said, smiling before tipping his hat and falling back slightly.
The dratted man was endlessly charming and too appealing.
Lily frowned, wondering if it was her imagination or if the marquess had seemed fascinated with the exchange he’d witnessed. Pushing it from her mind, she continued along the path, ignoring Mr. Crauford.
“The weather is very pleasant today,” he said after a few minutes.
Lily glanced at the sky, which seemed overcast, and proffered no reply.
“The air is also very pleasant.”
She inhaled. “Strange, I only smell manure.”
Mr. Crauford looked positively horrified. “That is not a topic of discourse for a lady.”
A choking sound came from behind her, and she glanced back to see the marquess’s eyes dancing with humor. Was he following them? Not that she could protest; it was his land, after all.
