by Stacy Reid
Yesterday, after his outing with Mrs. Layton, a restless need had kept him from his bed. The games in the drawing room, the flirting with the ladies, the conversation at dinner hadn’t left him invigorated, merely bored. Last night, he had haunted his own house like a specter, roaming those secret crevices hoping he would encounter his mysterious lady. And now, instead of directing his effort to his varied business interests, he was thinking about her.
With a curse, he glanced at the paper on his desk. He was perusing the wrong pages. Oliver moved over to his desk and retrieved the list of viable candidates his mother had made. The young lady at the top of his mother’s list was Lady Emma Sinclair, the oldest daughter of the Earl of Preston. The only aspect of their match his mother objected to was that the lady was three and twenty, far too old in her estimation. What nonsense. Oliver liked that she wasn’t a fresh debutante and had at least two seasons under her cap. She was very pretty, with a lively and charming demeanor, and he quite enjoyed her intelligence. His mother had given Lady Emma the honor of sitting beside Oliver at last night’s dinner, and he had been pleasantly surprised by her charming wit.
He liked her, yet he was not attracted to her gentle beauty.
His mysterious lover was one of the widows under his roof. But only one had made it on to his mother’s list: Lady Falconbridge. She was young, four and twenty, well-connected in the ton, and had the bluest of blood, as the daughter of a duke.
Without warning, the library door opened, and his sister sailed inside.
Oliver placed the list on the desk and sat on the surface. “Have your manners departed you, Lucinda?”
“I knew you were in here alone,” she said with an impish smile, dark blue eyes so much like his own dancing merrily. “Oliver, please, will you speak with Mother? Within a few months, I’ll be seventeen, and I dare say I am responsible enough to attend a ball held in our own home.”
“You haven’t had your come out yet.”
Her eyes flashed, and her chin tilted stubbornly. “When did you get so priggish?”
“Lucinda,” he started warningly.
She hurried over to him. “Oh dear, it was the word priggish, wasn’t it? Mrs. Layton has a delightful way with phrases, and I find myself borrowing a few.”
Mrs. Layton. Not the woman he wanted to think about now. He’d already endured a frustrating night, vacillating between wanting her and craving his mysterious lover. There had even been a time he wondered if she could be her. He’d dismissed the ridiculous notion, of course. He had been in her presence for hours yesterday. Surely, he would have detected something familiar? The rasp of her voice, that elusive scent of honeysuckle.
“There will be no one for you to converse with.”
She wagged a finger. “That is not true. Lady Henrietta and I are very close in age. She is only one year older.”
Swift distaste filled him that a young lady so close to his sister’s age was on his mother’s list. Christ. Such innocents shouldn’t be marred by the kind of cravings he harbored in his soul. He mentally struck another woman from his list.
“I will speak with Mother.”
“Oh, Oliver, thank you.”
He grunted as she flung herself at him and hugged him with exuberance. She released him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“There is more.”
He arched a brow.
“Charlotte is here.”
“When did she arrive?”
Lucinda frowned “Only an hour past. She is with mother. I…think she is unhappy, and Mother seemed angry. I heard her tell Charlotte that she has a duty to her husband, and she should return to Chadwick Hall and await her Lord Beresford.”
A cold knot formed in Oliver’s gut. His sister Charlotte was two and twenty and had been married to Viscount Beresford for three years. She had declared herself in love with him, and the viscount had seemed equally besotted. Oliver had given his blessings to their union despite his mother’s disgruntlement, as she had wanted her daughter to marry the Duke of Milton.
“I’ll speak with Charlotte,” he promised. “Now go, and stop eavesdropping.”
Lucinda giggled and all but skipped from the room.
A full minute did not pass before a gentle knock sounded on the door. Charlotte. His two sisters could not be more different. Whereas Lucinda was irrepressible, Charlotte was very sweet and well comported. Oliver could not recall ever hearing a cross word from her, nor would she ever think to just barge in on him in his private sanctum.
“Come in, Charlotte.”
The door opened, and she strolled in, her face lit with a smile. Both he and Charlotte favored their father, inheriting his dark hair and cobalt-colored eyes.
“I see Lucinda informed you I am here.”
Was that strain in her voice?
“She did.”
Charlotte closed the door and faltered. “I sat for a while with Mother in the drawing room. I fear she is not very pleased to see me.”
“Nonsense. You are always welcome at Belgrave Manor.”
She visibly swallowed and rested a hand on her gently rounded stomach. Her eyes were wounded, and his heart froze.
“Is the baby unwell?”
“No such calamity, I assure you, dear brother,” she said with a smile that wobbled.
In her eyes, he spied shame and pain. He held open his arms and she rushed into them.
“There now,” he said. “Just tell me what’s the matter this time, and I’ll sort it out.”
“It’s John,” she murmured on a sob. “I…I’ve heard rumors that he has a mistress.”
That bloody blackguard. Oliver had warned him when he handed his sister over into his care how precious she was to be treated.
“Rumors are vile things, and you know, oftentimes, they are incorrect.”
She burrowed even closer against his chest, silent tears jerking her shoulders.
“I confronted him, and he refused to have any such discussion with me. He was angry, and he left for Town. I packed my trunks and came here. Oh, Oliver, I cannot go back, my heart and my pride have been broken.”
He kissed her hair. “I’ll go and see him.”
She pulled from his arms. “Will you?”
“Yes. I’ll leave first thing in the morning for London. And I’ll not return without him. And I promise you, if somehow there is a mistress…”
She flinched as he rubbed soothing strokes on her shoulder.
“If there is another woman, and I doubt it highly, for John dotes on you, I promise he will put an end to it.”
By any means necessary.
His throat tightened at the trust with which she peered up at him. With a soft sigh, she clutched him in another fierce hug.
“I can imagine what Mother has told you about duty and whatnot. But you’ll stay here for as long as need be.”
“Thank you, Ol. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he murmured. “I’m sure you are weary from your journey. You should wash up.”
There was a now a happy light in her eyes that he was well pleased to see. A few seconds later, he was once again alone, restless energy coursing through his veins. If the viscount truly had a lover, his gentle and trusting sister would be shattered for a long time yet. And he would have to be harsh with a friend, perhaps even breaking a bone or two to get his message across.
Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face, ruthlessly suppressing the violent thoughts.
Ignoring the need to enter the hidden passages once more, he exited the library and made his way down the hallway to the winding staircase that led to the west wing. Several minutes later, he reached a room only he had the keys to. Dipping into his pocket, he withdrew the key and opened the door, then stepped into his dark room. He sauntered to the drapes and tugged them open, washing the room with sunlight. Several paintings graced the walls, all unbearably erotic drawings that he had done.
He strolled over to his latest work, frowning at an anomaly he spied. The lady drape
d over a chaise lounge with her ass arched delightfully in the air had red hair, brown eyes…and sweet lips. Oliver sighed. How had he not realized he’d imbued Mrs. Layton in his paintings? He searched the other canvases, his shoulders eventually relaxing. In all the other paintings the women depicted so lasciviously had their faces slightly blurred. Only that one had the faint impression of his mother’s lady’s companion.
He walked over until he stood directly in front of it. He had captured a mischievous smile he had never seen from her. Lust coiled in his gut, dark and inviting, as he accepted the truth of his desires. He wanted to ruin her sensibilities. He imagined her lips sliding over his cock; it was her pussy he wished to ride for hours…and then seduce her into oiling her forbidden rear entrance and sliding his cock deep.
God’s blood.
As soon as the house party was over, he needed to make his way to Town and away from Belgrave Manor. Otherwise, he would certainly succumb to his dark needs, ruining a good woman who did not deserve to be used and discarded after he had slaked his lust.
…
Oliver departed Belgrave Manor at dawn and arrived in Town a few hours later. Walking up to his sister and her husband’s townhouse in Mayfair, he hammered on the knocker. The door opened, and the butler stepped back.
“Lord Ambrose, may I take your coat and hat?”
Oliver handed them over. “Is the viscount in?”
The butler bobbed. “Yes, your lordship. He is in the breakfast room.”
“No need to announce me,” he said, making his way down the hall. The last time Oliver visited had only been a few weeks ago, when his sister had invited her family to Town for a small dinner party and then gave them the welcome news of the expected addition to their family.
Reaching the breakfast room, he spied John with a pressed newspaper close to his face. He lowered it and glanced up.
“Ambrose!” Apprehension flashed in his eyes. “Is it Charlotte?” he asked, a worried frown appearing.
Oliver lowered himself into the chair closest to the viscount and pinned him with a hard stare. John was only two years older than Charlotte and had always been a steady and good-natured sort. Oliver thought it unlikely he had a mistress, but then, many men and lords, if not all, truly believed keeping a chère amie was as necessary as breathing air. The bloody idiots.
That his father had not respected and cherished the vows made to his wife was one of the things that had most disappointed Oliver. The man had lectured often on matters of honor, yet had been so blind to his own lack of honor to his vows that he became the least likely candidate Oliver would listen to. He had tried to understand it from his father’s perspective, but as he’d grown older, he’d come to see how ungentlemanly and disgusting it was to make promises to a person and so casually break an oath for fleeting pleasures of the flesh.
“Your viscountess arrived at Belgrave Manor with packed trunks.”
The man blanched. “She’s left me? Why would she do that?”
“Because she believes you have betrayed her trust and love.” The hurt in his sister’s eyes had been painful to witness.
John froze, and Oliver’s gut tightened at the flash of guilt in the man’s eyes.
“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” he said stiffly.
“Do you remember the conversation we had in my study when you asked my permission to court her?”
The viscount looked away, took a steady breath, and then met Oliver’s gaze.
“I do. You promised broken bits if I ever hurt Charlotte.”
“Do you have a mistress?” Oliver clipped icily.
The man had the grace to flush. “I…I’ve approached Mrs. Dorothy Williams, but we haven’t finalized an agreement.”
Oliver bit back a curse. “Why would you do this to Charlotte?” Even though he suspected. That fear of tainting a genteel wife with his baser urges had him haunting his own damn home for a stranger. But if the viscount struggled with a similar belief, the man had better learn to govern his lustful cravings. Oliver would not idly stand by and see his sister endure the same pain and shame that had followed their mother for years.
The viscount couldn’t meet his eyes for a few moments. “It’s because I love her.”
The damn fool. “I don’t believe I’ve heard greater nonsense.”
Beresford tugged at his cravat. “I couldn’t bring myself to subject her to…to…God’s blood, man, you know! I love Charlotte more than anything in my life, and I would not hurt her for the world. She is with child and must be treated with all gentleness and respect.”
There was no doubt the blathering fool thought that because she was in the family way, they could not be intimate. “Yet you have done so with your thoughtless and selfish action. I gather it would not trouble you if she decided to take a lover?”
The viscount half lurched from his chair, his hands fisted on the table. “I would kill any man,” he breathed, his voice raw, panic flashing in his eyes.
“Yet you expect her to accept your infidelity with genteel grace.” Very much like how Oliver’s mother had lifted her chin at her husband’s numerous indiscretions. “I could hear my sister’s sobs last night as she cried into her pillow. I’m mildly surprised I’ve not put a bullet in you,” he murmured, low and hard.
Beresford paled. “She cried?”
“For hours.”
The fool dropped his forehead into his hands. “I’ve…I’ve not slept with Mrs. Williams. I visited her last evening, but I spent the time talking about Charlotte. Dear God, I’ve been a fool.”
“That you have.”
“I’ll head down with you to Hampshire.”
Oliver stood, and the viscount lurched to his feet. Oliver grabbed the lapels of his jacket in a tight, merciless grip and dragged him close. “If my sister is not of a mind to forgive you, you’ll be leaving without her. And I’ll not compromise my stance. It is because she loves you that I haven’t ripped your cock from your body.”
His eyes widened in ill-concealed alarm. “I’m obliged to you, Ambrose.”
With a soft grunt, he released him. “My sister has more strength than you credit her for. She is sweet and gentle, but she is also fierce and courageous. She is not a wilting ninny. Reserve all your passions for her. Speak with her about your fears, and she may very well surprise you.”
And perhaps any woman Oliver should take to be his wife he could do the same, communicate about everything. His heart hammered at the notion. Maybe he was the damn fool searching for his midnight lover. What if he found her and she lacked the connections and reputation to be his marchioness? Worse, what if she lacked the character that would recommend her to be his partner. He hungered for more than just a lusty woman to wet his cock whenever or however he wanted. An eventual friendship in his marriage was quite important to him.
“Ensure that you tell your viscountess all you wish to explore with her. And then you will be mindful of her sensibilities, but do not hesitate to invite her with you on any adventures. And if Charlotte should not want to explore with you, by God, you will respect her decision and cherish the promises you made to her.”
Beresford nodded stiffly, and Oliver walked around him. “I’ll see myself out.”
He collected his hat and coat, departed the townhouse, and strolled toward his waiting carriage. He vaulted inside and ordered the carriage to St. James Square. He would stay the night in town, perhaps even visit White’s or Lady Pennant’s masquerade ball, which promised to be an event of delightful debauchery.
It was at Lady Pennant’s masquerade last year he and Radbourne had been snared in Lady Wimbledon’s erotic wiles. Oliver frowned. No anticipation rushed through him. He felt no temptation to participate.
Large brown eyes framed by long delicate lashes floated through his thoughts. Mrs. Lily Layton. And at once, he decided to head back to Belgrave Manor first thing in the morning. He was faintly shocked it was not thoughts of finding his mysterious lover that drew him.
How
I want you…
Clenching his teeth until they ached, he vowed then to resist, lest he destroy his honor, her reputation, and her modest sensibilities. He would head back to his townhouse now and retire to his bed, where he suspected he would dream of the wicked debauching of his brown-eyed tormentor, and Oliver would do his damnedest to ensure they remained only that—lustful fantasies of ravishing Lily Layton—and nothing more.
Chapter Seven
The night of the auspicious ball arrived without much fanfare. Elegantly garbed couples waltzed under the light of dozens of candles in the crystal chandeliers overhead. Lily strolled the fringes of the crowded dance floor, keenly observing the variety of styles the ladies wore. The ballgowns were glorious, and she felt pleased with the alterations she had done to the dress the marchioness had given her. Lily knew she looked fetching, as evidenced by a few admiring glances aimed in her direction. Mr. Crauford made a concentrated effort to not look her way, and the marchioness had raised a brow at the obvious tension between them.
Over an hour had passed since the dancing started, and no one approached her. Lily wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or disappointed. She had to remind herself of her purpose in attending.
A ripple went through the small group of women reposing on chairs a few feet from her.
“How magnificent Lord Ambrose appears tonight.”
“The rumor he is hunting for a wife has set London on its ears. Lady Shelton sent me clippings of several newspapers that say a close source has revealed Ambrose desires for a wife and children,” a voice tittered. “Maryann is well suited to be a marchioness, and I believe my daughter, more than any other young lady here, stands a chance.”
A shiver of some unfathomable sensation moved through Lily, and she scanned the small gathering until she found him. Not that it had been hard; he seemed to be the only gentleman standing with at least four ladies, all beautiful and elegantly poised, around him. The marquess was impeccably dressed in dark trousers and jacket, a silver waistcoat, his cravat immaculately tied. The delight she felt at seeing him was disconcerting. She had missed his presence this past couple of days and had scolded herself quite fiercely for the desires welling inside her for this man. She could entertain no misconception of his interest in walking with her. That way would surely lead to disaster.
