Improper Gentlemen Bundle with Touch of a Thief & Mistress By Mistake
Page 68
“Then you’d better get yourself another woman. I’m hardly a great beauty.”
Simon gazed across the room. His heart still skipped when he looked at her, even if she tried to scorch him with her scorn and looked like a washerwoman at present. “You’ll do. For now. Perhaps I’ll have better luck with my next mistress—find a wee biddable girl who’ll look at me and thank her lucky stars.”
Lucy snorted. He turned to the paper, wrote down a few brief, vague phrases and summoned her to the desk. “Here. Sign this. I’ll let Lord Ferguson know I’m taking the house—and you—over.”
She glided across the floor, stopping short of coming too close. She took the agreement from his outstretched hand and frowned. “Well, you may write, but I canna read it.”
“Aye, that’s why I keep a secretary. But this is too intimate an affair for him, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose.” She snatched the pen from the desk and wrote her name. The document was worthless—neither one of them were who they said they were, but Simon was sure he didn’t need a piece of paper to get where he wanted to be—inside his maddening, manipulative new mistress.
Chapter 6
Within two hours of Simon—her Simon!—taking his leave, the Jane Street house was invaded by a very superior Scots butler, a French maid, a French cook and a Cockney potboy fresh from Sir Simon’s own townhouse. The footman and extra maid would not arrive until tomorrow, MacTavish told her in his soft burr; they had the day off. He had taken one look around Percy’s house, clucked disapprovingly, and set everyone to work.
Lucy was grateful she had bathed and dressed to receive this swarm of people. Simon must have many more servants at home if he could spare all these for her. She had gotten used to having the house to herself these past months, with Percy and Yates occasionally coming up for air and a game of three-handed euchre. She was fairly certain she now had more servants than any other courtesan on the street, but nowhere for them to sit or sleep.
Folding Simon’s letter in her reticule and taking the French maid Yvonne with her, Lucy went shopping and followed Simon’s instructions, spending an enormous amount of his money. She noted she had become Miss Dalhousie again, if she deciphered Simon’s bold chicken-scratching correctly, and she was apparently his cousin—his “cows” could not possibly be correct. It was apparent the shopkeepers could understand the intent of the letter even if they could not read the whole of it—it was amazing what the three words “Sir Simon Keith” did to light the gleam of avarice in their eyes. They fell over themselves to promise immediate delivery of bedding and paintings and furniture. Lucy didn’t dither—she knew what she liked, and since she’d been instructed not to be mingy, she took that to heart.
By evening MacTavish had hung pictures back on the walls to cover the bare spots and Yvonne had put fresh linen on new beds in the attic. The French chef had taken over Yates’s old room after producing a fabulous meal which still resonated on Lucy’s palate. Lucy had tested every piece of new furniture downstairs, and now sat before her mirror, eyes half-closed as Yvonne brushed through her hair. It was lovely to feel the touch of someone, even if it was just her new maid.
Yvonne spoke very little English and Lucy spoke very little French, but they seemed to understand each other perfectly well. But when Simon turned up reflected in the mirror, standing at the doorway looking like the richest, most delicious dessert, Yvonne missed Lucy’s panicked look and excused herself.
“I did not expect you this evening, Sir Simon,” Lucy said, prim, as her heart beat erratically. She was grateful she was wearing a thick flannel nightgown buttoned up to her chin, none of Percy’s sheer confections. Simon didn’t need to see the pulse at her throat or her pointed nipples. She resolutely refused to face him, continuing to brush her hair without Yvonne’s assistance, tangling it only a little.
“You’ve done remarkably well for one afternoon, Luce. The downstairs looks a treat.” His image came closer to the dressing table until he was right behind her, bringing with him a clicking noise. Curious, Lucy looked into the mirror. In one hand he had a set of small roller bearings, which he fitted on his fingertips as if they were rings. He seemed unaware of the nervous movement of his fingers, but watching him made Lucy dizzy. What would those fingers do next?
She tugged the brush through a knot. “I’m not done yet. The tradesmen’s bills will be outrageous.”
“As long as everything is in place for next Tuesday night. I’ve sent dinner invitations to my investors.”
“You mean your marks,” Lucy said, her lip curling quite contemptuously.
“Not at all. I told you I’ve gone straight. Your old protector Percy will be there as well. I hope that willna be too awkward for you.”
Lucy wanted to give Percy a piece of her mind, but doing so in public would not be possible. “I’m sure I can behave myself. It’s a wonder you doona feel uncomfortable with another man’s leavings.”
“Ferguson assured me you had a simple business arrangement. No one’s feelings were engaged now, were they?”
“I’ve lived here six years. Percy and I began and parted as friends.”
Simon lifted a slashing dark brow. “How quaint.”
“Don’t you believe men and women can be friends, Simon?”
“Don’t be daft. Of course they canna. Men have a responsibility to the wider world and a woman’s place is in the domestic sphere. They have nothing in common but the bedcovers.”
Lucy picked up the abandoned hairbrush and ripped it through her hair again. “How ridiculous! You are a caveman!”
“I’m not saying men and women cannot converse intelligently together. I’m quite looking forward to our talks again—you always had something to say and I could only shut you up with a kiss. But a true friendship between a man and woman—impossible. Sex always gets in the way.”
She remembered those kisses, damn it. And the most recent one.
Lucy couldn’t very well tell him about Percy’s lack of interest in her. But perhaps Simon was right—Percy was more like an addled big brother to her than a friend. Friends didn’t sell one along with one’s house.
“Well, doona worry. I don’t intend to make friends with you.”
“Aye, t’would be difficult. A man is not apt to harbor much affection for his blackmailer.”
Lucy chewed a lip. She was regretting this arrangement already, but she needed time to get things settled for herself. No matter what Percy said, she was not putting all their clothes in storage. Some of them would fetch quite a bit, give her some seed money to escape Simon’s clutches.
Nay, he was firmly in hers. ’T’was time the boot was on the other foot.
“Here. Let me.”
Startled, Lucy watched as Simon took the brush from her hand and smoothed through her waves. His touch was not as light as Yvonne’s. She imagined sparks of fire flicking through her hair as he swept from scalp to end. Sitting stiffly so as not to betray her reaction, she waited for him to finish.
But he did not. The brush came up again and again, massaging her head and flowing through her hair down her back so she could feel the soft boar bristles through the strands. Her eye flicked to the mirror where she could see Simon’s look of concentration—he had wound the end of her hair now around his hand and held it, bringing it closer to his nose. He sniffed.
Lucy jerked away, but he didn’t let go. “I am not a fellow dog, sir!”
“That’s Sir Simon to you,” he said, cheeky as ever. “I think we should get into the habit of you giving me the proper deference. It will be expected Tuesday.”
“It’s not Tuesday yet.”
“Aye. Which is a good thing, for you’ve much to learn before then.”
Lucy clamped down her tongue before she stuck it out at him. “I’m sure you’ll find my deportment unexceptionable in company. Percy has already given me instructions on anything that might be suitable for moving about in Society.” She’d had years of tea-pouring and frivolous conversations as Pe
rcy made her the bosom-bow he’d always wanted.
“Ah.” Simon dropped her hair. “I’ve asked around. It seems Lord Ferguson kept his mistress very much to himself. Many had heard of you, but not a soul I talked to has ever seen the fabled Lucy Dellamar.”
“Percy preferred quiet evenings at home. But you are mistaken. We often attended the musicales at Vauxhall Gardens.” Of course they had both been masked, Percy wearing the most elaborate of their dresses. Yates trotted behind until he was called into the Dark Walk for a naughty thumb-at-the-nose to the ton while Lucy played scout.
“You like music, do you?”
Lucy did, so she nodded.
“Excellent. We’ll go to the opera tomorrow.”
She choked. “The opera? You? You are not serious!”
Simon slapped the hairbrush firmly back on her dressing table. “As you said, Luce, it’s been thirteen years. We no longer know everything there is to know about each other. I’ve discovered I have quite an affinity for opera, Gluck in particular. There is a performance of his Orfeo ed Euridice tomorrow evening.”
An affinity for opera? The boy she knew did not even know the word ‘affinity.’ “Really?” she asked, doubtful.
“Aye. The poor sod Orpheus mourning his wife reminded me of myself when I found out you were dead. I suppose your aunt did me a favor, then, making me susceptible to the arts.”
Susceptible? Simon must have been sleeping with a dictionary all these years.
But with women too, most likely opera dancers. Why couldn’t he find one of them to torture?
Nay, she was in a pickle of her own making. It was she who’d set the three-month rule. But three months of opera might broaden her horizons.
“Very well,” she said, rising. “Do you have anything in particular you’d like me to wear for my public debut as your mistress?”
“Let’s see what you have.” Simon picked up a branch of candles and followed her into her dressing room, where a long row of cupboards held Percy’s finery. Putting the candles down on a chest, Simon went through the clothes methodically in the dim light, shaking his head as he plucked up each one with his blackened fingernails. Lucy was glad to see there was at least one trace of the boy she knew in this immaculate stranger.
“None of this lot will do. Expect a box tomorrow afternoon.”
“What do you mean? These things are perfectly acceptable! You needn’t buy me new clothes, Simon.”
“I should think you’d be glad to squeeze more coin out of me, Luce. Isn’t that what mistresses do?”
“I’m not really your mistress.”
Simon sighed. “Do you do nothing but argue?”
Lucy knew she was being difficult, but having Simon loom in her little dressing room made her uncomfortable for too many reasons she was unwilling to examine.
“I’m very tired, Simon. Sir Simon. It’s been a long, harrowing day.”
“You must want to get rid of me to dip into your drink.”
“I don’t drink!” Lucy said hotly, and then paused. How on earth did Simon know she had buried her troubles in a bottle last night? And drank every last drop, too.
“But before I leave you, I’ll need to take some measurements to give to Madame Bernette tomorrow morning.”
“Pardon?”
“Measurements, Luce. For the modiste. You’re not the average woman.” He looked down at her. “I see you come up to the knot of my neckcloth, so that helps, but what about the rest of you? Your arms and such. Here.”
He snatched Lucy’s arm and held it aloft, studying it as if it were the lost tablet of the Ten Commandments. He dropped it gently and took her shoulders in his warm hands, counting the inches between the span. And then—
Surely it was unnecessary for him to brush across her breasts like that to get to her waist. His thumbs seemed to take an eternity at her nipples as he patted his way down her body. Then they settled at her hips for a few seconds, while the rest of his fingers pressed against her bottom with intent, drawing her close to him.
“Simon!” she warned.
“Um,” he said, his blue eyes dancing downward between them.
He could not see her huge feet from this angle, so what had attracted his attention so? Lucy followed his glance and saw the shadow of her pubic hair through her nightgown. All this time, she might have been naked in front of him!
When she looked up, her brown eyes met his blue ones. They were dark, flinty, the eyes of a man who measured, took what he wanted and asked permission later.
It seemed he wanted a kiss. Another one. All right, she could do it. She closed her eyes and waited.
And then felt him set her back.
His mouth was a grim line. “I willna have you looking like a martyr when I kiss you, Luce.”
“I—I wasn’t thinking of you kissing me! I’ve got an eyelash in my eye.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The, uh, left.”
He cupped her cheek and examined her furiously blinking eye. “Hold still. You’re like a damn butterfly.”
Lucy felt his breath on her face. She wished she could be repulsed, but it was spearminty again, clean. Gently he pulled down the skin at the corner of her eye and stared.
She rolled her eyes away. His were too bright, too knowing, and he still had the longest black eyelashes of anyone she’d ever seen.
“It’s fair dark in here. I canna see a thing.”
“Mayhap I am mistaken,” she said.
“Mayhap ye are.”
Her Scottish Simon was back, his brogue rough on his tongue. She lifted her face to his, her own tongue licking her lips in nervousness.
He calmed her with the quietest of kisses, a mere warm whisper, one hand still on her cheek and the other splayed flat on her back. She wanted him to push her hard against him, but there was still a maddening space between them.
Och! What was she thinking? It was one thing to kiss the rogue but quite another to rub against him like a cat. Lucy took a half-step backward, and their kiss was broken.
“I’ll come for you tomorrow evening. Until then.” He saluted her with one finger and walked out of the dressing room. Lucy stood rooted to the floor, the candles flickering in his wake.
“He could have taken a dress to give to Madame Bernette as a sample! There was no need of him to ever touch me!” she said to the empty room. Duped again. It would be the very last time.
Chapter 7
When the box from the dressmaker arrived in the middle of the afternoon, Lucy was tempted to throw it into the roaring fire her maid had set in her chamber. There was plenty of coal now to keep the chill of the fall day away, and Lucy had eaten so much at breakfast and luncheon she wondered if she would fit into whatever Simon had ordered for her.
But when she opened the pale pink-striped box, any thought she had of destruction was nipped in the bud. Within was a dress made of apricot-gold tissue, quite simple, almost Medieval in design. The sheer sleeves were long and ended in a gold-thread-embroidered point to her knuckles. Gloves would be impossible to wear with such a sleeve—what had Simon been thinking? One went to the opera in opera gloves! The neckline, also embroidered, cut across her shoulders and was low yet not disgraceful. Lucy had little to show anyway and was happy that would not be revealed.
The bodice fit her like a dream. Blushing, she remembered why. His strong hands had cupped her as they traced down to her waist, cupped her for far too long, as though Simon was a blind man trying to feel his way.
“Zis dress, she iz divine!” Juliette crowed as she helped Lucy into it. “Regardez! Ze matching slippers.”
Indeed, under the folds of the dress at the bottom of the box were gold satin slippers, gigantic satin slippers. Lucy would look like hammered copper from head to toe. The fabric was nearly identical in color to her hair.
There was a letter beneath the shoes. Lucy recognized the bold yet illegible hand.
Wear your ham down tonight.
Sir Simon Keith
Lucy swallowed. She had been hidden away here for most of six years. She moved about only Jane Street with any freedom at the courtesan teas and card parties the girls hosted to keep ennui at bay while they waited for their gentlemen. Lucy may as well have been a nun.
Tonight she would appear in public on Simon’s arm. She’d read plenty of Percy’s gossip rags over the years, and now knew who they meant when they occasionally mentioned “the brilliant and brawny industrialist Sir S——K.”
And she was afraid.
Percy had made her a pet project, so she knew which fork to lift. He’d taught her to stand tall and be proud of her height, calling her an ‘original.’ But she’d never had to acknowledge before the world that she was a whore.
And now she did.
Simon’s whore.
Although she would not let the man anywhere near her again.
Who was she fooling? She’d be trapped in a carriage with him in a few hours. If she knew Simon, he wouldn’t be satisfied sitting opposite and discussing the weather. Alone, most likely, in a darkened opera box. In this dress, she’d glow like a candle, inviting his caresses and kisses—it would be expected. She imagined hundreds of opera glasses trained upon them and shivered.
At least she had her fox-fur cloak to guard against the crisp October night and her own stupidity. She’d wrap herself up to her eyelashes and claim she was cold.
Simon had not expected Lucy to come downstairs in her cloak—he’d dreamed all day of seeing her float down the steps in the filmy dress he’d purchased for her. He’d been lucky—some other tall woman had fallen upon hard times and had been unable to pay for it. With a few minor adjustments, Madame Bernette had assured him it would be perfect for Lucy.
And now he couldn’t see it.