As he shuffled her off the dance floor, she didn’t rush him. Her next partner commented on her graciousness in dancing with the elderly duke. “I didn’t do it for the praise. I simply find that it’s not that difficult to be kind.”
She had been dancing for nearly two hours when she finally found herself with an unclaimed dance and actually welcomed a moment to sit for a bit and rest her feet, but on her way to the wallflower corner, the flaxen-haired trio stopped her.
“My goodness, Miss Trewlove, but you’re popular tonight,” Lady Penelope said. “I’ve been dying to have a word ever since we arrived, but you’ve been on the floor the entire time.”
“I think I’m still a bit of a curiosity.”
“Are you implying they’re all cats?”
She laughed. “No. I’m just not quite sure what to make of their interest.”
“Have any gents called on you?” Lady Victoria asked.
“Two. Lord Beresford and Mr. Whitley.”
Each of the ladies grimaced.
“Wet-mouthed Whitley,” Lady Alexandria said, and then she brightened. “Oh, that’s how I can remember his name.”
“You already remember his name,” Lady Victoria pointed out.
“Yes, but if I should ever forget it . . .”
Lady Penelope rolled her eyes. “Has he ever kissed your hand, Miss Trewlove?”
Fancy nodded. “Yes.”
“He’s very nice but the . . . spittle not so much. I wouldn’t settle on him, if I were you.”
“I don’t know that we’d suit. He doesn’t read.”
“He’s in fine form, though. Very good at polo.”
She was vaguely aware of the music drifting into silence again and then spotted Lord Beresford striding toward her. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies.”
“Do say hello to Dickens for me,” Lady Penelope said.
“I will.”
Lord Beresford arrived, offering her his arm with a flourish. “Ladies. Miss Trewlove, I believe this is my dance.”
“It is indeed sir.”
As they circled the floor, she found herself thinking that no one danced as wonderfully well as Matthew did.
It was late when they finally arrived back at Mick’s hotel, and she was safely ensconced inside her shop. After lowering the flame in the gas sconce, she headed for the stairs where a pale glow filtered down from above. Halfway up, at a tiny landing, the steps made an abrupt right turn and the light became a bit brighter. Mr. Tittlefitz must have left it on so she wouldn’t be stumbling about in the dark.
At the top of the stairs, she could see it wasn’t a light in the hallway, but rather one coming from the reading parlor. The secretary must have simply forgotten to turn it off.
Walking into the room, she came to a stop at the sight of Matthew sitting in a chair by the fireplace, so lost in a book he hadn’t heard her arrive. She was taken aback by the joy that struck her, as though she’d traveled the world, alone and forgotten, to suddenly arrive at the place where she belonged. She imagined the pleasure to be found in looking up from her own book to see him so near. He still wore his jacket, neck cloth, and waistcoat. She had an urge to divest him of the cumbersome clothing, and yet he was relaxed, as though accustomed to wearing them late into the evening.
“I’m surprised to find you here,” she said softly.
Slowly, as though not at all startled by her appearance, he lifted his gaze while closing the book and setting it aside. He came to his feet, and as always, she was surprised by how elegantly he moved, gracefully, as though accustomed to being watched and determined to project a confident mien. “I decided to make use of your library while waiting for you. How was your evening?”
She crossed over to the settee near his chair and lowered herself to it, grateful when he again took his seat, studying her with those incredibly green eyes. Removing her dance card from her wrist, she extended it toward him and watched as he scrutinized it.
Dickens jumped onto the settee and curled up on the other end. After removing her gloves, she buried the fingers of one hand in his fur and waited for Matthew’s response.
Finally, he looked up, met and held her gaze. “Nearly every dance claimed.”
She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “And my brothers weren’t making any offers.”
He leaned back and brought one booted foot up, resting it on his knee. Such a relaxed, masculine pose, as though they were settling in for the evening. “Were you impressed by anyone?”
“The Marquess of Wilbourne was rather charming. Lord Beresford, who called on me last week—”
“Beresford called on you?”
“Yes, he was one of two gentlemen who did. Do you know him?”
“I’ve read something about him in the gossip rags, I think.”
That statement was a bit of a surprise. “You don’t strike me as someone who would read the gossip news.”
“I’ll read anything. It was no doubt lying about at my sister’s and I saw it there.”
“Well, I don’t give much credence to gossip, and he seems rather nice. Three of the young debutantes have welcomed me. I visited with them for a bit. The matriarchs are keeping their distance.”
“Matriarchs are always disapproving and difficult to win over.”
“My mum isn’t. She was strict when I was growing up, but always managed to make me feel that I could achieve anything I wanted. Sometimes I think it might be easier to simply invite them all here so they can see who I really am. If I hosted an affair, would you come?”
He shifted in his chair as though suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”
She didn’t blame him for his hesitation. If one wasn’t groomed to move about among the aristocracy, it could make for an uncomfortable situation when every word, action, and expression was judged. Glancing over at Dickens because it was easier to look at him than Matthew, she confessed, “You were on my mind often tonight, particularly when I waltzed.”
She heard his foot hit the floor, a moan of the chair. Then he was kneeling before her, taking her free hand in both of his. Why could she get no lord to look at her as he did, like the moon and stars revolved around her, that she existed for his pleasure and his alone?
“I thought about you. Nearly ran mad wondering with whom you were waltzing.”
“Dukes, marquesses, earls, and viscounts. We conversed. I asked them questions, tried to get to know them better, worked to determine if they would ever make me laugh. My mum has advised me to find someone who makes me laugh.”
“She’s a wise woman, your mum.”
“I can’t tell if any of these gents are taken with me. Oh, they say the right things, do the right things, but I can’t stop thinking about your favorite Aesop’s fable, and I find myself wary of their compliments.”
“You shouldn’t be.” He angled his head slightly and brushed his lips over hers. “They no doubt adore you as much as I do.”
“Do you?”
“I very much would like to kiss you, Miss Trewlove,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning over her cheek.
“I would very much like you to, but perhaps I should close Dickens off in my bedchamber.”
“No need. He’ll not interfere. The furry fellow and I are friends now. I fed him a tin of sardines.”
Her laugh was cut off as his mouth claimed hers, and nothing else tonight had felt so right, so perfect. She didn’t hesitate to part her lips, to give him full access to the confines within. This was what she wanted for the remainder of her life: the passion, the fire, the desire.
But finding it with him would be a blow to her family, and he’d certainly given no indication he wanted anything permanent with her. Yet where was the harm in enjoying pleasure, within limits? He’d already proven he wouldn’t take more than she was willing to give. And his mouth moving so determinedly over hers did much to calm the doubts that plagued her in spite of what had been a successful evening. She sighed with wonder, with joy, that he could make he
r feel so treasured.
His arm snaked around her waist, and he gently pulled her off the settee and onto his lap. Supporting her back, he bent her over slightly, changing the angle of the kiss, taking it deeper. Of their own accord, her hands went to his head, her fingers becoming entangled in the thick strands of his hair. She desperately wanted him to be as grateful to have her in his arms as she was to be within his.
But his experience was so beyond hers. He stroked his hand down her back and cupped her bottom with abandon, without hesitation, with a surety that announced more clearly than any words that he was familiar with the female anatomy, that he knew how to touch, how to press, how to stroke in ways that could drive a woman mad—in the best possible way.
While she was a novice, learning her way around a man’s physique. But what a wonderful specimen he was. Muscled and toned, firm beneath her touch as her hands journeyed over his shoulders, his back. While pleasure was threatening to distract her, she was determined to come to know him a little more, to give to him as much as he was giving to her.
As she trailed the fingers of one hand along his bristly jaw, he groaned low and carried his mouth on a journey to her ear where he nibbled on her lobe before sweeping his tongue over the sensitive shell. How did one ever learn all the different areas where an intimate stroke would weaken knees? She felt as though her entire body was in danger of melting.
Suddenly she realized he was no longer supporting her, that she was spread out on the thick Aubusson rug, and he was nestled against her side, raised up on an elbow. Lifting his mouth from hers, he held her gaze as he trailed his finger along her décolletage, where flesh met silk. Back and forth, back and forth. Then he stopped, his fingers lingering over the swell that had been denied his attention after the first ball.
“Yes?” His voice was a tortured rasp, that of a captured man seeking to be free.
“Yes.”
With a low growl, he set himself to the task of revealing what he wanted to claim. When silk, lace, and more were dragged down and her breast was free of all restraints, he lowered his head and took her breast into his mouth. Not just the nipple, but as much as he could, his tongue gliding over and around. Then he was sucking as though she were a hard confection to be worked over with patience and determination, enjoyed and appreciated.
She dug her fingers into his scalp, holding him in place, even as her hips tilted up, her feminine core pressing up against him as her body sought surcease. If Dickens interfered now, she would kill him.
She became aware of Matthew gathering up her skirts and petticoats with one large hand, pushing them up until they were a mound at her waist. Cupping her intimately, he released her breast, peppering kisses around and over it before capturing her gaze, his own smoldering. Slowly, deliberately, he inserted a finger through the part in her undergarments and slid it along her feminine core. She gasped at the wondrous sensation, could feel herself throbbing for him.
“Yes?” he asked.
She gave a jerky nod. “Yes.”
He stroked her once, twice, three times, gave a dark, wicked chuckle when she released a tiny squeal. The entire time, he didn’t take his eyes from hers, knew he was driving her to distraction, relished doing so. She wondered if on the morrow, people would look at her and be able to determine she’d been touched so intimately. It seemed sensations so profound, so intoxicating should leave their mark for all the world to see.
Smoothly, swiftly, he practically climbed down her body until his head was at the juncture of her thighs. With both hands, he parted the opening in her drawers, widening the slit until she could feel the breeze of his breath. Filled with promise, his gaze held hers for all of a heartbeat before he disappeared behind the gathered mound of her skirts.
His tongue stroked what his fingers had only moments before, and she cried out from the pure ecstasy of it. “Oh God!”
She wanted to tell him to stop, feared she’d die if he did. He suckled and soothed, tormented her with light caresses, then delivered stronger ones. She’d never known it was possible to feel so many different things at once. She was flying, yet grounded, on the verge of laughing, close to tears. She was straining to reach the top of a mountain—
And then she was soaring through the heavens, among the stars, but like her kite, still tethered, tethered to him. She was vaguely aware of him moving up, even as he straightened her skirts, attempted to return to her a bit of modesty.
He wore a self-satisfied smile that she suspected very much matched her own. “You breathed fire down there.”
Chuckling low, he threaded his fingers through her still bound hair. “My waiting for you was done with the best of intentions, but I can see now that I am easily led astray when you are near. Yet I am loath to leave. But I know if I stay, come morning, you’ll not be a virgin.”
How she wanted him to stay, how she wanted to know him fully. But she knew the challenges that awaited ruined women. Her siblings had all been brought to her mum because of errors in judgment.
She brushed the tips of her fingers along his cheek. “I am tempted. But too high a price is paid for momentary pleasures.” For her the payment would be the dashing of all dreams—hers and her family’s. “I can’t accept what you’re offering.”
“As well you shouldn’t. The lords of London are fools if they are giving you any reason at all to doubt the sincerity of their compliments.”
“Perhaps I’m the fool for seeking to marry one.”
“You are probably the least foolish woman I’ve ever met.” After kissing her breast once more, he tucked it back beneath cloth. Rolling off her, he stood, reached down, and brought her to her feet. “I should be off now.”
Placing his finger beneath her chin, he tilted up her face and bussed his lips over hers. Something that should have been innocent, and yet she felt the touch clear down to her toes. It was as though her entire body was now attuned to his, that with his actions he had created a stronger connection between them.
Reaching over, he patted Dickens on the head. “Good kitty.”
“I’ll reward him with another tin of sardines.”
Matthew didn’t object when she slipped her hand into his and walked down the stairs with him. “I’ll go out the back. Less chance of anyone seeing me.”
At this time of night, few people would still be up, but she appreciated that he was taking such care to see her not ruined. When they reached the storage room, he unbolted the door, opened it, and stepped out. The thick heavy fog fairly enveloped him. He glanced back. “Sleep well.”
She doubted she’d sleep at all, almost asked him to stay. He quickly became lost as he disappeared into the gray.
Shutting the door, she pressed her ear against it, striving to hear his footsteps, but they were muffled, distant. Before long, she heard no sound at all. Forever changed, she would always hold the memory of him doing deliciously wicked things to her. Why had he? Why had she let him?
Yet, always it seemed, there had been some pull between them, something deep within each of them that called to the other. She’d felt it the moment he walked into her shop—
She heard a scrape, a clatter. A muted footstep, followed by another. Her entire body felt as though it were smiling. He’d returned. Swinging open the door, she froze at the sight of the man standing there.
Not Matthew Sommersby.
Thick, chapped lips spread to reveal blackened teeth. “’Ello, daughter.”
Chapter 19
Fancy stared at the rumpled man with his crumpled top hat pulled low, his greasy hair hanging in matted ropy strands down to his shoulders, his scraggly beard possibly serving as a home to lice or fleas. The fingers of his gloves were naught but frayed remnants, leaving his actual fingers—dirty and grimy—exposed. His tattered, worn clothing hung off his skeletal-like frame.
Swiftly, she moved to slam the door closed, but he stuck his booted foot over the threshold, stopping her from reaching her goal. He gave a hard shove on the door that caused
her to loosen her hold and stagger back. Squaring her shoulders, she straightened and glared at him. “You’re not my father. My father’s dead.”
“Is that what your mum told you, gel? Bless her. She never did seem to favor me.”
Then how in God’s name could he possibly be her father? It made her skin crawl to think of this man touching her mum. Her mother wouldn’t have borne it. She wouldn’t have allowed him anywhere near her. “You’re lying. My mother never would have let you touch her.”
“Ye’d be surprised what a woman will do to keep a roof over ’er ’ead and that of ’er brood.”
She was going to be ill, bring up her dinner all over his scuffed boots. “I would appreciate it if you’d take your leave now.”
“Caw, gel, not so fast. I ain’t got wot I come fer yet. Thought I’d ’ave to jimmy the lock, I did, but ye so kindly opened the door fer me. Imagine ye thought I was that bloke what just left. How would yer mum feel knowin’ ye was entertainin’ blokes late at night?”
She would be ashamed and devastated. Disappointed. Her entire family would be disappointed. “Sir—”
“Dibble is the name. She should ’ave told you that, at least.”
Her father’s name was Sutherland. David Sutherland. He’d been a soldier. A hero. He wasn’t this vile, dirty creature standing before her. “You need to leave.”
“Yer mum’s been boastin’, telling all and sundry, anyone what’ll listen, about yer little shop ’ere. That ’n’ yer introduction to the nobs.” He smirked as his sneering gaze traveled the length of her, what little bit of her there was. Oh, how she wanted to smack that odious expression right off his face. “Says ’er little gel is gonna marry a lord. Wot she’s been sayin’ got back to me, it did. And I started thinkin’ yer my little gel, too. Since ye ’ave such a posh life, I reckon ye can spare a bit of blunt fer yer father. Fifty quid tonight should do it. Ye wouldn’t want me showin’ up at one of your posh balls, would ye? Introducing meself around?”
At least he seemed to recognize that he was not someone with whom anyone would take pride in being associated. But surely it was all a bluff. How would he even know where she was going to be? And no servant in his right mind would allow someone so grubby to be allowed into the home of an aristocrat. “You’re mad if you think I’ll give you so much as a ha’penny.”
The Earl Takes a Fancy Page 21
