Seductive Silence (Mistress in the Making Book 1)

by Larissa Lyons

  In seconds, he reached the main door and waited impatiently while the grim-faced butler retrieved his coat and other paraphernalia. The moment it was within reach, Daniel coiled his fingers tight around the shaft of his fancy walking stick, as though only it could keep him from drowning in the quicksand the night had become. His elaborate walking stick—a useless item, but Elizabeth had given it to him years ago, claiming she’d blessed it with all manner of herbs and enchantments, and he’d brought it tonight for luck.

  For luck. What a laugh.

  He transferred the cane so he could shrug into his coat, his damn hand missing the armhole on the first two attempts, no matter that the butler held it out for him.

  “Lord Tremayne!” The feminine voice bit through the haze of guilt prodding his frantic actions. “Are you off so soon? And…and alone?”

  Wrenching the coat from the butler, he shoved it over his arm and gripped the walking stick. Smoothing his hand over the cool ivory ball at the top, seeking a measure of composure anywhere he might find it, he turned to face the obstacle. For now, all he wanted was gone. Gone from this place. Gone from his damnable memories.

  Sarah and Mrs. Hurwell.

  It took a second to register that it was the widow who’d called out to him, who gazed at him inquiringly, no doubt seeking understanding.

  Daniel opened his mouth to send her on her way, to say he’d changed his mind. But with one good look at her, he snapped it shut.

  Because instead of accusing condemnation, as her friend’s expression held, the widow’s countenance reflected a remnant of the wounded look he’d just caused on Tom Everson’s face. Instead of angry, she looked baffled, disconcerted by his inexplicable retreat.

  Hell. He was disconcerted by the whole damn evening.

  Being this close to her again only brought home how much. He was attracted to her, of that there was no doubt. He wanted to know—nay, feel—what she could do with her mouth. So easily could he imagine how heavenly it would be to banish the hell brimming in his mind by hammering into her soft and welcoming body. “Ah, the lovely Mrs. Hurwell…”

  Well, that came out flawlessly. Maybe she, rather than his ivory-handled walking stick, would prove to be his good-luck charm. “I am d-delighted…to mmake your acquain…tance.”

  And maybe she wasn’t.

  Blast it! The scene with the cub had definitely addled his mouth.

  Fortunately, some sauced fancy piece—half her bosom modestly covered, the other half bouncing with abandon—chose that moment to run by, an indiscreet lordling hot on her heels. Her squeals and his shouts camouflaged Daniel’s massacred greeting. Any other time the vulgar display might have made him frown; tonight he was hard pressed not to blow the trollop a kiss.

  He turned back to the widow. As though the bawdy exhibit of bare breast had never been flaunted, she stared at him with calm, pale eyes the color of the underside of a velvet leaf. Beautiful eyes, oddly haunting, threatening to drown him in curiosity and uncertainty.

  If any decency resided in him at all, he’d pay her for the month and give her to Tom Everson. Salvage his pride with the gesture.

  But he was too damn selfish.

  Mrs. Hurwell had come here for him. Dammit, she was meant to be his.

  He knew he’d disappointed her, taking off the way he had. Yet still she gazed at him with something akin to hope. The wary stance she employed, the perceptible, if squashed, optimism—as though poised to run herself but reluctant to do so—put him in mind of Cyclops when he’d rescued the dog. She might put on a brave front, but he couldn’t shake the notion she was quaking inside.

  It only endeared her to him.

  Though Sarah hovered right behind her, a fierce frown pinching their hostess’s forehead, it was the widow who commanded his attention. She had a way about her that drew him mightily. A pliableness to her features, a soft hesitancy to her eyes as she stood there after chasing him down as he tried to escape his past…

  By damn, he might not be as brave as Tom Everson, but he was man enough to speak up for what he wanted—which was her in his bed. Posthaste.

  “Shall we depart?” The smooth delivery put him on his guard; he didn’t trust his mouth to be so cooperative again.

  Damn, his neck ached abominably. He just wanted to prig her and go to sleep. In her arms if she’d let him.

  Hoping to alleviate the growing tension climbing up his jaw, he stretched his neck under the guise of transferring his walking stick to his opposite hand. He proffered her his free arm, the one unburdened by his haphazardly folded coat. “I”—desire you fiendishly—“wish to be off and would prefer we…go…to…gether.”

  When she hesitated, her gaze darting between him and her friend, Daniel intentionally relaxed his jaw, softened his posture. If he was scowling at her as he feared, she’d be a noddy to go anywhere with him.

  As casually as he could manage, he lowered his arm. “’Tis your choice of course…but I would…be honored should you…” Decide? Nay! He quickly cast about and finished in a rush, “Choose-accompany-me.”

  Giving her a moment, trying not to berate his brain for panicking, he ordered his heart rate to slow. Deliberately, with every appearance of one with idle time on their hands, he strolled past her and approached Sarah to make his bow.

  “Mm…” Miss? Mrs.? Blazing ballocks, he had no clue what her last name was, Penry’s woman being how he typically thought of her—if he thought of her at all.

  Wholly aware of the woman staring at his backside, the woman likely debating whether she wanted to see it bedside, he took a desperate breath and prayed his mouth wouldn’t seize up. He started anew. “Sarah. Thank you for including me…tonight. Most gracious of…” Hell, he was growing hoarse. A hoard of frogs having jumped in his mouth along with his foot. “Of you.”

  He heard the widow shift in place and angled his head, silently watched the byplay between the women. Sarah’s brows rose inquiringly and Mrs. Hurwell gave a slight nod, then stepped forth, ready to accompany him.

  But then Penry’s woman stood on tiptoes, pressing on his shoulder until he tilted his head, whereupon she whispered something to him that had his brows shooting skyward.

  And the scowl returning full force to his face.

  Like a candle thrown on a frozen lake, Lord Tremayne waxed hot and cold.

  When he swung back to face her, his frown once again in place, Dorothea feared this time the downward tilt was etched in stone.

  What had Sarah just said to cause its return?

  She faltered as she reached him, her already shaky confidence wavering at the unholy glower he leveled her way. Fierce, then fiercer still, yet she couldn’t bring herself to walk away. Or to truly want to.

  Because in the brighter entryway, the bruises hiding beneath his whiskers were unmistakable. And despite the hint of a scar on his lip, despite his formidable presence and fearsome grimace, she instantly felt an accord with him.

  Had she not sewn lace on her cuffs for the very same reason? To mask unsightly bruises—though she doubted his were from a grubby, grabby landlord.

  Suspecting the reason for his facial scruff lessened her dislike of it.

  On the surface, she worried whether Sarah had landed her with a ruffian, a man inclined to shows of temper. But deeper, almost instinctually, her mind contradicted that assumption: Would a ruffian slice her serving? Would a royster have so many of his peers jockeying to greet him upon his arrival? Or monopolizing his attention after dinner?

  Admittedly, Lord Tremayne possessed a most distinguished countenance, when one troubled themselves to look beneath the angry façade. The side whiskers in front of his ears and angling toward his jaw were shaped most adroitly, tempting her fingers to smooth along their contours, to seek out that tiny indentation bisecting both lips on a slant.

  His posture was exquisite, the breadth of his chest impressive. His deep, somewhat gravelly voice, when he chose to bestow it, reverberated through her in the most invigorating way. And
really, given the placid years that stretched behind her, was she not due some invigoration?

  Dorothea shifted in place, considering.

  If she wasn’t meant to be with him, would she still feel so inexplicably jealous upon seeing where his gaze had landed mere seconds ago—on the voluptuously exposed breast of the circling cuckoo in their midst?

  Regardless! Dorothea chose not to evaluate how her own less-than-charming charms compared in the size-and-bounce arena.

  She’d counter his every frown with a smile as long as his actions didn’t pose a threat. But lay one finger on her in anger and she’d take a boot to his crown office, then one to Sarah’s posterior for placing her in jeopardy.

  That image fortifying her, Dorothea smiled past her nerves and allowed her reckless enthusiasm to show. “Lord Tremayne, I would very much like to accompany you, if that is still your wish.”

  His expression inscrutable, he grasped her gloved hand and pulled her forward as he bent to place a kiss just above the bend of her wrist.

  “Mistress Hurwell?” his deep voice intoned as he looked past the length of her arm and sought her gaze. “My wishes have not changed.”

  This close to him again, with his big, strong hand holding gently to her fingers, the warmth from his breath reaching through the leather, her arm practically melted. “Call me Dorothea, please.”

  His grimace tightened perceptibly.

  What? Had she crossed some line? Her fingers flexed within his.

  He immediately unclenched his jaw and swallowed. Giving his head an abrupt shake, he stroked his thumb over her trembling fingers. “Thea, I think. It suits you…better.”

  Who was she to argue? At the heated look in his amber eyes, she feared she would’ve agreed if he’d suggested her new name be “Turtle”.

  Sarah stood a short distance away, foot tapping on the floor, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, waiting for more—from both of them, Dorothea sensed.

  She looked back at Lord Tremayne (looked up, more precisely, given how he’d straightened). Her smile came naturally this time. “Thea. Would be lovely to hear it again,” she told him. “’Tis what my mum called me when I was a girl.”

  “Are you agreeable?” Lord Tremayne cleared his throat and his gaze drifted to where he maintained possession of her hand. “Ah…to our union?”

  Her palms were sweating in her gloves. She longed to rip them off and touch—

  Places she likely shouldn’t.

  Was she agreeable? Goodness, he’d already seduced her entire arm; she was eager for him to seduce the rest of her.

  “Aye.” Her head jerked in a nod. “Quite.”

  As Thea (how appropriate—a new name to go with her new life) closed the distance between them, Sarah gave her a relieved nod and glided away. Now it was just her and her new protector—and the hovering butler, his eyes painstakingly averted, her reticule dangling off one finger.

  Lord Tremayne saw it as well and released her.

  While he put on his greatcoat, Thea reached for the small purse. “Thank you, Simms.”

  Free of the feminine burden, Simms nodded toward a footman who opened the large door. A blast of icy spray swirled inside, nipping her feet with the threat of frost. Dorothea stamped them in place. “I am ready, my lord.”

  “Your cloak?” Lord Tremayne sounded incredulous at the lack.

  Her “cloak”—the coat of Mr. Hurwell’s she’d taken to wearing after his demise, being both warm and worn, thereby easily overlooked in the stews.

  Rather than admit she’d chosen not to wear the tattered rag—one sleeve ripped completely off thanks to the most recent tussle with Grimmett—she pretended she hadn’t heard his question. Winding the strings of her reticule through the fingers he’d so recently caressed, she queried, “I’m to accompany you home, then?”

  “I’ve arranged for your lodgings.” He stilled the nervous gesture by placing her arm on his. Her eyes swept from the sight of the new cream-colored gloves—thank you, Sarah!—atop his muscular forearm covered in dark wool, up to his face.

  “We could retire there now?” His lips quirked in what she suspected was meant to be a reassuring smile.

  Reassuring to a tart in truth, perhaps.

  Thea swallowed her apprehension. “I would like nothing better, my lord,” she said rather convincingly, she hoped. “Lead on.”

  Which he did, the large man with the intimidating scruff and inviting scent escorting her out of the safety of Sarah’s home and into the dark, damp unknown.

  With nary another word.

  In moments they were ensconced in his magnificent carriage, a grand conveyance far surpassing any other coach or hack she’d ever climbed into. The night air was thick from the day’s rains, the cobblestones slick, but as the horses pranced forward and the well-oiled wheels turned smoothly, Thea couldn’t help but marvel how she was—wonder of wonders—snug and safe.

  If at sixes and sevens over how to go on from here. Lord Tremayne remained stubbornly mute and she claimed not the courage nor the fortitude to break the silence.

  In such close confines, his alluring scent was stronger. Or perhaps she still reacted to the lung-expanding whiff she’d stolen when he handed her up and had seen her comfortably seated on the plush bench before settling his large frame into the one across from her.

  Four feet, mayhap five. ’Twas all that separated their upper bodies. But it seemed a mile.

  A single lamp lit the interior. Lit one side of his harsh face and the ivory knob of the walking stick his leather-encased thumb methodically stroked.

  Lit her lap where she twined and tangled her fingers as she battled two horribly opposed notions: her gloves or the door?

  Her gloves, she was sorely tempted to rip off so she might touch his whiskers, could learn whether they were prickly as she suspected, or possibly, absurdly, soft to the touch. A most contrary yearning, given how she also contemplated opening the coach door and hurling herself into the night, fleeing the intensity of his presence…

  Wholly aware of his speculative gaze evaluating her person, Thea was riddled with self-doubt now that they were alone. It was nearly time to lie in the bed she’d recklessly made.

  The bed he’d bought, as surely as he’d bought her favors.

  Uncertainty besieged her. She lifted back the curtain and focused on what she knew lay beyond the security of his richly appointed carriage: Grimmett, hunger…and unsavory mounds of mice doodles.

  In the meager light afforded by the dwindling lantern, Daniel studied the subdued Widow Hurwell. Thea.

  Seemingly immune to the frigid air, she sat with her back straight against the squabs. Both feet, encased in scuffed leather slippers, were placed firmly on the floor and her hands were knotted in her lap.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was on her way to her execution, not her new home.

  Did she seek to avoid him? Or was she simply interested in their destination? With rapt fascination, she gazed out toward the darkened streets, tilting her head to survey both where they headed and where they’d been.

  The action exposed the pale skin of her cheek and throat.

  A throat sans woolen scarf. A body—now trembling—attired in anything but a fashionable state.

  “Your…belongings?” he asked. Other than the small reticule hanging from her wrist, she didn’t have any personal effects. No cloak? No cape, nor pelisse? Nothing? He was still baffling over that discovery.

  A slight movement of her head indicated she heard his question although it was a moment before she answered. “I’ll retrieve my things tomorrow.”

  He thought to offer assistance, but she continued before he could phrase the words. “There isn’t much, really. Only a few articles of clothing.” She glanced at him and added, “Nothing I’d miss if everything vanished during the interim.” A shy smile, then she returned to contemplating the view beyond the carriage. And he returned to contemplating her skin.

  Delicate, smooth, inviting… Invi
ting his touch, his lips?

  Sarah’s parting words rose up to haunt him. Mind you moderate your passions with her, Tremayne. Don’t rush your fences and let your ardor overwhelm her.

  What the devil had Penry’s woman meant by that caution? The one she’d whispered frantically in his ear just before they’d left.

  Moderate his passions? Talk about interfering with his plans for the night.

  He shifted in his seat and Thea jumped.

  She turned from the window, letting the curtain fall back, and fixed her gaze on him. Her large, surprisingly pale eyes met his in the feeble lantern glow—the fuel needed refilling. But he was glad for it. Some of the starch seemed to go out of her spine the more the flame flickered.

  He was acutely aware how his arousal increased as her steady regard lengthened.

  Those eyes of hers did things to him. A soft jade green, her gaze held his without wavering. He’d only seen that exact shade once before, during a trip to the coast when he was a boy and his family still intact.

  He and David had loved splashing in the ocean, watching the waves break upon the mossy, rock-crested shore.

  She blinked, her expression unchanging, and Daniel shook himself.

  Gad. He hadn’t thought of that time in years. Robert had been off at school. He and David barely seven and, as always, inseparable; Ellie but a babe trailing after them. It was so clear he could taste the salt coming off the ocean, feel the chill of the water, the roughness of the rocks as he and his twin competed in a crab-catching contest, Mama laughing at their antics while Father indulgently looked on. That was before their sire had become such a beast.

  The memory threatened to turn him maudlin and Daniel blamed her—Thea, with the moss-colored eyes. The refined features. The full lips.

  Blasted ballocks—temper his passions? When all he wanted was to banish that lace fichu out the window and plunder her mouth with his while he plunged his hand down her dress to plunder the rest of her?