Seductive Silence (Mistress in the Making Book 1)

by Larissa Lyons

  So he could fondle a handful of pointy-tipped breast and stop thinking of mossy banks, ocean discoveries and moderating his bloody passions.

  His well-sprung carriage gave an uncharacteristic lurch as his driver hollered at another.

  Instinctively Daniel’s arm shot out to steady Thea but ’twas unnecessary. She’d done no more than bobble in place, as though staring at him silently, unnervingly, somehow gave her inner strength.

  Disconcerting, it was. Desirable too. Deuce—

  Another sharp swerve cut off the thought.

  “Sorry, milord!” Roskins called out. “All’s right now, it is!”

  To acknowledge the apology, Daniel tapped the head of his walking stick on the roof twice, then replaced it beside him, all without ever taking his eyes from hers.

  And still she watched him watching her.

  The constant clippety-clop of the horses filled the gently swaying carriage. That and the sound of his and Thea’s breathing. Gad, she was quiet. Louise would have blathered on enough to wear out his wattles.

  He reached up to rub one, just to make sure his hearing was still intact.

  How many times had he been grateful there was no void for him to fill? Conversely, how many times had he wished for a latch upon the hinges of her jaw so he could stop the incessant chatter?

  He’d tolerated the tavern-grade soliloquies on bonnets and baubles and butterflies, pleased naught was required of him in response. Yet he’d yearned for silence on occasion, to be blessed with a modicum of restful, peace-filled companionship.

  Did he not have his wish now? Silence.

  Peaceful, horrible, grating silence.

  One that threatened to allow the guilt from earlier to swell and—

  No. None of that now. He wouldn’t think of Tom Everson or how he’d treated the boy. Wouldn’t remember the crestfallen look on his face or feel bloody responsible. Not tonight.

  Daniel cast about for salvation and found it seated across from him.

  What did Thea like?

  Byron, he recalled from dinner, with an automatic twist of his lips. Poetry. Something he’d learned early and well to detest. Especially from poets whose names began with “B”.

  Byron…Blake. For those, he held a particular abhorrence.

  William Blake, the word-wielding rascal, had gifted Daniel’s father with a rare volume of his works. A volume his sire revered but that he and his twin thought better suited to post chamber-pot wiping than recreational reading.

  Sadly though, young boys had little say in their education especially when their elders held a particular engraver-turned-poet in high esteem. As a consequence, their childhood tutor forced him and David to study and recite the lines ad nauseam. To this day, Daniel regretted how he could not block them from his memory.

  He was not a “Little Boy Lost”, by damn! Neither was he a man who needed to moderate his bloody passions!

  But damn his infernal curiosity, he did want to know more about his new mistress.

  Did she have a bonnet collection numbering upwards of thirty-seven? Did she waste considerable time cataloging baubles enough to fill fourteen jewelry cases? (Nay, for she wore not a single one upon her plainly dressed person.) What of butterflies? Was she, perhaps, enamored of their wing colors?

  Enamored to a sufficient degree to spike a pin through their hearts and tack them in a padded box? To retrieve and carry with her a broken, iridescent wing and tell the milliner that, precisely, was to be the exact shade of the ribbons on her next bonnet?

  All atrocities his former, fancifully dressed fancy piece had indulged in.

  Daniel couldn’t see it, none of it. Not from Thea, the composed, if absurdly, annoyingly quiet woman across from him. But by God, he wanted to hear it from her lips.

  So he pried his open. “Tell me of yourself.”

  She jumped as though a cannon blasted from his mouth.

  “What would you know?” she said after recovering her composure. “You have but to ask and I am pleased to share, though I fear you will find me an uninspiring topic.”

  She was wrong, so very wrong.

  Daniel thought a moment, determining the best way to inquire without revealing his weakness. No longer could he expect rescue from a top-jiggling trollop. “How long ago were you widowed?”

  Now that was brilliant. First question he poses is about the other man most recently in her life? Hell, he might as well have asked her if her husband was a good lover.

  He bit his tongue to still the plethora of other thoughts yearning to break free. Had her spouse been a good lover? Was there anything she particularly enjoyed in the bedchamber? Anything she wished to avoid? Would she, perchance, be amenable to amorous convincing, should the need arise? (His need had arisen, achingly so, now that she was close and they were alone.)

  “Just over a year, my lord.”

  A year what? His mind blanked, too busy conjuring thoughts of her splayed across his big bed.

  Daniel ground his teeth and cast about for another query, minus any troublesome letters.

  “We were married nearly eight,” she saved his tooth enamel by offering. “I knew Mr. Hurwell most of my life. He and my father were friends.”

  Which told him much. He and her father were friends.

  Not her.

  As though she’d shared more than she meant to, Thea’s eyes sought the closed curtain. Her hands fidgeted—a flurry of movement that wound his gut tighter than the strings of her reticule.

  Hurwell. Hurwell. Mr. Hurwell. Why did that name sound familiar? Why did his mouth burst out with, “So it-it wasn’t a love match?”

  She mashed those lovely lips together before freeing them to say, “Nay. ’Twas a match of convenience. Their convenience. My father and Mr. Hurwell’s, that is. When Papa fell ill, he urged me to accept the proposal, which had been repeated more than once. I finally did so, to give him some reassurance at the end.”

  She was talking now, which was all very well and good but not at all what he wanted to hear.

  The gulf between them threatened to widen, from a carriage to a chasm. “It won’t do.”

  His deep, gravelly murmur surprised them both. She gasped at his intensity; he smiled because it came forth without hesitation.

  “What won’t, my lord?”

  “This…ah…” Regardless of the convenience of making her his convenient (which made him no better than her deceased husband, he realized on a groan), he was curious about Thea, about her past, her dreams. About her missing coat. About what lay beneath the drab olive gown. It won’t do. Nay, not at all! “This…” Divide? Distance? “Space between us. Won’t…suffice.”

  The exposed skin of her neck beckoned once more. Would it be as cold as the air between them or, if Ellie’s bewitching cream had truly blessed him, hot like passion?

  The seats creaked as he rose and transferred to the one she occupied. Her startled glance flittered away. He wasted no time stripping off his gloves. With one hand, he covered the tangled fingers in her lap. With the other, he cupped her cheek and turned her to face him.

  Warm. Even in the cold night air, her skin was heated, giving him his answer. Passion. No frigid miss could have skin this warm.

  He bent his head to press his lips to hers and the fingers beneath his tightened further.

  Giving in to his body’s urging, he opened his mouth and slid his tongue over her lips.

  She jerked back with a gasp, staring at him with overly bright eyes. A sharp trembling besieged her limbs.

  His heart sank.

  If she scared this easily at his touch, how was he supposed to bed her?

  He wasn’t in the habit of supplying lodgings for just any female off the street. Neither could he imagine taking his pleasure with someone who shrank from his touch.

  Sliding his hand from her face, the other from her lap, he leaned back against the seat and expelled a breath. Then another. He turned his head, eyes seeking hers, expecting condemnation. Instead, finding
only her outline, the interior lantern having burnt down to fumes.

  He unclenched his jaw to inquire, as silkily as he could manage—no need to scare her further— “Problem?”

  She’d raised a hand to her mouth. He saw a hint of her fine, pale glove when she lowered it to her throat. “What-what do you mean?”

  “Is there a…prob…blem?” He waited a moment. When she didn’t respond, he clarified, “With my t-t—” Deep breath, Daniel, he remembered his grandfather saying, the words will come when they’re ready. Well dammit, he needed them ready now. “You have issues with my…touch?”

  “Nay!” she said emphatically, convincingly. “Not at all. I, um…ah…” The hand at her neck took to fanning her face, tiny, panicky puffs of air he felt a foot away. “I’m not used to kisses such as yours.”

  Gad. Even his kisses were wrong. Too passionate? he wondered and then discounted the insane notion. He’d barely touched her.

  Despite his attraction, he was becoming concerned. If she couldn’t stomach his kisses, how would she tolerate his cock? “What t-t-type of kisses are you used to?”

  “Are you laughing at me?” She sounded stiff, hurt by the thought.

  “Laughing? At you? Never.” When she remained defensively quiet, he ordered, “Thea. Answer me.”

  How else would he know how to please her?

  “None at all. I’m not used to any manner of kiss.” The words were a shameful whisper, one that lashed at his conscience for demanding she admit it. But he couldn’t regret the urge when she tore off one glove and gripped his hand, halting his retreat back across the squabs. “Pray, do not fault me for the lack,” she implored into the shadows between them. “I’ve not had ample opportunity to receive nor bestow such affection.”

  Ample opportunity? “Oh?”

  “Your kiss—’twas not unpleasant, only unexpected. I…”

  When the lantern flame flickered and faltered, fizzled to nothing, she clutched him harder—the hand that hadn’t suffered a mangling previously—and Daniel sensed she was winding up to confess all under the cover of darkness. “Earlier tonight, I watched Lord Big No—ahem, Lord Donaldson—lick…ah, intimate parts of his partner, but I failed to consider your tongue questing upon my mouth. Silly of me, I know.” Her laugh was self-mocking. “It was my omission. I do apologize.”

  Her fingers pulled at his, but he was too startled by the halting revelations to do more than enjoy the way she plucked at the naked skin of his palm while she haltingly said, “Please be assured, and I mean this most sincerely, Lord Tremayne, you may feel at liberty to place it there again.”

  It? His tongue? She invited him to place it upon her mouth?

  Though beyond tempted, he had to clarify, “What ‘intimate p-parts’ exactly?”

  “You knave!” A muffled giggle escaped as she tossed his hand from her. “Now I know I hear laughter in your voice.”

  She heard laughter when he felt lunacy? That would do. Would do famously. “Nay, ’tis curiosity.”

  “’Tis most ungentlemanly of you,” she accused with breathless abandon, “to mock my ignorance thus.”

  ’Twas most ungentlemanly of him to delight in her admitted ignorance but he did, oh how he did. So he told her. “You de-delight me.”

  “I delight your funny bone, you mean.”

  It was true.

  He found, the more they bantered in the blackness, that he was suppressing laughter. What a freeing experience. “T-tell me”—he fisted the recently abandoned fingers to keep from groping her in the dark—“if not your m-m-mouth, where d-did you consider my…tongue upon your person?”

  The perplexing widow (Was she one in truth—in the fleshly sense? Had her horse’s arse of a husband truly never kissed her?) refused to answer what Daniel most avidly wanted to hear. Although what she did next was infinitely better: she blindly raised her ungloved hand to his cheek, skimming it up his chest to map the way. He swallowed thickly when her fingers glided up his neck and again when they settled upon him.

  She feathered her thumb across his lips and he felt the imprint of each individual finger cupping his jaw as she guided his head down while lifting hers.

  Their lips touched a second later.

  This time he kept his tongue to himself, wanting to see how she might kiss, given ample opportunity (which he had every intention of supplying her, every chance he could). In fact, he was more than willing to let her experiment on him, as much as she wanted, as long as he could entice her.

  “Whoa. Whoa now!” Roskins brought the horses to a decisive stop. Their bodies lurched in tandem with the carriage. “We’re here, milord.”

  Damn.

  Did their mouths cling, reluctant to part, or was that mere folly on his part? A breath later, her lips were gone. The hand on his jaw flexed, then fled.

  Thea edged away with a tiny whimper.

  Of what? Frustration—that they weren’t continuing? Fear—of him? Of what awaited her in the townhouse he’d procured?

  What did she feel at the too-brief kiss? Irritation it hadn’t deepened or relief at the interruption?

  Daniel knew what he felt—twenty stone of pure lust. Another forty of regret—that he hadn’t claimed her lips sooner, as in the second they’d entered the carriage.

  When he moved to open the door, Thea stayed his arm. All humor had fled from her when she spoke. “Please. Do not hold my lack of experience in mistressing arts against me.” Mistressing arts? “I remain very aware of the honor you do me, granting me the chance to please you. And once we arrive inside”—her voice cracked, giving lie to her words—“I’m ready for you to take me, my lord.”

  6

  Tawdry or Titillating? ’Tis a Matter of Opinion…

  Uncertain as to the protocol for one in her position, Thea stood just inside the door of her new home. Upon first glimpse, she could tell it was grander than any place she’d lived.

  Grander and golder and, well, gaudier. And she absolutely loved it.

  The lower walls were painted a rich scarlet; above the wainscoting, they glimmered bronze in the flickering wall sconces. Flush against one wall and flanked by two ornate chairs, a rectangular table was draped with a red and bronze, fringe-trimmed brocade. Several ceramic figurines cavorted on one side of the table (carnally, if she wasn’t mistaken) and a gleaming oval tray occupied the other, its polished surface conspicuously empty. Awaiting her correspondence?

  How very indulgent!

  The unexpected décor lent an opulent feel to the very air. Inhaling the lavish scents of decadence and relief—had she ever been privy to such a sumptuous, safe home?—Thea paused at the table to remove her remaining glove, placing the pair near the glittering tray.

  Above the table, an arched mirror reflected her pale face and drab dress, along with two coordinating paintings on the opposite wall—her escort had stalled in front of one—each showing a voluptuous, artfully nude female in a very suggestive pose. Thea found it easier to focus on those wicked images rather than her own plain one.

  The resplendent, if debauched, excess—from the obscene figures to the stark naked models adorning her new walls—were the exact opposite of the pallid squalor she’d been reduced to the last few months. Naughty or not, Thea knew a home this splendid surely boasted more than moldy potatoes in the larder.

  And that made it very fine indeed.

  After shedding his coat and slinging it over the arm of one chair, Lord Tremayne came up behind her and caught her gaze in the mirror. He placed his warm hand low across her back and cleared his throat. “Not what I—”

  He choked off what sounded like a curse and his fingers flexed just above her hip. The added pressure incited a tremor that quaked through her legs and down to her toes. Thea’s feet stretched in the cold slippers as heat blossomed.

  “I like it,” she said before he could deride her new abode, turning against his large form to look up and capture his gaze directly. “I like it exceedingly. It’s more beautiful than I ima
gined.” And to think—she’d only seen the entryway!

  He grunted—and slid his hand a bit lower.

  Her breath caught in her throat but then a strident bird cry arrested her attention and his hand fell away when he stepped back.

  Cuckoo—cuckoo—cuckoo…

  Through twelve interminable seconds, they both stood transfixed. Because instead of a sweet (or annoying) chirping bird extending out and bobbing sprightly, their eyes were greeted with two figures, one unmistakably male, the other female. Female and on her knees, mouth open and bobbing over his…er…um…

  “Gracious me,” Thea said when she could garner a breath. “That’s…that’s…”

  “Filthy.”

  His ragged growl drew her gaze away from the clock. Was that embarrassment flushing the tips of his ears?

  Thea’s eyes darted over the portraits, the figurines, the cuckoo clock, and finally settled on the man in front of her.

  “I was thinking funny,” she said lightly. “Wretchedly funny.”

  The dark scowl faded to be replaced by a slow and knowing grin. “Funny? Aye, Thea, we’ll…d-do—” He broke off on a slight cough, muffled quickly by his fist. “Shall we?”

  Extending his arm, he indicated the prominent staircase that stood off to the right. If this townhouse was arranged as most, the split stairway led down to the kitchen and up to the bedchambers.

  Thea nodded and he gestured for her to precede him, placing one hand on her waist as their feet followed the ascending path of the crimson runner. Though acutely aware of the gentle pressure of his fingers curved near her hip, Thea had to bite back a laugh.

  If a scant hour in his company had taught her that mayhap she didn’t hate every cuckoo clock, what other surprising revelations might her new association bring?

  At the top landing, only one door stood ajar. Lord Tremayne steered her toward it.

  “My, how lovely and-and—” She gasped, stumbling to a stop just over the threshold, barely muting her monstrously huge. Without doubt, this chamber alone had to be the size of the entire living quarters above the clock shop.