by Lisa Kleypas
Although Lottie had never eaten in public before and felt absurdly self-conscious, she gamely attacked a beefsteak that could easily have served a family of four. "What is this?" she asked, gingerly taking her mug and peering into the foaming brown depths.
"Ale," Nick replied, resting his arm along the back of her chair. "Try some."
Obediently she took a sip of the thick grain-flavored beverage, and her entire face wrinkled in distaste. Laughing at her expression, Nick told a nearby barmaid to fetch her some gin punch. More patrons crowded into the building, mugs were clanked heavily on the battered wooden tables, and barmaids moved busily among the crowd with large pitchers.
At the front of the tavern, a comic musical ditty was being performed by a slender woman wearing men's clothing and a portly gentleman with a luxuriant moustache who was dressed as a country maid, with a huge false bosom that swayed from side to side as he moved. As the "lad" chased the "maid" around the tavern, singing a soulful love song that praised her beauty, the place erupted in bellows of laughter. The sheer silliness of the performance was impossible to resist. Tucked against her husband's side, with a cup of astringent gin punch in her hands, Lottie tried without success to stifle a fit of giggles.
More performances followed...bawdy songs and dances, comic verse, even a display of acrobatic tumbling and juggling. The hour grew late, the corners of the tavern became shadowy, and in the relaxed atmosphere, more than a few couples began to indulge in some indiscreet fondling and kissing. Lottie knew that she should have been shocked, but the gin punch had made her sleepy and thickheaded. She discovered that she was sitting on Nick's lap, her legs tucked between his, and that the only reason she was able to sit upright was the fact that his arms were around her.
"Oh, dear," she said, staring into her nearly empty cup. "Did I drink all of that?"
Nick took the cup from her and set it on the table. "I'm afraid so."
"Only you could undo my years of training at Maidstone's in one evening," she said, making him grin.
His gaze lowered to her mouth, and he traced the edge of her jaw with his fingertip. "Are you completely corrupted now? No? Then let's go home, and I'll finish the job."
Feeling unsteady and very warm, Lottie giggled as he guided her through the tavern. "The floor is uneven," she told him, leaning hard against his side.
"It's not the floor, sweetheart, it's your feet."
Pondering that, Lottie glanced from his amused face to her own feet. "They do feel as if they've been put on the wrong legs."
Nick shook his head, his blue eyes gleaming with laughter. "You have no tolerance for gin, do you? Here, let me carry you."
"No, I don't wish to be a spectacle," she protested as he lifted her against his chest and carried her out to the street. Catching sight of them, a waiting footman hurried to the end of the street, where their carriage waited in a long row.
"You'll be more of a spectacle if you fall on your face," Nick replied.
"I'm not that far gone," Lottie protested. However, his arms were so solid and his shoulder so inviting that she snuggled against him with a sigh. The slightly musky scent of his skin mingled with the crisp smell of starch from his necktie, a blend so alluring that she inched closer to inhale deeply.
Nick stopped by the side of the street. His head turned, his shaven cheek brushing hers and making her skin tingle. "What are you doing?"
"Your smell..." she said dreamily. "It's wonderful. I noticed it the first time we met, when you nearly knocked me off the wall."
A laugh stirred in his throat. "I saved you from falling, you mean."
Intrigued by the scratchy texture of his skin, Lottie pressed her lips beneath his jaw. She felt him swallow hard, the movement rippling against her mouth. It was the first time she had ever made an advance to him, and the small gesture was surprisingly effective. He stood there holding her tightly, his chest rising and falling in increasingly labored breaths. Intrigued by the notion that she could arouse him so easily, Lottie tugged at the knot of his necktie and kissed the side of his throat.
"Don't, Lottie."
She drew the tip of her fingernail over the hair-roughened skin, scraping delicately.
"Lottie..." he tried again. Whatever he had intended to say was forgotten as she kissed his ear and took the lobe between her teeth in a soft bite.
The carriage stopped before them, and the footman busied himself with setting out the removable step. Schooling his features into a blank mask, Nick thrust Lottie inside the carriage and climbed in after her.
As soon as the door closed, he hauled her into his lap and tugged roughly at the front of her gown. She reached up to play with his hair, tangling her fingers in the thick sable locks. Unlacing the top of her corset, he eased one breast out and fastened his mouth over the soft nipple. The teasing suction caused her to arch against him with a whimper of pleasure. His hands delved frantically beneath her skirts, slipping past masses of broadcloth and linen to find the damp slit of her drawers. His hand was too large to slip inside the undergarment, and he ripped it with an ease that made her gasp. Her thighs spread in helpless welcome, and her vision blurred as one long finger eased inside her. Cradled in his lap, with his hand working gently between her legs, she felt her inner muscles begin to tighten rhythmically.
A groan escaped him, and he pulled her hips over his, fumbling roughly with the front of his trousers. "You're so wet...I can't wait, Lottie, let me...sit in my lap, and put your legs...oh, God, yes, right there..."
She straddled him willingly, sucking in her breath as he penetrated her, his hands urging her hips down until he had buried himself to the hilt. He was deliciously hard and thick inside her, holding still while the motion of the carriage jostled their bodies together. Surreptitiously Lottie rubbed the aching peak of her sex against him, feeling waves of heat rising from the place they were joined. One of his hands passed gently over her upper back.
Lottie gasped as a vigorous jolt of the carriage wheels impelled him farther inside her. "We don't have long," she managed to say against his throat. "The tavern is very close to home."
Nick responded with a tortured groan. "The next time I'll make the driver take us around the whole of London...twice." He slid his thumb to the top of her wet sex and flicked it with soft, rapid strokes, building her pleasure rapidly until she curled against him with a sob, overwhelmed by explosive sensation. Hitching his hips upward in desperate thrusts, he growled and buried his face in the curve of her neck, his passion reaching a blinding culmination.
They both breathed in long gasps, while their naked flesh was locked together beneath the layers of disheveled clothing. "It's never enough," Nick said gruffly, his hand cupping over her soft buttocks, holding her firmly against him. "It feels too good to stop."
Lottie understood what he was attempting to express. The unquenchable need between them was more than mere physical craving. She found a satisfaction in being together that went far beyond the joining of their bodies. Until this moment, however, she hadn't known that he felt it too...and she wondered if he was as afraid to acknowledge the feeling as she was.
CHAPTER 11
London was so vastly different from the serenity of Hampshire that Lottie could scarcely believe it was in the same country. It was a world of high fashion and endless amusements, with a sharp juxtaposition of poverty and wealth, and crime-ridden alleys tucked behind the streets of prosperous markets and shops. There was the area past Temple Bar called the City, and the west side, referred to as "town," and an abundance of gardens, walks, concert halls, and shops featuring luxuries that she could never have imagined.
As the second week of their marriage began, Nick seemed to find it amusing to indulge Lottie as if she were a child he was bent on spoiling. He took her to a confectioner's shop at Berkeley Square and bought her an ice made of pureed chestnuts mixed liberally with candied cherries. Afterward they proceeded to Bond Street, where he purchased her a selection of French powders and scented water
s, and a dozen pairs of embroidered silk stockings. Lottie tried to stop him from buying a fortune's worth of white gloves and handkerchiefs from the linen-draper's, and she objected strongly to a pair of pink silk shoes with gold tassels that would have cost a full month's tuition at Maidstone's. However, Nick ignored her protests as he continued to purchase whatever caught his fancy. Their final stop was at a tea shop, where he ordered a half-dozen exotic teas in beautiful jars, bearing intriguing names such as "gunpowder," "congou," or "souchong."
Envisioning the mountain of packages that would be delivered later that day to the house on Betterton, Lottie begged him to desist. "I need nothing else," she said firmly, "and I refuse to set foot in one more shop. There is no reason for such immoderation."
"Yes, there is," Nick replied, escorting her to their waiting carriage, piled high with parcels and boxes.
"Oh? What is it?"
He responded with a maddening smile. Surely he didn't think that he was purchasing her sexual favors, as she had been more than acquiescent in that regard. Perhaps he simply wanted her to feel obligated to him? But why?
Life with Nick Gentry was turning out to be quite puzzling, consisting of moments of searing closeness interspersed with small reminders that they were still complete strangers in most regards. She did not understand why Nick left her bed every night after making love to her, never allowing himself to drift to sleep beside her. After everything else they had shared, that seemed harmless enough. But he refused her awkward invitations to stay, stating that he preferred to sleep alone, and they would both be more comfortable that way.
Lottie quickly discovered that certain subjects set off Nick's temper like a flame held to gunpowder. She learned never to question him about any part of his boyhood, and that any reference to the days before he took the name of Nick Gentry would earn his certain wrath. When he became angry, he did not shout or throw things, but instead was coldly quiet and left the house, and did not return until long after she had gone to bed. She learned also that Nick never allowed himself to be vulnerable in any way. He preferred to stay in complete control of himself and his environment. He considered it unmanly for someone not to be able to hold his liquor-she had yet to see him drink to excess. Even sleep seemed to be a luxury he did not like to indulge in too often, as if he could not afford to relax into unguarded slumber. In fact, according to Sophia, Nick had never even allowed physical injuries to hamper him-he stubbornly refused to yield to pain or weakness.
"Why?" Lottie had asked Sophia in genuine bewilderment, as they went for dress fittings and waited for the gowns to be brought out. "What does he fear, that he cannot allow himself to be unprotected for one moment?"
For a moment, Nick's older sister had stared at her with an obvious longing to reply. Her deep blue eyes were filled with sadness. "I hope that someday he will confide in you," she said softly. "It is a great burden to bear alone. I am certain that he fears your reaction, once you are told."
"Told what?" Lottie persisted, but to her frustration, Sophia would not answer.
Some great fearful secret. Lottie could not fathom what it might be. She could only suppose that he had killed someone, perhaps in a fury-that was the worst thing she could think of. She knew that he had committed crimes in his past, that he had done things that would probably horrify her. He was so guarded and self-possessed that it seemed she would never come to know him fully.
In other ways, however, Nick was an unexpectedly tender and generous husband. He coaxed her to tell him all the rules that had been drilled into her at school, and then he proceeded to make her break every single one of them. There were nights when he launched a gentle assault on her modesty, undressing her in the lamplight and making her watch as he kissed her from head to toe...and others when he made love to her in exotic ways that shamed and excited her beyond bearing. He could arouse her with a single glance, a brief caress, a soft word whispered in her ear. It seemed to Lottie that entire days passed in a haze of sexual desire, her awareness of him simmering beneath everything they did.
After the crates of books she had ordered arrived, she read to Nick in the evenings, as she sat in bed and he lounged beside her. Sometimes while he listened, Nick would pull her legs into his lap and massage her feet, running his thumbs along her instep and playing gently with her toes. Whenever Lottie paused in her reading, she always found his gaze fastened securely on her. He never seemed to tire of staring at her...as if he were trying to uncover some mystery that was hidden in her eyes.
One evening he taught her to play cards, claiming sexual liberties as forfeits each time she lost. They ended up on the carpeted floor in a tangle of limbs and clothing, while Lottie breathlessly accused him of cheating. He only grinned in reply, thrusting his head beneath her skirts until the issue was entirely forgotten.
Nick was an exciting companion-a fascinating storyteller, a superb dancer, a skilled lover. He was playful but not at all boyish, never quite losing the seasoned look that proclaimed he had seen and done enough to last several lifetimes. He escorted Lottie around London with an energy that far eclipsed her own, seeming to know and be known by practically everyone. More than once, at a subscription dance, or a private party, or even walking through the park, Lottie could not help but be aware of the attention he attracted. Nick was regarded as either a hero or a devil, depending on one's view, and everyone wanted to be seen with him regardless. Innumerable men came to shake his hand, and to seek his opinions on various matters. Women, on the other hand, trembled and giggled and flirted shamelessly with him, even in Lottie's presence. Lottie witnessed such overtures with surprised disgruntlement, realizing that she felt very much like a jealous wife.
At the invitation of some friends, Nick and Lottie attended a play at Drury Lane that staged naval battles using complicated machinery and light displays to thrilling effect. Actors dressed like sailors hurled themselves from the sides of the "ship" in perfect conjunction with the bursts of cannon-fire, their shirts blotched with red paint to resemble blood. The results were so realistic that Lottie clapped her hands over her ears and hid her face against Nick's chest, disregarding his laughing efforts to make her watch the action.
Perhaps it was the violence of the display, or the aftereffects of the wine she had drunk with supper, but Lottie felt apprehensive as they left their box seats at the first intermission. Theatergoers mingled in the hall downstairs, partaking of refreshments and chattering excitedly about the graphic onstage battles they had just witnessed. As the atmosphere in the crowded room became stifling, Nick left Lottie in the company of friends as he went to fetch her a glass of lemonade. Lottie forced a smile to her lips as she half-listened to the conversation around her, hoping that he would return soon. How quickly she had become accustomed to Nick's reassuring presence beside her, she thought.
It was ironic. After so many years of being told that she belonged to Lord Radnor, she had never been able to accept it. And yet it felt entirely natural to belong to a virtual stranger. She remembered Lord Westcliff's warning about Nick Gentry.He is not to be trusted, Westcliff had said. But the earl had been wrong. Regardless of Nick's shadowy past, he had been gentle and considerate with her, and more than worthy of her trust.
As Lottie cast a glance around the assemblage, hoping to catch sight of him, her attention was caught by a figure standing several yards away from her.
Radnor, she thought, while a shower of icy needles seemed to rain down on her. Every muscle locked...she was frozen with the same fear she had felt during two years of being hunted. His face was partially averted from her horrified gaze, but she saw his iron-gray hair, the haughty tilt of his head, the black slashes of his brows. And then he turned in her direction, as if he sensed her presence in the crowded hall.
Immediately her silent terror turned to bewilderment...no, it was not Radnor, only a man who resembled him. The gentleman nodded and smiled to her, as strangers sometimes did when their gazes happened to meet. He turned back to his companions, whil
e Lottie looked down at her clenched hands in their pale pink gloves and tried to calm the thrashing of her heart. The aftereffects of the shock hit her...a touch of nausea, a dousing of cold sweat, a trembling that refused to abate.How ridiculous you are , she told herself, disgusted by the fact that the mere glance of a man who looked like Radnor could have elicited such an overreaction.
"Mrs. Gentry," came a nearby voice. It was Mrs. Howsham, a pleasant and soft-spoken woman whom Lottie had only recently met. "Are you feeling ill, dear? You look rather queer."
She looked into Mrs. Howsham's face. "It's rather stifling in here," she whispered. "And I think I've laced a bit too tightly this evening."
"Ah, yes," the woman said in wry understanding, familiar with the complaints that corset strings often induced. "The perils of fashion we must suffer..."
To Lottie's relief, Nick appeared at her side, a glass of lemonade in hand. Instantly perceiving that something was wrong, he slid a supportive arm behind her. "What is it?" he asked, staring alertly at her pale face.
Mrs. Howsham took it upon herself to answer. "Tight-lacing, Mr. Gentry...I suggest that you take her somewhere a bit more secluded than this. A breath of fresh air often helps."