He was Carver Danforthe, the Earl of Everscham, and he always got what he wanted at any cost.
The tiny, nagging, guilty doubt squeaking away in the back of his mind—that thing some folk called a conscience, could go to hell. She was his now, and in that moment, it was all that mattered.
Finally sated, he gathered her in his arms and encouraged her to rest.
“I’ll have to leave soon,” she murmured. “I can’t stay all night. What will Richards think?” Soft feathers of her breath swept and tickled across his chest as she talked, still wide awake and full of vitality. When he drowsily warned her that she would be sore and tired that day, her reply was a stubborn, “I don’t feel it.”
He kissed the top of her soft curls, which were now a disorderly mess and spread all over his wide shoulder and the pillow. “Sleep a while, Mouse.”
She wriggled in his arms. “You’ve gone all soft.” Her hand was exploring his penis.
“That’s what happens when a man is spent.”
“Have I worn you out?”
“I fear so.”
But it was a very good feeling to be so exhausted. He slid one hand down her back and cupped her small bottom. Was this how it felt to have a virgin? His need to protect her, keep her close, had just multiplied. It was an onerous responsibility.
“I’ll recover,” he muttered.
“When? Soon?”
“Tomorrow.” He yawned and patted the cheeks of her bottom.
“It’s tomorrow now.”
Oh, Lord, had he made an error thinking she should be as easily entertained as other women he’d known? But then she laughed and kissed his chin. “I suppose I ought to let you rest, Danny.”
“Danny?”
She nestled back down again into the curve of his chest. “That’s what I’m going to call you. It’s my name for you.”
He was ridiculously pleased by this development. “I’ve never had anyone make up a name for me before.”
“Good. Can I have some more pineapple tart later?” Three gentle sighs followed, and then she was snoring.
***
Molly woke abruptly and lifted her head from his chest. To her horror, dawn light drew claws across the sky through his window, and a loud, imperious voice approached his door at speed.
“For pity’s sake, Richards, don’t drag my trunk along the floor. I may as well carry it myself if it’s too much for you. Is my brother in?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Well, I suppose it’s too early to get him up. I’ll see him later today. I’m absolutely drained and could make use of a good few hours of sleep myself…” The volume gradually decreased as their footsteps passed his door and moved on down the hall.
Molly sat up and was half out of bed before his hand sprang to life and captured her wrist. “Where are you off to, Margaret?”
“It’s late,” she exclaimed, fraught. “Or early. Oh, goodness.” What had he made her into? A creature like him, unaware of the proper time and living by his own strange clock? “Your sister has returned, and I must get out of the house at once. I should never have stayed so long.”
Carver sat up, scratching his head and yawning. “No need to worry. Richards won’t bat an eye. Come here and kiss me.”
Such a request was hard to refuse. He looked even more handsome that morning, she thought. Rumpled and drowsy and warm from his bed. So she slid back for a kiss. He rolled over, pinning her body beneath his, surprising her by suddenly becoming alert when, only moments before, he seemed barely awake.
“I’m not ready to let you leave yet,” he growled.
There was no possible way she could accommodate him again that morning, for his warnings to her had been justified. What she needed now was a soothing bath for her aches and pains. Fortunately, he knew this and kept his beast at bay, contenting them both with a kissing game that involved their mouths on various, extremely sensitive body parts. Last night he’d pleasured her many times in that fashion. This morning she learned how to do the same for him.
“Much more entertaining,” she said with a smile, “than my playing the pianoforte for you.”
He grinned. “But I still want to hear ‘Sing a Song O’ Sixpence’ one of these days.”
Finally he conceded that it was time for her to leave. He washed her with towels dampened in his washbasin and then helped her dress.
“I can leave by the servant’s staircase.”
He argued with her about it, but she won. Carver rang the bell for Williams the coachman to take her home, and after one last kiss, she hurried off in her fine buttercup gown. No other servant was encountered, luckily, and she slipped out of the house, witnessed only by Williams, who had probably seen enough ladies leaving that house in the small hours to never blink an eye.
Since this was not a cheering thought, she abandoned it and concentrated instead upon controlling the giddy, shameless-hussy excitement keening through her body from head to foot.
***
He rang for his valet and took a bath before going down to breakfast. His unusually early appearance on the stairs caused a fright for the housemaid, who was still sweeping them, and she shrank against the wall, looking as if she wished for a hole to open up and swallow her.
“Good morning,” he said cheerily, at which point she swayed, clutched her dustpan, and almost toppled over completely.
Carver strode into the breakfast room and greeted the footmen similarly. Neither knew how to react, but one of them managed a shaky smile. The dour-faced butler entered as he was helping himself to grilled trout from the chafing dishes on the sideboard.
“I hear the prodigal sister has returned, Richards.”
“Indeed, my lord. She arrived very early and did not wish to wake you.”
“Good.” Carver moved on to the cold veal pie and some plump, tasty-looking sausages. His plate full, he took his seat and flipped open a napkin.
“Shall I pour the coffee, my lord?”
“No. I can do it.”
Suddenly the door swung open, and there was his sister in a simple emerald-green morning dress with a pinafore over it and with her hair tied up in a fringed scarf. She looked as if she planned to move furniture and clean floors. Or possibly herd sheep. All that was missing was a shepherd’s hook. He stared at her for a moment as he chewed, wondering if this was another new trend that had passed him by. “If that is a nod to Marie Antoinette, aren’t you a little late?”
“Very amusing, Carver.” She glanced at his plate of food. “You’ll get fat if you eat that way when I’m gone.”
“I’m exceedingly famished this morning,” he replied with a smirk. “Worry not. I’ll exercise it off later.” Wouldn’t she be shocked to learn with whom? He was feeling rather mischievous this morning, ready to seize the day.
So much to do. Things to plan for Margaret and their six weeks together. Six weeks sounded a considerable time—at least as long as his lengthiest relationship in the past, but there were many things he wanted to share with Margaret, and she could not devote her time solely to him, of course. Which was inconvenient, but he supposed he could work around it. A woman with other things to do with her day—things other than getting dressed, arranging flowers, or discussing menus with her cook—was a novelty he would try to get accustomed to. He’d have to share her, no doubt, but if he wanted her, he’d get used to it. Wasn’t forever, was it? Wielding his knife ruthlessly, he sliced another sausage in two, spearing it on his fork and thrusting it into his hungry mouth.
“I suppose you’ve been up to no good while I was in the country, Brother dear.” His sister sat at the table with some toast and proceeded to butter it thickly. “At least the roof is still on.”
“Before we talk about what I’ve been up to, we should discuss your antics.”
That washed some of the brazen color out of her cheeks. She flashed her lily-pad eyes at Richards. “You may leave us.”
The butler bowed, gestured to the footmen to follow, and all th
ree servants left the room.
Mercy poured the coffee for them both. “Molly Robbins told me that you offered her a loan to start her business.” Aha. So she was going on the attack to deflect his accusations even before they came. He might have known it. His sister was a cunning creature who always managed to maintain the self-satisfied air of a do-gooder, despite the lapses of which he knew her capable.
“That is correct,” he replied.
“I could have loaned her the money. Why would you do such a thing for her? Since when have you had any interest in my friend? Or in dressmaking?”
“She didn’t want you to loan her the money, because she knew you’d meddle.”
“How dare you!” She grabbed her knife and began slathering yet more butter on her toast without looking at it. “You made that up. She would never say that.”
“Well, she did. So there.”
“I shall get to the bottom of this now I’m back.”
“Yes, I’m sure there are a great many things demanding your attention, since you’ve been so long away.” He filled his mouth with the second half of sausage.
She sat tall in her chair. “Ask me what you want to know,” she exclaimed with an air of wounded nobility, as if she was in the dock and somebody had the audacity to accuse her of picking pockets.
“Did you enjoy your visit to the country?”
“Yes.”
“And you left the Hartleys well, I hope?”
“Yes. Mrs. Hartley has just discovered she’s having another baby. Long after she and her husband had given up.”
“Excellent. Delighted to hear it.” He washed down his food with a thirsty gulp of coffee. Then smacked his lips with bad-mannered relish that made her exhale in disgust.
“Don’t be sarcastic, Carver.”
He looked up, wounded. “I’m not! I meant it. I’m very happy for them. The Hartleys are good people.”
She stared as if he’d just streaked naked around the breakfast table. “Since when have you cared about the Hartleys? Aren’t you always saying how dreadful it is that they remain so sickeningly in love at their age?” Then she frowned. “Are you still foxed from last night?”
Oh yes, he was foxed, he thought, amused. Well and truly drunk on Miss Margaret Robbins. “If it causes you to shout at me, Sister dear, I shall say nothing more about your precious Hartleys and their strange insistence on populating the world with more of their sort.”
“Ah, there’s the brother I know and adore.” Then, after a pause, she demanded, “So is that all you want to know about my extended visit?”
He considered carefully. The fewer questions he asked her, the fewer she would have any right to ask him. “For now.” He wiped his mouth on a napkin. “I think I’ll have some more of those splendid sausages.”
His sister frowned again. “Carver, you are acting most peculiarly.”
“Why? Because I’m eating sausages?”
“Because you’re up so early. And dressed. And smiling. In a friendly way as opposed to your usual menace.”
“Perhaps I’m turning a new leaf.”
She slumped in her chair, apparently disappointed by his lack of curiosity. “Your letter said Grey was returned and anxious to see me.”
“Yes. May as well save your explanations for him, Sister.” He winked. “Better hope they’re convincing.”
Seventeen
Thus began the two lives of once-harmless Molly Robbins. There was the spinster Miss Robbins, a quiet, bespectacled seamstress; then there was Margaret, mistress to the Earl of Everscham and a young woman of fiery passion, who, after a lifetime of self-denial, quickly and thoroughly gave herself up to wicked pleasures. Somehow she kept the two lives balanced. Or so she thought and hoped.
Carver wanted her to move into a house he would lease. She’d adamantly refused.
“I will stay right where I am,” she said.
“But it makes it very difficult for me to visit.”
“Then you must use your imagination, Danny.” She kissed his cheek. “I know you have one—even if it is not as wonderful as my own—and with your resources it shouldn’t be such a challenge. One would think you never had to make much effort for your past affairs.”
“I didn’t,” he muttered, sounding bewildered.
Taking pity on him and conceding partially to his demands, she made the room above her shop more comfortable with additional furnishings and spent some evenings there, where they could meet in private. There was a fireplace where she could boil water for tea, and Carver bought her a chaise lounge with several soft cushions. Occasionally she pretended to faint upon it so he could revive her with his very special and ingenious talents.
But when he bought her jewelry, she made him return it. “Where on earth will I wear that?” Rings and bracelets, she explained patiently, would get in the way of her sewing.
He wanted to take her to the theatre, but she declined. Being seen with him publicly was out of the question. As things were, she could still maintain the fiction of their relationship being a professional matter only. No one had any proof otherwise, as long as they were careful.
Not that he seemed to worry about what people thought. He sent flowers every day to her shop, until there was almost no room to move around, and then she persuaded him to send them once a week instead. Emma and Kate watched her coyly whenever he found an excuse to come into the shop, but they were too much in awe of the earl and too fond of Molly to speak a word of speculation about it.
“My friends wonder what has become of me,” he said to her one evening. “I am never at the club or the opera, and haven’t seen a single horse race this season.”
“You should go, then. I don’t wish to keep you from them.”
“Do I not keep you from your friends too?”
She thought about it and admitted that he did. “But it cannot be helped. After all, there is a limit to the time we have.”
He took her hand in his and squeezed. “We should bring them together.”
“Bring what together?”
“Our friends.”
“Good Lord, no!”
“Why not?”
“Danny, it just wouldn’t work, and you know it. Far better that we keep our worlds separate.”
“I don’t understand you,” he replied after a moment. “I thought you were a great champion for progress.” He tickled her palm. “Perhaps only if it serves you, eh, Mouse? Don’t you want me to know your friends? Are you afraid of what they will tell me about you?”
Molly didn’t know what to say. In truth, the thought of meeting his friends terrified her. She could put on an act for clients in her shop, but to meet those people socially was still far beyond her. Despite the level of success she’d attained, it had only been a few months since she left her post as a lady’s maid. She had no formal education and suffered a tendency to fall mute again in large crowds. Her confidence had improved vastly, but she was not yet brazen enough to walk into a High Society drawing room and dazzle the guests with her witty repartee.
Eventually she said, “I would rather spend this time with you alone.” Then she slipped into his lap, wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “I don’t want to share you.” This seemed to please him, and he soon forgot the conversation.
It was easy to fall under his spell and let herself believe this was more for him than just another affair. But when she was alone again, sewing at her table, squinting through her spectacles, that other fairy-tale world vanished, and with it her foolish, carefree smiles. She might be brave enough to call him Danny now and share intimacies of a sort she’d never imagined in all her maidenly daydreams, but he was still the Earl of Everscham and a rogue of the highest order.
They had until September; she forced herself to remember that.
Lady Mercy came to see her at the shop and took a tour of the upstairs room, which Molly had carefully furnished to masquerade as an innocent old maid’s bedchamber and sitting room, rather than a scarlet huss
y’s den of lasciviousness.
“You have changed so much, Molly. I barely recognize you.” The visitor dragged a reluctant Molly into the light to examine her more closely.
“It’s just the spectacles.”
“Don’t be silly!” Lady Mercy removed the articles from Molly’s face. “Are you sure you made the right choice to return to London? You do not regret it?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been happier in my life.” It was true. When she was with Carver, she was madly happy and content. In fact, the pleasure of his company threatened to overshadow the enjoyment of her success in business, but she supposed that giddy flush would fade in time, and she would soon be back to herself. It was simply that it was new, she thought. Her love affair was a sparkling, exciting new present, and she relished it while she could. “Now you are returned, my lady, you must let me make you a new ball gown. You will have need of at least one.”
Lady Mercy dropped her hands and turned to look through the window. “I’m not planning to stay in Town.”
“But, my lady, I thought—”
“I am not going to marry Viscount Grey.”
As these words fell softly from Lady Mercy’s lips, she turned and looked at Molly. Her wide eyes were pensive, shining with tears such as Molly had never seen there before. “Did you not, at the very least, think to answer Rafe’s letter?” her former mistress demanded abruptly.
Molly could not think what the lady meant. Rafe had not sent her anything lately, other than a list of provisions he meant to buy. She’d never known him to be forgetful or scatterbrained, but she could only assume he’d addressed it to her in error. “How was it to be answered, my lady?”
“Pen and ink,” came the curt reply.
When Molly told her what her former fiancé’s last letter had contained, Lady Mercy stared. “It was what?”
“It was a list of items.” Molly went to her dresser drawer and took it out to show her. She’d kept it with the intention of sending it back, but then so much had happened in the last few weeks that she’d completely put it out of her mind.
Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction Page 20