Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  Lady Mercy read the blotted list of everyday provisions and then crumpled it in her hand. “Wretched man! I thought he had written to beg for your return to Sydney Dovedale.”

  “My lady, I know Rafe was never in love with me. Not that way. As much as I care about him, my fondness was sisterly rather than that required of a wife.”

  “It seems I was wrong about so much.”

  Molly hastened to assure her she was never wrong. Except in this instance.

  Suddenly Mercy wiped her damp eyes on her glove and sniffed. “My brother has agreed to finance your enterprise, has he not?”

  “He has, my lady. But I am repaying him. Every penny.”

  She groaned. “For pity’s sake, after so many years of friendship, I think we can safely dispense with the formality of my title. Can you not call me by my name?”

  Eventually Molly agreed, and her friend laughed. The tears soon dried. “Come”—she held out her arms—“embrace me, Molly, for I have a very hard task ahead of me. You are my oldest and dearest friend and, prepare yourself for a shock of severe magnitude, but I think perhaps I should ask your advice for once.”

  “Mine?”

  “I’m going to be married.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “To Rafe Hartley. If he’ll have me.”

  Now that new chaise lounge was truly needed. Molly dropped to it like a dead pigeon from a church spire. Carver was right then to suspect his sister and Rafe.

  “It seems we are both at a crossroads, Molly. You have chosen your way by staying here, and now I choose mine by leaving. Our lives will never be the same again.”

  Although extremely curious to know all that had happened to her friend in the country, Molly chose not to ask. After all, she wouldn’t want her former mistress probing too deeply into her own arrangement with Carver, would she? Mercy would most definitely never approve.

  After waiting a few seconds, the lady put her hands on her waist and exclaimed, “Aren’t you going to ask me anything either? Gracious, I expected to be bombarded with questions, but everyone is silent and mysterious as the blasted grave.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.” Molly chuckled dourly. “I think you’ll find your absence has caused quite a stir, and you will have more than your share of questions to answer when people hear that you’re quitting London Society to become a farmer’s wife.”

  “I daresay. But don’t you have anything to ask? Like my brother, you seem remarkably reticent to quiz me. There was not the slightest interrogation from Carver. In fact, he was rather like a fat, contented, overpampered tomcat when I returned. I could almost see the cream upon his whiskers.”

  “Oh.” Molly hesitated and looked down to hide her smile. “I wouldn’t want to pry, my lady. I mean…Mercy.”

  “Why ever not? I would have no scruples about prying into your life. If there was ever anything worth prying into.”

  Molly raised her eyelashes again, wondering if she’d just heard a tone of mischief in her friend’s voice or whether she’d imagined it, and she found Mercy regarding her with a distinctly naughty, impish gleam in her eyes.

  Something had changed between the two women since they were last together, and Molly had a very good idea of what it might be. Best not raise that subject just yet, even though it had brought them closer.

  Instead, she sat to pour the tea and asked politely, “Would you care for an almond tart?”

  Mercy walked over to sit beside her. “Only if it comes with a little gossip and scandal, Molly Robbins.”

  ***

  They sat—or rather, sprawled—on a blanket by the hearth, and he watched her sketching, fascinated as ever by the ease with which her charcoal flowed in graceful lines across the paper. Her long, slender hands barely left a smudge. When she was absorbed in her work, Carver had to restrain himself from distracting her, but she looked so lovely this evening in the lace-trimmed nightgown he’d bought her, with her hair falling in a long braid over one shoulder, that he was tempted beyond all endurance. The soft curve of her cheek demanded the caress of his finger. The tip of her tiny nose required the lick of his tongue. The dark, teasing shadow of her nipple, swaying slightly against the lace as she sketched, begged sweetly for his lips.

  “Danny, mind my sketches,” she protested mildly as he crawled across them, almost spilling their wine glasses.

  “Damn the blasted sketches,” he muttered, reaching for her breast, cupping it gently in his palm.

  “I knew you’d be a terrible distraction.”

  “I’ve waited at least half an hour for your attention.”

  She laughed, rolling her paper aside. “An entire half an hour? Sakes, what can I be thinking to make you wait that long?”

  “Don’t do it again.” He slipped his other hand under her nightgown and between her satiny thighs. “I am the Earl of Everscham, you know.”

  She stretched out with a pleased sigh, her hands reaching to pull his shirt up and over his head. “To me you’re just Danny.”

  That, apparently, was how she dealt with their situation. He didn’t mind if it helped her to pretend he was not her former employer. Whatever worked to his advantage. Scruples would never get in his way, and he didn’t care a straw what she once was. All that mattered was the here and now, and at this moment, she was everything he needed. Carver lowered his mouth to the pointy nipple that pushed at the front of her nightgown. She giggled. Ticklish, it seemed, tonight. He kissed along the curve of her firm breast and then upward, under her arm. Another giggle, and this time a squirm too.

  Slowly his forefinger stroked the warm cleft of her womanhood, where she was already moist, clearly as eager for him as he was for her.

  He returned his mouth to her breast and nibbled around the dark circle, causing that little point to sharpen and press up through a hole in the lace. The taste of her skin always reminded him of honey and cream, a treat his nanny gave him as a boy. But she was a man’s treat. He let his tongue slip back and forth over the blushing pink bead and heard her breath quicken. She began pulling apart the braid over her shoulder, releasing a soft lavender scent with each freed lock. The fragrances she wore were never overpowering, but just enough to leave a trace on his body, and he never wanted to wash it off.

  Closing his lips firmly over her teased nipple, he sucked and felt it pucker then swell. It only added to his own arousal, knowing how he pleased her. With fingers clutching at his hair, he was further lost. Her legs climbed around his hips.

  “Hurry,” she gasped out.

  In just moments, she went from ignoring him to begging for impalement. The woman needed some patience, he mused. But how could he correct her when he was equally hungry?

  Her fingernails scraped over his scalp; her heels dug into his lower back. “Oh, hurry.”

  Carver sat up, extracting his body from her lusty clutches. She’d made him wait while she sketched a sudden idea that came to her; therefore, he would now make her wait, even if it delayed the consummation of his own need.

  Her eyes opened, glaring hotly up at him. “What are you doing now?”

  “Aha, the meek seamstress can be quite imperious in her demands when she chooses.”

  “I’ll go back to my sketches then.” But before she could wriggle away, he pinned her down again. Looking around in haste, he spied a box of trimmings on the floor nearby. Reaching for it, he grabbed a long white feather. “Lie still, Mouse. Any movement you make—any sound you make—will send me back to the beginning.”

  “I don’t—”

  Carver silenced her with a finger to her lips; then he began a thorough exploration of her body with his feather, starting at the soles of her feet.

  As he’d promised, any little squirm or moan sent him back to her toes. Consequently, it took him several minutes to finally reach her inner thighs. When he ran the tip of his feather over her pink, roused flesh, he saw her lift her bottom but chose to ignore it. Her arms were stretched out at her sides, her fingers cur
ling in the blanket. Again he let it go and did not punish her. Twice more he ran the feather over her private crease, brushing it slowly from side to side, watching her bud darken and blossom. Then he concentrated his teasing on the very crest of her nether lips, finally sliding it between them. The next time she exhaled a throaty groan and one of her hands flew out, spilling a glass of wine, he couldn’t overlook it—knew she was too close to her peak—and was forced to return the damp feather to her toes.

  His own excitement mounted with each pass of the feather over every inch of her smooth skin, and just to relieve some of his own need, he decided to follow the path of that feather with his lips. When he reached the apex of her thighs again, she was ready to fall over the edge. He drank from her greedily, relishing every sparkling drop, and when he knew she could bear it no more, he covered her body with his and entered her at last, allowing them both the release and completion they so badly needed.

  They lay together on the chaise that night, watching the fire smolder in the hob grate. Carver wrapped her in his arms, not wanting to leave yet, and too content to speak. She, too, was silent but awake, her head on his chest, allowing him to tangle his fingers in her loose hair. His wandering, thoughtful gaze stumbled over the abandoned sketches again.

  “I am jealous of your talent, Mouse,” he confessed suddenly. “I wish I had one.”

  He felt her gentle laughter rocking his body. “You do. A very special, very lovely talent.”

  “Well, naturally.” He smiled. “But beyond that. I’d like to be more than your plaything, you know, woman.”

  She turned her head, resting her chin on his chest. “Forgive me if I lack understanding, but you are a titled peer of the realm.”

  “Hmmm.” He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. Only by accident—by tragedy—he thought, grim. If his brother had not died, Carver would have been worth even less in his father’s eyes. But then perhaps his father would have been content to leave him alone and let him be whatever he wanted, do whatever he chose with his life. The flash of a memory came to him, a hand flung through the air holding a cane. He felt the sting. It made his eyes water, but he didn’t cry out. That would have made his father even angrier. So he bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

  “What’s the matter?” A fearful, wary look had come into Margaret’s wide brown eyes.

  “Nothing. Nothing is the matter.” He gathered her into his arms again and held her tight. While he was with Margaret, he wanted to think only of light, happy things so she would remember him always in a cheerful way. He was her slave, intent on her pleasure, never wanting a solitary rain cloud to spoil the mood between them.

  The moment of darkness passed, and he was soon absorbed again in rediscovering all her ticklish spots with that feather. Doing what he did best.

  Eighteen

  “Carver Danforthe is very, very bad, and when he’s not wicked, he’s awful.”

  Molly could now agree with that giggling, tipsy young lady once overheard and never forgotten. Her lover was not accustomed to using much discretion when it came to his affairs. Simply put, he did whatever he wanted and got away with it. Since people thought the worst of him anyway, he saw little cause to bother putting on a mask. He took great delight in teasing Molly, making her blush when they chanced to meet in public.

  “For my sake, Danny, do make an effort,” she urged. “I don’t want the whole world to know about us.”

  Although he always agreed with great solemnity to try to ignore her, he would apparently forget that intention the next time they ran into each other.

  Her business was growing, and a Molly Robbins Design, thanks largely to her devoted patron, Lady Anne Rothespur, had become the most sought after object for many of the new crop of debutantes. But despite her success, she was still frequently traveling around Town almost daily. Some of her wealthiest clients had not yet become accustomed to the idea of visiting her shop for fittings and consultations, so she remained a well-known face to the drivers of hackney carriages, and a familiar visitor to the finer homes of Mayfair, where Carver and his circle of friends were also known to gather. With increasing regularity, she found her secret lover lurking in wait to open a door for her, and on more than one occasion, he miraculously recovered a pair of gloves she’d mysteriously misplaced soon after entering a house.

  “Miss Robbins, do allow me to walk you out,” he would say, popping up before her like a suspiciously gallant jack-in-the-box.

  This, apparently, was his idea of “discretion.”

  And his mischief knew no boundaries. One afternoon while Lady Cecelia Montague deigned to pay her shop a visit, Molly was alarmed to see Carver dismounting outside. There was no time to hide or put the “closed” sign on the door. He swept in, loudly jangling the bell above the door, and making everyone look over. There were several other ladies in the shop that day, in addition to Lady Cecelia, and naturally they all knew who Carver was, if only by sight. When he saw so many faces, he seemed almost surprised, as if he’d expected to have her all to himself. Molly hastily drew Lady Cecelia’s attention back to the designs in the book she had spread open between them. She hoped he would come to his senses and leave again when he saw how busy she was.

  Her hope was in vain.

  Hat under one arm, Carver Danforthe strolled around the room, pretending to admire swatches of velvet and muslin, occasionally tipping his head to chirping clusters of curious ladies.

  As the only male in the place, he caused a considerable stir again, bonnets turning to follow his progress, some of the bolder ladies smiling as they bobbed like pigeons. After a while, it occurred to Molly that he was enjoying himself. This became more evident when he proceeded to pause and loudly grant his sartorial advice to some of her customers, sounding very like his sister as he offered his opinion on which color they should choose or which style of sleeve.

  “Lady Allen you have such strong, noble shoulders. I would suggest a smaller puff, of about so long, and possibly something in magenta.”

  The ladies listened with mouths agape, drinking it all in, but Molly very much doubted he knew the difference between magenta and peacock blue. He was merely spouting words he’d heard from her or his sister. Sly, mischievous man! Of course he knew how to flatter them.

  “Mrs. Shadwell, that emerald green would be most becoming on you, but only for evenings. The summer sun would surely be too harsh for it.”

  He soon had the ladies eating out of his hand. They chortled and pecked around him, feathers preened, chests pushed out, little beaks nibbling eagerly on his advice.

  Since he was being a disruption to the calm order of her shop, Molly finally left Lady Cecelia with her designs and walked across the room to ask him what he required there.

  “Ah, Miss Robbins.” He beamed at her. “I was planning a present for a very special lady of my acquaintance. I am told you are the very best mantua maker in London these days.”

  She was aware of Lady Cecelia’s dark hard eyes watching every move. “That’s very kind of you to say, your lordship.” Hands folded before her to keep her fingers from fidgeting, she looked up at him. “What sort of present did you have in mind?”

  “An evening dress, I think.”

  “A ball gown?”

  “No. Something”—his gaze swept down over her like a warm shower of rain—“for an intimate affair.”

  All around her, skirts rustled, and she heard sighs expelled into the heated air.

  “Intimate?” she murmured, fixing her gaze on a point to the left of his shoulder.

  “Yes, for only one guest to enjoy, Miss Robbins.”

  One of the ladies gasped, and another broke into giggles.

  Molly kept her countenance. “I see.”

  “Something entirely in lace with ribbons all the way down the front.”

  “Ribbons?”

  “To be tied. And untied.”

  After all the previous excitement stirred up by this menace, it had now gone very quiet in
the shop. All the ladies were straining to hear, absorbing every naughty word he uttered.

  “Closely fitted to the lady’s shape,” he added, his voice low, slightly husky.

  “Not too closely fitted,” she replied. “You will need room for a garment beneath, if this item is to be all lace.”

  She made the mistake of returning her attention to his face just as he grinned slowly. “But that is the point, Miss Robbins. There will be nothing beneath it.”

  She knew her lips had parted, but no sound emerged. Behind her someone whispered the word “indecent.” Or was it her own inner voice disapproving?

  “Could you show me some samples of lace?” he asked. “I’d like to be certain it has the right pattern. Nothing too cluttered and busy.”

  Because then he wouldn’t be able to see through it so well. Oh, no. She knew exactly how his mind worked. It was his voice inside her head, trying to make her flustered. Finally she found her words and her wits again. “I haven’t much lace to show at present, but I will order some and make a sketch for you. Perhaps next time you come in you can bring the lady with you. I’ll need her measurements, of course.”

  “She is slender, but tallish. I would say she is about your size, Miss Robbins.”

  She swallowed. “Do bring her in.”

  His grin widened.

  One of the elderly ladies nearby muttered that it sounded to her like a dress in which someone would catch cold. Her younger companion hid a smile behind her glove and turned away.

  “I do appreciate your patronage, your lordship. Thank you for coming.” Molly moved aside, hoping he would get the hint.

  Eventually he did. But as he moved by her, he replied, “You needn’t thank me for coming, Miss Robbins. It is always entirely my pleasure. And I’ll come again soon, no doubt.”

  She looked at him, her lips pressed tight. He was the very limit. Hat back on his head, he left the shop, and she found herself at last able to breathe again.