by Adele Clee
But six months had passed since Jeremy insisted she marry. With any luck, Lord Mosgrove had found another woman to paw over, had found another ear for his lewd remarks.
“Have you been to the Haymarket before?” Oliver’s rich voice pulled her out of her reverie.”As a gentleman’s daughter, you must have had the opportunity.”
“Never.” Nicole averted her gaze, keen to avoid making eye contact with any of the patrons lingering in the crowded foyer. She pulled the silk wrap tightly across her shoulders. “I am sure it will be a rather enlightening experience.”
Taking possession of her elbow, Oliver directed her to a flight of stairs to their right. The smell of stale tobacco, mingled with the sickly sweet scent of spirits, assaulted her nostrils. They passed ladies with ostrich feathers in their hair, the decorations tall enough to catch light on any one of the candles in the chandelier.
Sneaking the odd glance from beneath hooded lids, Nicole noted numerous gentlemen incline their head to the earl. Some, particularly those with a wicked glint in their eyes and a sly curl of the lip, looked upon her like a thirsty man would a glittering oasis. But Oliver refused to stop and make conversation despite being prompted to do so many times.
“We’ll make our way to the box before we're trampled to death by those eager to claim their seats. The last thing I want is to lose you in the panic. As I’m incapable of finding one lady, it will be impossible to find two.”
All thoughts turned to Rose.
Oliver had charged a groom with the responsibility of riding to Morton Manor. Once there, he was to carry out an extensive search of the surrounding area and befriend the servants at The Talbot Inn.
It was all that could be done.
Even so, how were they to sit at their leisure and enjoy the performance?
Nicole caught herself. They were at the theatre to catch the fake Miss Flint, not to partake in flirtatious conversation while watching the entertainment.
They moved along the corridor leading to the private boxes. The vibrant crimson walls, gilt mouldings and wall sconces created an atmosphere of opulence fit for a king. Some of the doors to the boxes were open, giving her an ample view out over the huge auditorium.
Of course, the Earl of Stanton had one of the best boxes in the house. Situated in the middle tier and next to the stage — one's status was reflected in the quality of the view, not the elevated position — they were guaranteed to attract attention.
Once inside the intimate space, the earl closed the door. They settled into padded seats, the velvet as red as the walls and silk drapes framing the view, and waited for the first act to begin.
In the pit below, young men ordered food and drink and frolicked with scantily clad ladies whose gowns made Nicole’s dress appear as modest as a nun’s habit. With their raucous laughter and boisterous antics, one could not help but look upon their uncouth behaviour with disdain.
“Does the prospect of witnessing a Shakespeare play always turn men into a pack of wild dogs?” she said as a dandy with a tiny waist and huge lapels fought with another over what looked to be a meat chop. “Anyone would think they’d not eaten for a week.”
“After consuming copious amounts of brandy the bucks fight over the air they breathe.” He draped his arm languidly over the back of her chair, stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “Even a theatre of royal acclaim has its fair share of louts.”
Nicole glanced across at the rows of people opposite. She did not need opera glasses to notice a hundred pairs of eyes staring back at their box.
“And yet while some find their vulgar manner entertaining, it seems we are the main attraction this evening.”
Oliver followed Nicole’s gaze and shrugged. “The gossips need something to talk about in the salons tomorrow. They’re all desperate to identify the Earl of Stanton’s new mistress.”
Nicole shrank back in her seat. The coil holding her nerves at bay wound tighter and tighter until it was about ready to snap. What if one of Jeremy’s friends were amongst the vast throng? Worse still, Lord Mosgrove might be ogling her from afar, and she would never know.
Then it occurred to her that such an event would not be without merit.
“If people believe I’m your mistress, will they assume we have indulged in intimate relations?” If Lord Mosgrove saw them together, then he would have no need to press his suit. She would be considered tarnished goods. Worth nothing but a pittance.
Oliver chuckled. “Why else would a man take a mistress if not to partake in carnal pleasures.”
“But if a man wishes to take a bride, surely he would not see such a woman as a worthy prize?”
Two lines formed between his brows as he studied her. “That all depends. If the fellow needs an heir, then he is unlikely to choose a woman who might be carrying another man’s child. No man wants to be ridiculed by his peers.”
“Then perhaps we should not leave the gossips guessing.” Should Lord Mosgrove be amongst the gaping crowd, he would learn that she was the property of the Earl of Stanton now.
A smile touched his lips. From the wicked glint in his eye, she knew he was eager to tease her. “What are you suggesting, Miss Flint? That I pleasure you in a private box? That you share your bone-shattering release with a thousand spectators?”
Her bone-shattering release?
“Of course not.” She did not have the courage to ask what he meant. “Perhaps if you were to rest your fingers on my shoulder, that would suffice.”
“You want me to touch you?” After the passionate kiss they’d shared, why did he sound so surprised? “But is not the thought of being a man’s mistress abhorrent?”
The thought of being Lord Mosgrove’s wife disturbed her more.
But she was not ready to tell Oliver the truth.
He took the role of protector seriously and would have no qualms confronting Jeremy and the licentious lord. Both men were cowards. They enjoyed playing master to vulnerable women but would buckle beneath the earl’s commanding presence. Even so, Jeremy was a sly devil and would seek revenge.
“I don’t want to be just any man’s mistress. The thought of being your mistress has appeal.” It was not a lie. Being near him made her heart feel light. The intimate moments they’d shared had been the happiest of her entire life.
Why wouldn’t she want to experience more?
Why wouldn’t she want to lose herself in his warm, safe arms?
“Then you must know that I am more than willing to give you everything you desire.” With a light stroke of his fingers, he traced a line down the column of her neck to her shoulder. Nicole shivered. She could feel his penetrating gaze fixed on her face as he retraced the line, this time starting just below her ear. “Ah, your skin is so sensitive to my touch. From your parted lips and glazed eyes, everyone will know that you want me.”
Lord above, she did want him.
Desperately.
“Will they?” She struggled to catch her breath. Whenever he caressed her skin, the heat pooled at the apex of her thighs. But what did that say about her quest to find true love? Was the earl right? Did lust and longing form the basis of all love affairs?
He shuffled in his chair, the movement allowing for more flexibility with his fingers. Indeed, the soft pads trailed over her collarbone, skimmed the upper curve of her breast. She arched her back, anticipating his next move. Her nipples hardened in response, and a pleasurable hum left her lips.
“Good God, Nicole,” he growled between gritted teeth. The use of her given name only heightened the strange sensations thrumming through her body. “I can honestly say I have never wanted a woman as much as I want you.”
She, too, could think of nothing other than prolonging the rush of euphoria. But unlike the ladies frolicking in the pit, she had no intention of making more of a spectacle of herself than she had already.
“Tell me you feel the same,” he continued. “Tell me you’re not playing a role.”
When she turn
ed to look at him, she was surprised to see genuine emotion swimming in his blue eyes. “I feel the same. But we must remember why we came here.” In his company, it was easy to lose sight of reality. At the mere touch of his lips or fingers, it was easy to forget about Rose and Jeremy. “We must focus on our task.”
The loud applause alerted them to the start of the play.
Drawing his lips thin, he gave a curt nod and moved his hand to rest on the back of the chair.
The opening scene of Henry V proved interesting. The discussion regarding the prince’s youthful antics as opposed to the level of maturity shown as king, drew similarities to the gentleman seated at her side.
She cast the earl a sidelong glance.
Raw masculine power oozed from every fibre of his being. From the comments he’d made about love and lust, it was clear he’d taken many women to his bed. Yet she did not see an irresponsible rake. She saw a man who loved deeply. Regardless of all else, it was love that drove him to find Rose.
The interval was signalled by raised voices and peals of laughter.
Oliver stood and stretched. “Would you care for some refreshment? Though I should warn you, I may not return in time for the second half of the performance. Consequently, you might find that the box is bombarded by those keen to make your acquaintance.”
Nicole shook her head. Heaven forbid she should be forced to converse with this rabble.
“No.” An image of Jeremy charging into the box and dragging her home flashed into her mind. “No. I believe it is best we stay together.” She would hide in the box until they needed to leave, then make a quick escape, safe in the knowledge she’d have no need to enter society again.
Oliver inclined his head and dropped back into the seat. “As you wish.”
The play resumed.
Nicole tried to concentrate on the performance, but she could feel the heat of Oliver’s stare. What was it he found so fascinating? The answer turned out to be the wisp of hair at her nape. His warm fingers settled on the spot and drew light circles that left every nerve in her body tingling.
Another hour passed before he tapped her shoulder. “We’ll leave just before the end of the final act.”
“To which actress does our fake Miss Flint play maid?” Nicole knew the answer. It was the beauty who played Catherine. Numerous times the woman had looked their way from the side stage, eager to catch the earl’s attention.
“Two years ago, she was a maid to Miss Brooke. I only hope that is still the case.”
“And how are we to gain entrance backstage?”
“The usual way,” he said. “With a bribe. The maid should be waiting in the dressing room, ready to assist Miss Brooke. Indeed, perhaps we should not delay.”
The light knock on the door brought them both to their feet. Aware of various heads turning their way, Nicole fell back into the shadows. Oliver padded to the door and prised it gently open.
Nicole held her breath.
He was unaware of the possible threat her attendance might cause. She couldn’t see beyond his broad shoulders, but his frustrated sigh conveyed displeasure.
Nicole listened intently, waiting for her brother’s cold, heartless words to reach her ears. Instead, a haughty feminine voice cut through the air. Only Rowena spoke with that level of self-importance.
Oliver stepped out into the corridor as the visitor attempted to push past him.
Despite expecting to see her sister-in-law’s bitter scowl, Nicole moved to stand in the doorway. Relief coursed through her upon witnessing the stranger standing there with pinched lips and hollow cheeks.
“So, this is the lady currently warming your bed?” The stranger squinted as she scanned Nicole’s attire. While the woman’s porcelain face was considered classically beautiful, her tone — that of a jealous harpy ravenous for revenge — portrayed the ugliness buried within. “When one inherits a title are they not encouraged to raise their standards?”
“Have a care.” Oliver straightened. “What do you want, Lady Foster?”
Lady Foster? The one his father insisted he marry. The one who married Lord Foster when Oliver fled to the Continent. Rose had told the story one night when locked in their bedchamber. No wonder he’d stayed away for two years if this was what awaited him at home.
“What I want is an explanation.” Lady Foster was most insistent. “I’ve not spoken to you for two years, and you’ve gone out of your way to avoid me since your return.”
“There is nothing to say.”
Lady Foster gasped. “Nothing to say. You broke your promise. You gave me hope when there was none.”
“No promises were made.” Oliver swallowed deeply. “Not once did I say anything to suggest there could be more than friendship between us.”
“Your father assured mine—”
“I will marry a lady of my choosing. Not one forced upon me to appease our parents.” Oliver cast Nicole an apologetic glance before turning back to Lady Foster. “It was evident we wouldn’t suit. Besides, the topic is irrelevant as you have since married Lord Foster.”
“And why wouldn’t we suit?” The lady ignored the comment about her husband and spoke as though there was a possibility Oliver could still change his mind. “I have everything to recommend me.” She waved her hand down the front of her lavish gown. “It is not just whores who know how to treat a man well in bed. Though I doubt your little friend will agree else she’ll find herself out of a job.”
Oliver gritted his teeth. “Do not dare speak of Miss Flint in such a manner. Now I suggest you leave before I say something I may regret.”
Lady Foster’s gaze fell to Nicole’s exposed flesh, and she snorted. “You would rather cavort with a whore than a lady?”
Oliver straightened to his full height. “Miss Flint is not a whore. Now get the hell out.”
With skin thicker than tanned leather, Lady Foster sneered. “No, she’s simply a woman eager to barter services.”
“Looks can be deceptive, Lady Foster,” Nicole said in her defence. She cared nothing for Lady Foster’s opinion, and Oliver looked ready to throttle the woman. “Indeed, upon first glance, you appeared to be an elegant lady of good breeding.”
“I know what I see.” The cantankerous witch was determined to make her point. “You have a wild, feral look about you that screams of a wench from Whitechapel.”
Oliver’s restraint snapped. “When you insult Miss Flint, you insult me. After all, we are betrothed, soon to be wed.”
Betrothed?
Was the man so desperate to put this woman in her place that he resorted to elaborate fantasies? Well, Nicole was certainly rising quickly through the ranks. From paid companion, she’d earned the status of mistress. The earl had informed Lord Cunningham that she was his cousin. And now, it seemed, the whole world would soon know she was to be the Countess of Stanton.
“You … you can’t wed this harlot?” Lady Foster’s eyes bulged. “Who is she? Who are her parents?”
Panic flared. Nicole did not need a spiteful gossip prying into her affairs.
“Does it matter who my parents are?” Nicole said. She was tired of listening to this woman’s bitter diatribe. “All that matters is that I shall be a countess while you’re a mere lady. Indeed, I may even glance back at you from the front of the supper queue.”
Lady Foster’s lips curled down with disdain. “It will take more than a title to make you a lady.”
“Perhaps.” Nicole gave a coy grin. “But you’re right. Oliver is not marrying me for my manners. It seems our wild antics in the bedchamber have left him besotted.”
Oliver inclined his head. “Thoroughly besotted to the point of madness.” He put his hand to his heart. “I am a man hopelessly in love.”
Even though he'd made the comment in jest, it rocked Nicole to her core. In a perfect world, those were the words she longed to hear fall from his lips.
“How fortunate I am,” Nicole said, quick to dismiss all lofty ideas of love, marriage a
nd a family. “Oliver has expressed his desire to race to St George’s, rather than rush to board the first ship that sails from Dover.”
Lady Foster pressed her lips together so firmly they disappeared into her mouth.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I must find the ladies retiring room.” With her chin held high, Nicole marched from the box and along the curved corridor. She could not linger there any longer for risk of being drawn into a conversation about her family.
A loud applause erupted from the auditorium, and she liked to think it was partly due to her superb performance. She had taken but a few steps when the doors to the other boxes flew open and people burst out into her path.
Suddenly squashed between a pudding of a gentleman and his equally over-sized wife, Nicole could do nothing but follow the crowd. With no idea where to find the retiring room, and caught up in a sea of people surging towards the stairs, she decided to elbow her way back to Oliver’s private box.
Heaving and pushing through the throng, she became aware of a hand on her back forcing her to the row of doors on her left.
Dizzy from a lack of air, she tried to focus on the figure whose bony fingers settled around her wrist.
“Come with me, my dear,” the gentleman said, his voice vaguely familiar. “My box is this way.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ice-cold fingers burned into Nicole’s skin. Any hope that the hand belonged to Oliver vanished. The earl’s warm hands caused ripples of pleasure to travel through her body, not stomach-churning disgust.
It took a moment for her vision to clear as the gentleman pulled her into the nearest box.
“Oliver,” she cried out over the thunderous rumble of conversation. There was little point calling ‘my lord’ in a building full of peers. “Oliver!”
The gentleman firmed his grip on her arm and kicked the door shut.
“It is you! My dear, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you again.” Lord Mosgrove’s foul breath assaulted her nostrils. “Your brother feared you were dead, drowned. A stowaway on a ship bound for the Americas. Kidnapped by a band of brigands.”