Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  Between the necklace and this boat ride, most of his allowance was gone. But, damn, it had been worth it just to see her face light with happiness. That was all he wanted.

  She turned, presenting him with her back. “Help me put it on?”

  He took the necklace from her and looped it around her neck. The tender sweep of her nape was so sweet, he felt his throat grow tight. He wanted to lean close and inhale her scent, drawing her deeply into himself. His fingers grew clumsy as he fussed with the clasp.

  “Almost have it,” he said through clenched teeth. “There.”

  She spun around to face him. “How does it look?” She tilted her head from side to side, modeling the jewelry. Sunlight caught on the diamonds encircling the pearl, but nothing shone quite as brightly as she did.

  It took Kit a moment to find his voice, and when he spoke, he sounded hoarse. “It suits you.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Singh?” she asked the other man.

  “A lovely gift for a charming young woman,” the captain answered, and beamed at her.

  She kept touching the pendant as if to assure herself that it was there.

  She has so little for herself.

  “If I could,” Kit vowed, “I’d buy you ropes of pearls and diamonds for your ears, and emerald rings.”

  “Kit.” She shook her head. “This is what I want.”

  A deluge of pure, unalloyed pleasure inundated him. “I’m glad.”

  After a moment, she glanced back at Mr. Singh, who suddenly became fascinated by the horizon. With his attention diverted, Tamsyn turned back to Kit. She gently stroked the line of his jaw, then angled her head, her lips hovering close to his.

  He breached the distance between them. It didn’t matter that they were in public or that they weren’t alone. He needed to kiss her.

  It was a soft, honeyed kiss, the sweetest of his life, as cool river air swirled around them. She was silken and welcoming, and each press of her lips to his made his heart pound with exultation.

  But he could not take the kiss very far. Not here, not now. So, aching with reluctance, he drew back.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled up at him. He’d made her happy, and that gratified him beyond measure.

  Kit saw then that he was in terrible danger. He’d gone into this marriage for purely mercenary reasons, but, day by day, he lost himself in her. There had been a reason to woo her, but he could barely remember it anymore. All that signified was her pleasure, her joy.

  Tomorrow, when he told her of his plans for the pleasure garden, they could each have a part in making that dream a reality. It wouldn’t be his dream anymore, it would be theirs, and the sharing of it would make it all the sweeter.

  God help them both, but he cared for his wife.

  Chapter 18

  That night, Tamsyn stared up at the canopy over her bed. It wasn’t a particularly exciting canopy, though the white chintz fabric covered with twining, multicolored flowers was a better view than the sagging beams over her bed at Chei Owr. At home, she would fall asleep with the fear that maybe tonight the beams would finally collapse and bury her beneath the roof.

  She had no apprehension that anything in her bedchamber on Bruton Street would tumble down onto her. Everything in the house was solidly built.

  So that wasn’t keeping her awake.

  It had been a long, full day. An early morning followed by a lengthy carriage journey, then hours sailing on the Thames, two more hours in the carriage back to London, then supper. Tumultuous feelings had been her constant companion, veering from fear to wonderment to joy.

  She should be exhausted. In fact, she had been so weary she’d even declined Kit’s offer of going to the opera tonight after they’d dined. Instead, she’d gone straight to bed.

  Yet now that she had bathed, changed into her nightgown, and climbed into bed with a rather dull novel, her eyes steadfastly refused to stay closed.

  Tamsyn drummed her fingers on the mattress, impatient with her unaccountable restlessness. Her thoughts circled back to being with her husband on Mr. Singh’s boat—how the sunlight had gleamed on Kit’s fair hair, or how his vivid blue eyes seemed to shine from within when he’d seen how much she appreciated his gift of the necklace. The raw emotion in his expression when she’d kissed him.

  That emotion had continued on the journey back to London, and was joined by growing desire. At dinner, he all but simmered with it. The conversation had been perfectly polite as they discussed the best places in London to eat, including a few less than respectable chophouses. Yet all the while as they talked, his ravenous gaze had been fixed on her. Excitement and anxiety made her stomach light and fluttery while she toyed with her meal.

  He’d kissed her hand when they had parted company for the night. Even now, the feel of his lips on her skin lingered. She rubbed at her knuckles with her thumb as if she could push the sensation deeper into her flesh, making it a part of her.

  He wants me.

  I desire him.

  Her need for him had been building and building, each day, each moment in his presence. It settled within her heartbeat, coursing through her. The more she knew of him, the greater her need became. Not just the demands of her body, but her heart. She craved every part of him, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

  At the beginning of their marriage, she had wanted to keep him at a distance, but there was no going back to being two civil strangers entering into an agreement. In a short time, he’d become so much to her. She had to join with him, creating something that united them both in a way more deeply profound than any spoken vows.

  She sat upright and pressed her hand to the center of her chest. A furious thudding echoed beneath her palm—from anticipation and trepidation.

  The time was now. She didn’t want to wait any longer.

  She eased from bed. Momentum carried her on toward a destination she feared and longed for. Before she could talk herself out of her decision, she walked to the hidden door that separated her bedroom from Kit’s and pressed her ear to the wood. There was no sound, but a thin line of light shone from beneath the door.

  Tamsyn knocked. A moment passed, and then another. Had he gone out? Fallen asleep? Should she knock again?

  As she wrestled with these questions, the door opened. Kit stood before her, wearing only an open shirt and a pair of breeches. He held a book in one hand. Her gaze took in many details at once—the strong column of his neck; the parted fabric of his shirt, which revealed the upper part of his chest; all the way down to his long, bare feet, which struck her as powerfully masculine.

  Only when Kit cleared his throat did she realize she stared at the golden hair that curled on his pectorals. Her gaze flew up to meet his.

  His eyes were both wry and curious. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  “May I come in?”

  He stepped back, giving her access to his room. Quickly, before she lost her courage, she crossed the threshold. He shut the door behind her.

  Dark hues dominated in his bedchamber, with burgundy walls and heavy mahogany furnishing and paintings of dead animals. A waistcoat and jacket were draped over a wingback chair near the fire, and a pair of tall boots stood nearby. Several books had been stacked atop a writing desk in the corner.

  “The decor is a trifle aggressive,” Kit said conversationally, glancing at one of the paintings. “I call this style Early Brute.” When Tamsyn turned to face him, he set his book aside and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. She tried, and failed, not to watch how the lightweight fabric of his shirt pulled across his torso and arms. “I expected you to be unconscious in your bed. At dinner, you were half-asleep in the consommé.”

  “I had difficulty sleeping.” She paced to stand in front of the fire, but the dancing flames couldn’t hold her attention, and she turned back to face him.

  Kit’s expression sharpened and he straightened to his full height. “This isn’t a complaint, but I feel honor-bound to tell you that
when you stand in front of the fire, your nightgown goes transparent.”

  Tamsyn glanced down at herself in alarm. In her haste, she’d forgotten a dressing gown. Her first impulse was to dart away from the illuminating flames. Instead, she stayed where she was.

  Her chin tipped up. “So it does.”

  He dragged his gaze up to her face. “Tamsyn,” he said, his voice low and dark, “if this is some kind of test, you should go back to your room.”

  “Will you lose control of yourself?”

  He exhaled roughly. “No. Any man who says that he can’t control himself is a liar. Men always have a choice.” Glancing down, he dragged a hand through his hair. “However, if you insist on parading your delicious body in front of me, I may need to take my leave of you and go swimming in the nice, cold Serpentine.”

  “You think my body is delicious?” The idea was wonderful, if a little alarming.

  Kit aimed a long-suffering look at her. “Starving men have looked at ten-course banquets with less hunger than I feel for you. And I think you know it.” He paced to the door and opened it. “I don’t like asking for anyone’s pity, but if you have any, please go.”

  She drew upon her reserves of courage and stalked to him. Gripping his shoulders, she rose up on her toes to give him a firm, demanding kiss. Yet he didn’t move or return the kiss.

  Pulling back, she frowned. “You don’t want me.”

  “Goddamn it, Tamsyn,” he growled. “You’re killing me with your kisses.”

  “I’m ready,” she announced.

  His brow furrowed. “For what?”

  She glanced toward the bed, then back at him. “We’ve waited long enough.”

  For a moment, he did nothing. Then, without taking his gaze from her, he closed the door.

  He reached for her, but she’d already hurried to the bed and sat upon it. He approached and lowered down beside her on the edge of the bed, placing his hand just above her knee. Fabric from her nightgown covered her legs, but his touch sent crackles of lightning along her body.

  His hand lightly curved around the side of her neck as he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss started gently as he took light sips from her mouth, then it intensified as she opened to him. He stroked his tongue against hers. A flame of arousal flared higher within her and built with each caress.

  She gasped when he stroked his fingers over her breast, causing her nipple to firm to a sensitive point. As he fondled her breast, more desire swirled in her, and she leaned into his touch.

  A distant corner of her mind registered as his hand moved from her breast to her calf. He gathered up the hem of her nightgown, baring her legs, her thighs, and higher. She gulped air as she felt warm air touch her flesh.

  When he cupped her mound, she instinctively jumped. He pulled back and gazed at her with concern. “You’re still nervous.”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  A minute went by, then he stood and held his hand out to her. Slowly, she slid her hand into his and let him help her off the bed.

  “You need to see.” He stroked the underside of her chin with his fingertip. “To witness for yourself that sex is natural and pleasurable, not something to be feared. And I know the place where you can learn this.”

  She frowned. “A brothel?”

  “Brothels are places of commercial exchange,” he answered. “Where I’m thinking of, all participation is voluntary.”

  “Places like that aren’t precisely pointed out to virgins.”

  He chuckled softly. “You certainly wouldn’t find it in any guidebook. It’s strictly word of mouth. You see,” he continued, “the Orchid Club is a private society. People from all walks of life gather there. They wear masks to keep their identities hidden. Perhaps you can guess why.”

  “They have sex there?” she ventured. “With prostitutes?”

  “With each other,” he amended. “In public. Sometimes there are dramatizations where performers enact scenes from erotic books.”

  She tried to think of a response but none came. What he described sounded shocking—and arousing.

  “For a fee,” he went on, “one can indulge every sexual fantasy and desire. No one judges. No one forces anyone to do anything.”

  “Have you—” She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “Have you been there?”

  “I’m not a stranger to the place,” he said neutrally. He released her and strode to his dressing table, then pulled something from one of the drawers. “Hold out your hand,” he said as he walked back to her.

  She did so, and lifted her brows in surprise when he dropped a coin into her palm.

  On closer inspection, she saw that it wasn’t an ordinary coin of the realm. One side was stamped with the image of a half mask. The other side read Amici secreta tuentur.

  “Friends keep secrets,” she said, remembering her Latin.

  “That’s given to people who visit the club more than three times.”

  A vast ocean of experience lay between them. He knew so much, had done many things she couldn’t even conjure. It was difficult not to feel naive and green beside Kit—a wild, worldly sensualist. Even with her experience as a smuggler, she didn’t have his sophistication.

  She closed her fingers around the coin. “You want to bring me there. For us to have sex in front of other people.”

  “No, love. All we are going to do is watch.”

  “Just watch?” she pressed. “Not participate?”

  “Perhaps in the future,” he allowed. “Your first time shouldn’t have an audience. For now, I think we’ll just observe. You can see how natural and instinctive sex can be.”

  Part of her wanted to tell him that going to this Orchid Club wasn’t necessary. But another part of her yearned to see it. It was daring and forbidden and wicked—and she thirsted for it. There were things she knew, and many things she didn’t. In some ways, she was still a sheltered country lass, but she didn’t want to be that girl anymore—she was a grown woman with a husband and a universe to discover.

  “We’re in luck,” he said with a half smile. “The Orchid Club is open tonight. Would you like to go?”

  His question reverberated in her mind. Of all the things she’d ever imagined, attending a clandestine sex society with her husband had never occurred to her.

  I want to do this. For him. But most of all for myself.

  She realized that she’d fallen silent.

  “I’ll go,” she announced.

  He smiled with admiration. “Goddamn, but you’re brave. Go and dress. I’ll meet you in the hallway in a quarter of an hour.”

  Once inside her bedchamber, she leaned against the door and pressed her trembling fingers to her mouth. This was going to be a very wicked night, and it would be made all the better because she was going to share it with Kit.

  To hell with the consequences.

  Experience had taught Tamsyn that appearances couldn’t be trusted. Any smuggler knew this. False fronts were an integral part of the process—a wagon might have a secret compartment to hold casks of brandy, or a woman’s “pregnant” stomach might conceal a bolt of lace.

  So it was a surprise and yet not a surprise to see that this infamous Orchid Club appeared to be an affluent home on a city block of other affluent homes. Nothing distinguished the club from its neighbors, save for the occasional masked people going in and out of the front door.

  “We don’t have masks,” Tamsyn said to Kit. They sat in the carriage, parked a discreet distance from the entrance to the club.

  “That can be remedied.” He poked his head out the window and softly called up to the footman. The servant immediately climbed down from his perch on the carriage.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Tell the manager we’re in need of masks,” Kit instructed the footman.

  The servant bowed and went quickly to the club’s front door. He returned a few moments later with two half masks, one blue satin and the other black velvet. With a carefully neutral expression, t
he footman handed them to Kit, then waited to help them both descend from the carriage.

  Tamsyn tied the ribbons of her mask, securing it in place. Kit did the same.

  “You look like a highwayman,” she noted with a mix of humor and pleasure.

  He grinned waggishly. “A dashing highwayman who steals kisses, not gold.”

  “Every lady prays you hold up her coach.” She gave him a smile, but excitement mixed with nervousness made it tremulous.

  He reached across the small space of the carriage and wrapped his hand around hers. “Anytime you want to leave, if anything makes you uncomfortable, let me know. We’ll be gone in a trice.”

  Tamsyn nodded. She could do this. She wanted to do this.

  Now properly disguised, they exited the carriage. Tamsyn took Kit’s arm and he led her across the street. Her heart pounded with each step closer, but she didn’t balk and she didn’t turn around to flee. Soon, she would know what mysteries lay beyond the entrance to this club.

  They reached the front door, and Kit knocked. Tap. Tap tap. Tap.

  The door was opened by a masked woman. She had glossy black hair and tawny skin, and her dark eyes were sharp as she assessed Tamsyn and Kit.

  “I’ve come for the plums,” Kit said.

  “We haven’t any,” the woman answered.

  “Peaches will suffice.”

  The woman smiled as she opened the door wider. “Welcome, friends.”

  Smugglers often used exchanges such as the one Kit and the woman had employed to show that they were allies. It made sense that a secret club would make use of a similar code.

  Once Tamsyn and Kit had stepped inside a dimly lit foyer, the woman closed the door and locked it. Before she could speak, Kit showed her the coin with the mask and motto.

  “Ah, you are not strangers here,” the woman noted with satisfaction.

  “It is the lady’s first time,” Kit explained.

  When the woman glanced at her, Tamsyn tipped up her chin. “We are happy to receive you,” the woman said in a hospitable voice. “I am Amina, the manager, and the only one within these walls permitted a name. We have a very strict code of anonymity here. Do not speak of anything that may indicate your true identity.”