Lusty Letters: A Fun and Steamy Historical Regency (Mistress in the Making Book 2)

by Larissa Lyons

  If she was going to pelt him with a plethora of requests, she might as well include everything.

  A piano tuner. By Jove, she’d neglected to ask for a piano tuner.

  She played a little harder, a little faster. A lot louder. And then she did cringe—how could she?

  A new mistress didn’t rail at and complain to her protector, not when things were going rather swimmingly, and not if she sought to retain her intimate position in his life. Which she did, oh, how she most definitely did.

  The discordant notes that followed echoed her uncertain mood.

  “Miss Thea!” Buttons burst through the open doorway. “Down…stairs…”

  He was out of breath, both hands dangling at his sides, neither extending a folded square in her direction.

  So, no note, then.

  Disappointed, apprehension growing at her no doubt off-putting forwardness, she tried to whip beautiful music out of the stubborn old pianoforte. (All she whipped were both their eardrums.)

  Her fingers never breaking stride, she asked, “What is it? Something certainly has you in a dither.”

  “You’re needed downstairs,” he repeated in a more normal voice and she glanced up in time to see a secretive smile flash across his lips before he wiped it clear. “You have guests.”

  Her fingers fell from the keys. “Guests? Plural?”

  “Aye.”

  “Who?” She reached the doorway but hung back, leery of venturing out into the unknown. What kind of guests visited the abode of a mistress—other than its master, who arrived most definitely not in the plural?

  “Come and see.” Buttons’ posture urged her to hurry. “You won’t be sorry.”

  Taking the trusted servant at his word, she sped down the hallway and flew down the stairs, only to come up short at the sight of Mrs. Samuels beaming at her.

  “Get yourself settled and I’ll bring them in.” The woman stood in the entryway, all but blocking the closed front door. She pointed toward the morning room near the back of the residence. That particular room was airy and inviting, decorated in simplicity and pastels. (Not at all like the sumptuous squares of decadent debauchery of the entry and master bedchamber.) “Go on with ye now, can’t keep them waiting.”

  Them? “Who?” Thea tried again.

  But the bustling housekeeper had already slipped outside through the narrowest crack in the door. Thea heard her telling someone it would be but a moment.

  “Ah, miss?”

  Not yet to the morning room, Thea halted when Buttons spoke. “Aye?”

  “You’ll want to read this first.” Winking, he tucked a familiar-looking square into her hand. “I’m goin’ back out to help Samuels get the mare settled.”

  “The mare?” Thea’s fingers trembled on the unopened note.

  “Callisto, ma’am.”

  Callisto? What manner of lord named a mare after one of Jupiter’s moons?

  “His lordship sent her an’ a small carriage ’round too.”

  A mare. And a carriage? When she’d half expected her congé?

  Bemused, she quickly claimed a seat and unfolded the page, trying to give the appearance of a lady of leisure—one accustomed to receiving surprise guests—while inside, her heart set up a distinctly unsettled rhythm.

  Forgive me, Dear Thea. I’ve been negligent, inexcusably so, forgetting to tell you that you have accounts arranged in your name at a number of establishments, that you are free to spend, within generous reason, to your heart’s content, outfitting yourself and your home.

  For today, I beg of you, my proud girl, work with Madame Véronique. She’ll see you grandly clothed and I shall see you this evening. Be ready at 6 p.m.

  Daniel

  Daniel. His given name was Daniel.

  And he hadn’t taken offense at her requests. Hadn’t taken her to task for the audacious listing of them. Had, in fact, responded with even more consideration, more generosity. He’d sent her a horse and carriage, and, more amazingly than an unexpected invitation to dine with their rotund Regent, signed it with his given name!

  Thea had no time to savor the realization, not when “Madame Véronique Rousseau, exquisite dressmaker to London’s elite” immediately presented upon her doorway.

  A tall, handsome woman with mounds and mounds of brightly hennaed hair, Madame V, as she said “Meezes Hurwell” could call her, spoke with an unmistakable French accent. Unmistakably fake, Thea suspected, but the words were delivered with such arrogance, she doubted very few ever quibbled with anything the haughty “French” woman might want.

  With entourage in tow, comprised of three assistants carrying boxes piled high, she swept inside as though she were a tornado that made no allowance for anything in its path. And tornado was a perfect comparison, for within a matter of seconds, Thea found herself surrounded by a profusion of books, patterns, bolts of colorful fabric and swatches of even more, lace, trims, edgings, ribbons, hats…the previously sedate morning room becoming a storm of productivity.

  And that was only the first trip!

  After the second round of all three bringing in yet more boxes, aided this time by Buttons whose arms were piled high as well, Thea’s startled gaze flitted from girl to girl as they pulled forth dresses in various stages of completion, each more beautiful than the one before. Once the final box was emptied and the last dress swished softly into place atop the settee, Madame Véronique clapped her hands imperiously. “Come now, girlz. Yvette, clear zee floor. Josette, find a stool or crate for Meezes Hurwell to climb upon. Suzette, ready yourself to take zee notes.” A snap. “My measuring tape!”

  Trying not to laugh at the false accent or phony names proved surprisingly easy once the first dress was held up to Thea’s form and she was shoved in front of the mirror Mrs. Samuels brought in. (Hard to giggle when one is gasping.)

  Time passed in a haze, fittings and pinnings interspersed with various pronouncements from Madame V…

  “Zix p.m.? He expectz zee miracle!”

  “Suzette, for the last stinking time, leave off making cow eyes at that footman!” (In her exasperation, as this was the third such warning, Madame V’s accent took a tumble.)

  “Tsk, tsk, Meezes Hurwell, you are a stick, a twig! Theez will never hang right! You are a weed, a—”

  By now, Thea had heard enough mutterings and criticisms about her shortage of natural padding to vex even the most patient of saints. She might be down to only chemisette (a peach-colored silk, it should be noted) and bare feet, but in recent days, she’d finally learned to stand on them—and stand up for herself. “Madame V, I appreciate all the work you’re doing on my behalf, but where my figure—or lack of one—is concerned stop comparing me to spindly vegetation! I vow, pretty dresses and unmentionables aside, if you don’t harness your nettling opinions forthwith, I’ll eject you all.”

  After that, the fittings continued much more silently, and if Suzette caught Thea’s eye and gave a nod of approval that caused Thea to blush, then it was all for the better. Blonde and buxom and so very English, Thea thought she might’ve stepped right off a dairy farm in a neighboring shire; there was no conceivable way that girl came from across the Channel. And if she had a fondness for Buttons? Well then, Thea liked her already.

  “Six p.m.? Never!” The accent had been long discarded. “I’ll never have it ready. ‘Fit for a princess’ he orders…” Madame V complained from her kneeling position near Thea’s feet.

  “Lord Tremayne?” Arms straight out, Thea had been forced away from the mirror and off the stool as the hem was checked and rechecked.

  “Lower them. Aye, Tremayne.” As though coming to a decision, Madame V left off fiddling with the hem and stood. “Yvette, ball up some cotton. I need to fill in the bodice.”

  Madame might have abandoned the accent but Thea wasn’t ready to falsify her bosom. “I’m not sure—”

  “I am.” The woman was adamant. “If I had designed this for you from the beginning, ’twould not be necessary, but
alas, he orders you clothed like a queen for tonight and I am left with altering what already exists. I positively cannot have one of my creations fitting so ill. You’re not a scrawny scarecrow without a hint of curve”—at least she’d unbent that much in her assessment of Thea’s form—“and it would do no credit to my reputation to have your dress hanging on you as though you were.”

  “Mum always said that all a girl needed was to pop out a babe or two and her bosom would plump out right nicely,” Suzette said helpfully.

  Madame tugged the neckline forward and Thea frowned at how much it gaped.

  “I shall make a temporary fix,” the dressmaker announced. “The padding, it will be removable, hmmm?”

  She shoved the small, rounded wad of cotton Yvette handed her behind one side of the bodice and smoothed the fabric over it, then leaned back to evaluate. Stepping in front of the mirror, Thea had to admit the addition did help the dress flow across her figure better.

  Behind her, Yvette confirmed the theory. “She’s right, Sally Ann is. My sister done got poisoned by the groom’s seed and she’s grown two inches in the bosom already!”

  “Poisoned?” Thea whispered, glancing toward Suzette. Madame had dropped to her knees again and was humming over the hem, a nice, calm tune that told Thea she much approved.

  “’E got her with child,” Suzette explained, “with no plans to claim her or the baby.”

  Not to be left out, Josette poked her head between them. “Well, my mum told me that after you suckle your first babe, the pair of ’em will be drooping an’ saggin’ down so far on your chest, you’ll wish—”

  “Josette! Zee lips—zey are to be shut!” Madame V was back, the relaxed interlude over. “Hush zee mouth or I shall pin it shut with zee hammer!”

  “A pin? Don’t you mean nail it shut?” Suzette asked, and Thea laughed, earning a glare from the dressmaker and another round of grumpy fittings when the perfectionistic seamstress decided to start over by modifying an altogether different dress.

  “If you want this finished for tonight,” Madame V gritted out some time later, “you best leave off talking and twitching!” She grumbled a curse, then seemed to realize this wasn’t the best way to address a new customer. Stretching her lips into a semblance of a smile one might expect to find on a beached barracuda, she added, “Zee rest will be ready for zee fittings three days hence. I will ezpect you at zee shop during regular hours.”

  “At your shop?”

  “Wee, Meezes Hurwell. Henceforth, you’ll come to my place of business, in Leicester Square, for zee remainder. For even zee indomitable Lord Tremayne, I refuse to close shop for another full day. Further business will be conducted there, and that is final!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Aye, aye.”

  “One could wish your arse had as much cheek as your mouth,” Madame muttered beneath her breath, her head bent over a delicate seam she was taking apart.

  Thea caught Suzette’s gaze and the two shared another smile.

  “One could,” Thea said clearly, barely suppressing a laugh at the audible rrrriiiippppp that followed.

  “Does he do this a lot—order fittings?” Thea asked, the next time Lord Tremayne’s name was mentioned, this time by one of the girls, who was complimenting his manly physique (to the titters of the other two, and the narrowed gaze of Madame). It had been in response to Thea’s curiosity over the vast array they’d brought, which she was informed he’d had a hand in. “Make selections and choose fabrics and patterns?”

  It seemed an odd occupation for the man she was coming to know.

  “For his sister, he did,” Madame answered distractedly, pinning in the sides so the dress didn’t hang like zee sack. “Before she was married.”

  Before she was married.

  Which still didn’t tell Thea if he was…

  “Only moments ago, my son confessed his folly,” Everson said without preamble when Daniel was shown to the book-lined study where both men waited.

  After nodding at the butler who pulled the door shut after Daniel entered, Everson, he continued. “In his overzealousness, I regret Thomas badgered you unpardonably. Please be assured, Lord Tremayne, it will not happen again.”

  Everson’s proclamation totally threw Daniel’s carefully rehearsed opener out the window.

  Twice he opened his mouth; twice he closed it. A heavy silence filled the air as they waited for him to respond. Tom snuck covert glances toward Daniel, his expression alternating between guilt and ill-concealed adoration. Everson looked at him steadily, confident that his son wasn’t about to be raked over the coals any more than he’d apparently seen to.

  The stalwart support in this family continued to astonish him.

  Leaning his walking stick against the back of a heavy chair, Daniel caught each man’s gaze with his own. “Aye. Well.” He stalled, thinking swiftly. “I owe…both you fine gentlemen a sincere ap-p—” Dammit! “’Ology,” he finished, trying not to curse aloud at the blunder.

  All blasted morning he’d debated on how to proceed. Debated on whether to confess his badgered B’s, destructive D’s, and all-around abhorrence of public conversation. Well, ever since he’d dispatched John with the proper purse of coins and folded notes to ensure Ellie’s most favored dressmaker’s presence at Thea’s.

  Did he now accept Everson’s apology and bow out? Escape home with none the wiser? Even though he was the one in the wrong (arriving a day late, being unpardonably rude)? Or did he go against everything instilled in him since earliest childhood and—

  Tom made the decision for him. “L-l-l-lllord Tremayne, Fa-Father is rrrrrrrrright-t-t-t, he is. I knew better than-than-than to ac-c-c-c-cost you but I-I—”

  All it took to halt the eager and contrite youth was a wave of Daniel’s hand.

  When Tom fell silent, Everson nodded to his son. “That will be all, Thomas. You may—”

  “No. P-please,” Daniel said, determined to face his unmasking like the man he strived to be and not as the coward his father had made him. “Stay, Tom, please. I have words for you b-b-both.”

  He could see Everson’s eyes narrowing, as though he suspected foul play was afoot, about to be brought down around his cherished son. Oh, to be that loved and protected!

  The muscles in his neck clamped into a block. His next two attempts at speech were garbled beyond recognition. Damn.

  Damn-damn! He would not let his body betray him again. Not now. Too much was at stake.

  He might only face two men and not the several that loomed, but these were men whose opinions mattered. Whose respect he wanted to deserve. Needed to earn.

  Those noddies in Wylde’s committee? That was duty.

  This? This was honor.

  Daniel picked up the walking stick, determined for once to be “charmed” by his sister’s incantated concoctions and, despite the fiery siege laying claim to his throat, he forged onward.

  “Nay. Please—” Daniel tried to speak swiftly, to explain before he was tossed out on his ear. And for all that, taking longer than ever. “’T-tis not a trick or jest I pl-play.”

  He turned to Tom, his face as unguarded as he could make it. “You, T-Tom Everson, are the b-bravest man I have ever met. I regret I could not t-t-tell you the other night bu-but…”

  Unable to face either of them the more he stumbled about, he clutched his walking stick and spoke to the ivory knob hidden beneath his fingers. “I was t-t-taught to hide it, t-t-to not speak—have the b-beatings to show for it.” He smiled grimly and risked an upward look at Everson, only to find comprehension and compassion coming from that quarter.

  Though he spoke to Tom, his next words were for the father. “I p-p-pray, should I ever b-b-b-be blessed with children, I can be as good a father as your own.”

  Making sure the youth knew he meant it, Daniel said what had been milling about his garret for days. “And, T-Tom, if you still have an interest in p-pounding me to a pulp in the ring, would b-b-be honored to work with you. But your father isn�
�t—” A bad hand, he was about to say, but was overshadowed by Tom’s response.

  “Wwwww-would I!” The exuberant young man started to rush forward but checked himself. “Cap-cap-capital! And I pr-prom-prom-ise, no one will-will-will hear from me.” He indicated Daniel’s head, then his own mouth. “’Tis your-your bus-in-in-ess.”

  “Nor I.” Everson weighed in, coming forward to cover Daniel’s hand, causing him to realize the strength of his hold was about to shatter the ivory. “And you have no idea how relieved I am, in some selfish ways, you understand.” The man patted his hand once, then released him. “I always suspected you never liked me, just tolerated boxing with the big lout who never could learn any better.”

  “Never that,” Daniel vowed, finding his hand gripped in a strong, comforting shake, almost as though Everson hugged his entire body with that simple touch of curved fingers and palm to palm. At least now he knew where Tom had learned that!

  A nod of understanding and accord passed between the two men and their hands separated.

  “Now,” Everson began, after taking a deep, relaxing breath, one it seemed Daniel’s lungs automatically echoed, “Thomas told me what he asked of you and that it had been done in a social setting. But he failed to tell me exactly where you two met—”

  “’Twas-’twas at L-L-Lord P-P—”

  “Hold up, Thomas.” Everson cast a fond glance at his son, then caught Daniel’s gaze. His lips curved in a gentle smile that spoke volumes. “Let’s all sit, shall we? I think this may take a while.”

  Daniel laughed. He actually laughed.

  And so the story came out between the two of them, haltingly slow, furiously fast, in bits, starts, stops and stammers, but it came out. Gratifyingly, for once in his life, without a speck of aggravation.