by Lydia Dare
Ms. Bostic’s eyes narrowed. “But I thought you said she has been residing with the duke for a short time?”
“Yes, she has,” Prisca replied, finding it difficult to keep a straight face as Will stepped up to her side. Oh, how delicious. The vicar’s wife was fully enthralled in the tale of Lily’s whereabouts.
Mrs. Bostic pursed her lips together in such a tight line that a ring of white showed around them. “That is not at all proper.”
Prisca lowered her voice and said, “I wasn’t certain it was, either. But Lily is firmly on the shelf. So, who am I to judge?”
Mrs. Bostic fidgeted nervously. “I must go and find Mr. Bostic, dear. It was delightful to see you.” The woman stomped off, scowling at Simon. He didn’t even notice, poor man, as he was too engrossed in watching Darius spin Lily around the dance floor.
“What are you doing?” Will hissed in her ear as Mrs. Bostic vanished into the crowd. “That termagant will show up on Simon’s doorstep tomorrow demanding one of us marry Lily.”
Prisca shrugged, not daring to make eye contact. “Come now, William, you and I both know you’re not the marrying sort.”
“That’s hardly the point,” he growled. “What gives you the right to meddle in Lily’s life?”
“Knowing you,” she answered. Slowly she focused her eyes on him. She did wish that her heart didn’t still flutter whenever he was near. “I’ve been in Lily’s position, and I wish someone had been looking out for me.”
“You think setting Mrs. Bostic on Lily is looking out for her?”
Prisca nodded her head. “Yes. I’m forcing Blackmoor’s hand. He won’t be able to simply turn his back on her and pretend she never existed.”
Will closed his eyes, and she could tell he was reining in his temper. “Prissy, I didn’t—”
“Don’t call me that,” she cut him off. Then she squared her shoulders and tossed her head back, as if she didn’t care at all what he thought. “Do excuse me. This dance, I believe, is Mr. Fielding’s.”
Lily had expected the ball to be a sedate affair. But it was far from that. As soon as she entered the assembly hall, she found herself besieged by men. They came in all shapes and sizes, from tall to short, from thin to rotund, from young to old. But as she danced with them one by one, she realized sadly that they were after one thing, her dowry. Not a single one of them was interested in her as a person.
It was a painful realization to make. Here she was at a ball full of eligible men, and the only thing they were interested in was a gift Simon had given to her. It seemed quite ironic that she was trying to lure a husband to the altar with a gift from the man she loved.
Oh, goodness! Love? As she twirled about the floor, she realized slowly that she did love him. She loved him despite his temper. She loved him despite his reputation. She loved him despite the fact that he obviously didn’t love her back.
He’d spent the entire night glowering at her. As she’d been swept from one dance to another, his scowl had grown larger and larger. She only hoped he wasn’t trying to decide which man would be right for her. That would add insult to injury if he thought, by providing her dowry, he could also have some decision-making power in her choice of a husband.
Of course he wouldn’t think that. She was a grown woman after all, responsible only to herself. She had no family to speak of, aside from Oliver, and she was quite capable of making her own decision about a husband.
She’d learned quite a bit about the men who were present as they danced. Many of them appeared to be fortune hunters. One even went so far as to mention his gambling debts. Only a few showed any interest in her as a person. Yet, even with those few, she still found herself very happy when the dances ended so that she could take a moment to rest. But that didn’t seem very likely.
Lily wanted nothing more than to retreat to the retiring room so she could wipe her moist brow in peace. She wanted to sit down, take her slippers off, and stretch her toes. She wanted to take the smile off her face for just a moment, because maintaining the tilt at the corners was becoming quite painful.
Just when she thought she might have an opportunity to slip away, Emory Hawthorne approached her. “May I steal you away from your many admirers, Miss Rutledge? So that we can take a turn about the floor?”
Lily sighed. “Of course you may, Mr. Hawthorne.” Perhaps he saw the pain in her face because his eyebrows scrunched together in a frown.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Rutledge?”
“To tell the truth, I am a bit exhausted,” she groaned, flexing her toes inside her slipper.
“Then I have just the thing, Miss Rutledge,” he said, offering his arm. She took it tentatively.
“Don’t worry. I won’t make you walk far.” His dark eyes danced at her.
“Promise?”
“On my honor,” he said as he covered his heart with his hand.
“I pray that I will find a man who has some,” Lily mumbled.
Mr. Hawthorne laughed out loud, a rich sound that warmed her heart.
He placed a hand at her back to gently prod her through a set of double doors. He led down a winding path into a vast garden lined with hedgerows. The wind picked up the tendrils of hair at her neckline and instantly cooled her.
“Nice, isn’t it?” he asked as she lifted her face to the breeze.
She sighed with pleasure. “Very.”
He pointed out a bench and encouraged her to sit, then joined her. Lily relaxed, completely at ease with this man who’d saved her from hordes of money-hungry men.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “This is just what I needed, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Emory. Please.” He smiled at her. She simply nodded.
“I kept waiting for Blackmoor to sweep in and steal you away from those who kept seeking your attention.”
Lily shook her head. “He doesn’t think of me in that way.” She met his eyes, hoping the pain she felt at the mere mention of Simon’s name wasn’t displayed on her face.
“Oh, Lily.” He chuckled. “That is where you are wrong.” He raised one finger to trail it across her cheekbone. “He would have to be an imbecile not to feel that way for you.”
The finger that touched her cheek didn’t alarm her, but it didn’t ignite her, either. Not like Simon’s touch. Why must she compare every man to Simon?
Emory continued, “I have known Blackmoor for a very long time. And have never seen him act the way he does with you.”
“But he doesn’t want to marry me,” she said. Heat suffused her face as she realized what she’d almost revealed.
“He would be a fool not to feel that way about you as well,” Emory said quietly, his hand reaching to clasp her own.
“Do you think I could bother you to get me some punch, Emory?” she asked hesitantly. She needed a moment to herself. Just a moment was all it would take to right her thoughts.
“Certainly,” he said as he rose. “I’ll be back momentarily.”
She watched him until he was through the double doors. Then she rose and wandered further down the garden path. She slowly trailed her fingertips in the fountain. A breeze blew across her skin, lifting goose-flesh along her arms.
“You let him touch you.”
Lily spun quickly to find Simon standing in the shadows. His normally grey eyes had changed to black. His hair hung over his brow in disarray, as though he’d been running his hands through it.
“What did you say?” Certainly she hadn’t heard him correctly. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”
He approached her, anguish in his eyes as he cupped her face. He repeated, “You let him touch you.”
“He was just being friendly, Simon.” She shook her head to throw off the hand that held her cheek, but he refused to let her go.
“He wasn’t being friendly, Lily. He wanted you, just like every other man here.” He looked down at her décolletage and then brushed his fingertips along her shoulder. She shivered. This wasn’t fair. He w
as what she wanted more than anything.
“I think you’ve had too much punch, Simon,” she snapped. Then she could say no more because the air whooshed from her lungs when he pulled her to himself, hard and fast.
“I have had a bit,” he said quietly against her lips. “But now I plan to have a bit more.”
That was when she realized he wasn’t talking about punch.
Simon had watched her the whole night. He’d watched her laugh and dance with other men, their hands at her waist, her hand in theirs. And he’d grown more frustrated and apprehensive. It should have been him. He should be the only one she danced with. The only one she’d touched.
When he’d seen Emory approach her, it had been all he could do not to bellow across the dance floor. It took all of his strength to stop himself from crossing the room and tearing Emory limb from limb. He could imagine himself flinging small pieces of the man into the fronds of the plants. He hoped a piece wouldn’t land in the punch bowl. That would be quite improper.
But then Emory had led Lily outside. Into the dark. Into the night. Into his domain.
The moon still hung high and full in the sky. It wasn’t as powerful as before, but it still led him. It did not control him, but it did lead.
He watched as Emory trailed his finger across her cheek. She didn’t shove him away. Perhaps she’d enjoyed it. Then Emory took her hand in his. He’d wanted to jump through the bushes that separated them and carry her away. But he held himself back, watching her reaction.
Now she had the nerve to look at him as though he’d done something wrong. He would show her. He would show her what he could do for her. He would show her what she’d be missing if she chose anyone else over him.
He bent at the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.
“What are you doing, Simon?” she gasped.
“Do be quiet, Lily love. Or you’ll draw a crowd. I’m sure you don’t want that, since I’m about to have my way with you.”
“You will do no such thing,” she gasped.
“Watch and see, Lily.” He chuckled to himself as he slipped his hand beneath her skirt and clutched the back of her thigh. She hit at his back with her fists. The blows were more annoying than painful, like a bug that flies in your face but never stings you. He strode further down the darkened garden path.
As soon as they were far away from the light of the assembly hall and any wayward strollers who might also want to take advantage of the cover of darkness, he stopped and put her down. Her face was red, the silky skin of her neck and shoulders blotchy.
She moved to walk around him. “I am going back, Simon. I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”
He stopped her by grabbing her wrist and spinning her around. He ran his knuckles across her cheek. His hand shook with the effort it took to go slowly. “Did his touch feel like mine?” he asked.
“You’re being ridiculous, Simon.” She stomped, but she also leaned her face into his hand. He knew she didn’t intend to, but she stretched into him like a cat who wanted to be stroked. And stroke her, he would.
He cupped her face as her hand came up to hold his. His lips hovered over hers, barely brushing them as he said, “Tell me my touch is better.”
She tried to fight it. He knew she did. He saw the battle as it played across her face. She failed miserably.
“Tell me,” he breathed as he brought his free hand up to cup her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple. Her eyes closed, and a breath rushed from her.
“Yes,” she said quietly, looking into his eyes as his lips touched hers softly. But she still hadn’t said it. She hadn’t done what he wanted.
“Yes, what?” he teased as he brushed her nipple again.
“Your touch is better,” she acquiesced before pulling his lips firmly against hers.
Simon took the time to tease her, to play with her mouth. He touched his tongue to her lips. They opened, and she tentatively met him. He tilted his head so he could delve deeper. She pressed back.
Simon groaned against her mouth and pulled her hard against himself. He cupped her bottom, pulling her belly against his arousal so she could feel every inch of him.
Simon removed his coat and spread it in the shadows beneath a tree. Her body was supple and pliant as he picked her up and laid her gently upon the coat, anxious to cover her body with his own and sink into her.
Slow, Simon, he chided himself.
Gently, he pulled her gown off her shoulder and replaced it with his lips. Her skin felt like silk and smelled better than the sweetest ambrosia. He fought the beast to maintain control, to make it good for her.
He tugged her sleeve down further and, in doing so, bared the swell of her breast. He dropped slow kisses against the fevered flesh. Her breaths rushed in and out, causing the plump flesh to tremble. One more tug, and her breast popped free.
Simon groaned and waited a moment simply to feast upon the sight of her. Her pert breast, round and full, was topped by a perfectly peaked nipple. He looked into her face as he touched it with his tongue. Her eyes closed briefly.
“Open your eyes, Lily, and see what a happy man I am,” he said quietly. She did and touched her hand to his hair to hold his head in place as she arched her back.
“Again?” she asked quietly.
He laughed as he took the peak fully into his mouth. She squirmed against him. He used his free hand to uncover her other breast, where he began to wreak similar havoc with no more than his fingertips.
Lily began to purr like a kitten beneath him. Her hips rose to press against him. “I’ll take care of that for you, Lily. I promise,” he whispered as he bunched her skirts in his hand. They rose higher and higher until he felt the silken smoothness of her stockings. Then he walked his fingers slowly up to touch her bare skin.
She stilled as he ran his thumb along the crease between her thigh and stomach, following it to rest his hand against her drawers. They were already wet with the dew of her passion.
Without even looking beneath her skirts, he let his instincts guide him as he found the ribbons that held her drawers. He quickly untied them and slid his hand inside. All the while, his lips continued to play relentlessly with her breasts.
Her legs spread of their own accord when he touched her. He trailed one finger through her slit, feeling how wet she was. He groaned, “So sweet, Lily.”
She laid her head back against the ground as he slid one finger inside her. He would allow her to close her eyes this time, wanting her to give in to the sensations, to realize how wonderful it could be between them.
She arched her hips toward him when he pressed deeper. She closed around him like a silken glove.
“Simon,” she cried softly. “Please.”
She probably had no idea what she was even asking for, but even an innocent knew there had to be some release from the sweet torment he was trying to inflict upon her.
His thumb rubbed once across her nub, and she arched toward him, pressing his finger deeper. He wanted to be inside her but not until he’d given her pleasure. Then he would do it again.
He stroked across her center again and took up a rhythm of small circles. He reveled in the fact that she responded to him so beautifully. She rocked against his hand, her cries soft and mewling.
And he knew when it was about to happen, when she was about to topple over. She closed her eyes tightly and threw her head back and forth, the pins falling from her hair across the ground. Then she pressed against his hand one more time and exploded. Her body pulsed, milking his finger as he swiped across her heat time and again, wringing the last bit of pleasure from her center. She cried out, clutching his arm. And she said his name. He felt immense satisfaction when she cried, “Simon!”
She stilled beneath him, slowly coming back to reality. Her eyes opened apprehensively, as though she was afraid of what she’d see when she opened them.
“How was that, love?” He couldn’t help but smile at her.
Her breaths returned to
normal. Her pulse began to quiet. But that was all right. He could bring her back up. But then she began to tug at her bodice, covering her breasts before she rolled away from him. She quickly stood up, smoothing down her skirts. Her hair tumbled wildly about her shoulders, the pins long since forgotten. Then she looked down at him, confusion clouding her pretty face.
“That’s not all there is, love,” he said, tugging her hand to bring her back down.
“Are you happy, Simon?” she asked quietly. Before he could even answer, she said, “You certainly should be. Because, despite my desire not to be your mistress, you made me your whore instead.”
Eighteen
WHAT HAD SHE DONE?
Lily clutched her skirts in her hand and ran back down the darkened path toward the assembly hall. Simon called after her, but she paid him no attention. Tears began to stream down her face. He’d never marry her now.
She found Emory Hawthorne on the bench where he had left her, a cup of punch in his hand. When he noticed her tears, he dropped the cup and raced toward her. “My God, Lily, are you all right?”
She doubted she’d ever be right again. Lily managed to shake her head.
Emory pulled her into his arms, and she cried even harder. Why couldn’t she feel something for this man or one of the others? Why was Simon Westfield the only man who had ever made her pulse race?
“I’d like to go home,” she whispered.
Emory nodded. “Of course, Lily.”
“Hawthorne!” Simon’s voice boomed from the darkened path. “You won’t take Miss Rutledge anywhere.”
Emory stared into the darkness. “Blackmoor?”
Simon emerged from the shadows, looking darker and more menacing than Lily could remember, even more so than when he saved her from the awful men at the coaching inn. She shivered.
“Lily is staying at Westfield Hall, and I’ll take her home. Your services aren’t required.”
“Now see here, Simon,” Emory began, puffing up like a peacock. “Lily can stay wherever she wants. I’m sure Prisca would enjoy her company again.”
Simon chuckled darkly. “Good luck with that, Hawthorne. She’ll never leave her beloved nephew. Not for you or anyone else.”