Three Weeks With Lady X

by Eloisa James

  Her belly: making her pant.

  Lower still: making her moan.

  A second later he was kissing her in her sweetest private place. He nudged her legs aside, took one more look at her eyes, hazy with desire, bent his head, and tasted her, making her scream.

  Ordinarily, he would have been analyzing what every touch did to her. But this time it was as if he was doing it for himself. Her taste was like a drug setting his body on fire. His fingers curled into her hips so hard that he’d leave bruises, he gave her one last caress, and she exploded. Again.

  Generally, Thorn entered a woman with due attention to her state of readiness and her state of mind. He was respectful.

  But now he was driven by a need and hunger that knew nothing of respect. He pulled on a sheath, his hands rough and urgent. Rearing up, he pushed India’s legs farther apart, bent her knees, and thrust into her in one long stroke. She was hot and tight, and wet. His mind went blank for a moment, his entire being focused between his legs.

  He came to himself for a fleeting moment of sanity and looked down. India seemed . . . stupefied. But not with pain, thank God. Some women found him uncomfortable.

  “You must be as large as Feather,” she said, her voice husky with unmistakable pleasure.

  He drew back, watching her face, thrust again . . . she arched her head back and actually shrieked. And before he had done more than thrust home one more time, he felt her tightening around him, her body shaking, little pants coming from her mouth.

  He looked down and caught sight of the two of them. Connected. All her dainty, duchesslike pinkness and the tool of a rough bastard like himself. It was hardly possible, but he thickened even more.

  “Damn it, India,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her carefully, with reverence. Her mouth opened under his, hot and wet and urgent, and he completely lost his mind. He didn’t brace himself on his elbows, the better to assess his bed partner. He didn’t listen for the catch in her breath or watch for a tremble that might reveal she was close to finding pleasure yet again.

  He did none of that. The horse had broken its lead line and was away. His mind spun to white, his senses narrowed to the soft perfection of her, the lush beauty of her breast in his hand, the way her body clasped his.

  He began going faster and harder than he remembered ever going. She was clutching him, her legs curved around him, her arms around his neck. His hands were on her hips, holding her still as he thrust into her, grunting because the pleasure of it was so acute that it was like pain burning up the back of his thighs, deep in his balls.

  But he held on, managed to hold on by some thread of control until . . . she threw back her hair and a cloud of white-blond silk flew about her shoulders. He heard her cry as if it were a command. His hips jerked with a force he’d never felt before, emptying him into her, thrust after thrust.

  Until he had no more to give.

  Chapter Twenty

  The following morning

  India rarely hesitated when it came to dressing. Her wardrobe was organized, mentally if not physically, into categories that corresponded to their purpose, whether that was to cow a bumptious butler or soothe a nervous lady.

  But she hadn’t any gowns that would simultaneously usher in a betrothal (the dark violet muslin with buttons?) and flirt with a potential husband (the rose-colored muslin with a low bodice?). Frankly, all her bodices felt precariously low. In the last two years, waistlines had crept ever upward and necklines downward—and India was well endowed. Very well endowed. Lately fashion had become annoying, and something she’d prefer to put out of her mind.

  At length she made up her mind. “I’ll wear the sprigged muslin with the embroidered roses this morning,” she told her maid. “And tonight, the French silk.”

  Marie’s eyes widened. “Finally, you will wear the French silk!”

  “With amethysts in my hair,” India said, remembering that she had to appear a proper candidate to become a duchess.

  Marie handed her a jar of lotion, and India began swiftly rubbing it into her legs. She felt different, as if she’d paid a visit to a foreign country and come home speaking a new language.

  She and Thorn had lingered in the gatehouse until she’d had to go home or risk exposure. They’d been lucky, because she’d darted in a side door and made her way to her bedchamber without being seen. Marie had been surprised to find her already tucked into her bed, but she made the excuse that she’d been exhausted.

  And frankly, she had been. After hours in Thorn’s arms, she had felt as limp as a piece of velvet; she’d slept with a dreamless intensity that she hadn’t experienced since she was young.

  But now it was all different. Whatever she and Thorn had had between them was over. Lala and her mother were due later that afternoon, as was Lord Brody. The Duke and Duchess of Villiers would arrive, and the last thing she wanted was for Eleanor to think that she was a hussy who would roll about with Thorn in the open air.

  That was a private memory. She knew that she would never again have such a wonderful night. That was it.

  It was over.

  Thorn had used sheaths every time, and he never suspected that she was, in fact, inexperienced. So there would be no consequences, other than the gift of an utterly delightful, sensual memory that she could tuck away and examine later in life.

  She’d had a lover. Most women gained a husband, at some point or another. But few, in her opinion, had a lover. The thought made her smile.

  “It’s nice to see you happy,” Marie said, as India handed her back the jar of lotion. “I’ve never seen you work so hard,” her maid continued. “But Starberry Court is just perfect. Everyone says so, from the bootblack to Mr. Fleming himself. It’s exquisite.”

  “Thank you, Marie,” India said, feeling a bit guilty because she was happy for all the wrong reasons.

  She had to stop thinking about the gatehouse. Last night was like a fairy tale, like something that happened to a stranger, not to herself. Though every time she sat down she had to suppress a wince. Clearly it had happened to her.

  Thinking about Thorn made her nipples harden, and her belly take on a liquid, hot feeling. That was what loose women, who made love not for coin but for pleasure, presumably felt all the time. The women in Feather’s book.

  She had a lot of newfound sympathy for them. This was like being hungry: it felt urgent. She wanted to find Thorn and pull him into a spare bedchamber and demand that he ravish her. No. That was over.

  From now on, she would be virtuous. As soon as the house party had concluded, she would return to London and make a decision between her various suitors.

  Unless, of course, Lord Brody was as charming as Thorn seemed to think he was. In that case, she might choose to be a duchess.

  An entirely virtuous duchess, of course.

  After India was dressed, she tried to look at herself as critically as possible. She was going to conduct a courtship under Thorn’s eyes. She knew he would watch her and Lord Brody.

  He didn’t think her clothing was feminine enough. Not sensual enough, with all his talk of generals and the like. A deeply feminine part of her wanted to prove him wrong. The bodice of her muslin gown was pleated and caught up just under her breasts, and constructed in such a way that every pleat made a statement about her best assets. She wore slippers made in Italy with pointed toes and slender heels. And she carried a blue reticule sewn with metallic threads.

  “Do you think I should wear some lip salve?” she asked Marie.

  He maid looked up, startled. “You?”

  “Yes, me.”

  “Why? You are beautiful.”

  Marie genuinely believed that every man in the vicinity would fall in love with her mistress. India opened up one pot of salve after another, until she found her favorite shade of peony pink.

  “I see no need for lip salve in the morning,” Marie stated.

  What she didn’t understand was that most men wanted a woman like Lala: a woman who didn�
�t say much—and what she said was uttered in a whisper.

  India never whispered. She considered whispering girlish. The truth was that she was more likely to yell, at least around Thorn.

  Plus, she had a straight nose, instead of an adorable little tip-tilted one. Her hair was too thick and wouldn’t stay up properly. And her lips were too big, though she had the idea that applying pale pink color helped with that problem.

  She knew they were too big because she’d been called “fish-lips,” back when she was a child trading mushrooms at Mr. Sweatham’s shop. She would bring him a box of mushrooms from the forest, and he would give her flour and bacon in trade. He always gave her more than the mushrooms were worth, but her pride was never as big as her stomach was empty.

  She could still hear that derisive hiss in Sweatham’s son’s voice when he would say, “There’s Lady Fish-lips!” or even worse, “Charity Fish-lips!”

  The memory was a steadying influence. Her immediate goal was to see Lala betrothed to Thorn.

  After that, she would find just the right husband.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  By the time the carriage drove up to Starberry Court, Lala was ready to throw herself in front of the horses. Her mother had been suffering from heart palpitations for three days, until she had declared the previous day that she simply could not make the trip to Starberry Court.

  It wasn’t until Lala’s father said that he could no longer afford to feed his family that Lady Rainsford gave in. His lordship was probably exaggerating, but he made his point.

  Today her mother spent the entire trip from London pointing out that if Lala ate less, her father wouldn’t be so concerned about feeding the family. Never mind the fact that Lady Rainsford couldn’t seem to stop buying bonnets and shoes and even new gowns. And it was the mistress of the house who insisted they have three courses at every meal, as in other fashionable households. And it was Lady Rainsford who retained a doctor to visit the house every single day, the better to listen to her heart.

  “I cannot believe that Dr. Belview refused, utterly refused, to accompany us,” she said fretfully as the carriage turned down a long drive that Lala thought must lead to Starberry Court. “He is appalling disloyal! I am strongly considering reminding him of his Hippocritical Oath or whatever that is called.”

  Lala sat next to the window, biting her tongue. The line of trees opened up, and Starberry Court came into view. She gasped.

  Her mother didn’t notice, since she was busy patting her forehead with an infusion of lavender, which someone had told her was efficacious for headaches.

  The house was huge, with imposing wings stretching to the left and right. Two carriages were drawn up on the gravel circle, and a number of footmen milled about in front of the door.

  Panic gripped Lala. She could not do this. She simply could not do this. This was not the simple country house she had expected from Mr. Dautry, who didn’t always wear a waistcoat when he walked in the park.

  This really was the estate of an earl or a duke. The mistress of this house . . . The mistress of this house would need to be not merely smart, but brilliant. Accomplished. She would have to be able to read.

  Her mother finally glanced out the window. “It’s like a bandage,” she said, making even less sense than usual.

  Their carriage was slowing.

  “A bandage covering a suppurating wound, the wound of bastardy,” Lady Rainsford clarified.

  Lala’s heart sank. “Mama, Mr. Dautry is a perfectly respectable businessman. It is not his fault that the duke was not married to his mother. You mustn’t speak in this way before him.”

  Lady Rainsford straightened. “Your father threatened me last night.”

  “What?”

  “He threatened me. He said that if you don’t marry the bastard, he will not pay for another season.” Her voice trembled. “Even though it goes against every part of my nature, I will abandon my daughter to . . . to the filthy lucre of ill-gotten gains.” Her hands were pulling at her lace handkerchief again.

  Lala’s hands itched to slap her parent. The impulse was so wrong that she hardly knew what to do with it. “Mama,” she said, taking a deep breath, “I beg you to calm yourself.”

  The carriage had stopped now, and any second their groom would open the door. He would find her mother with a wild tinge to her eyes, pulling, pulling at her handkerchief. Lala dropped onto her knees on the carriage floor, her hands over her mother’s restless ones. “Mama, you want me to be happy, don’t you?”

  That got her attention. “Of course I do!”

  “I want to marry someone and not have to go through another season,” Lala said, whispering it. “I truly do, Mama.”

  In the nick of time, sanity poured back into Lady Rainsford’s eyes, and Lala awkwardly retook her seat just as the door opened.

  “Why, you shall have him, dearest,” her mother said, sounding almost like a normal woman.

  Lala swallowed hard and climbed down from the carriage. Whoever had traveled in the other two carriages had already been escorted into the house. The butler approached and introduced himself, bowing as they shook out their skirts. Lala liked him immediately, just from the way he took their measure with a practiced glance and at once paid her mother lavish attention.

  By the time they entered the house, her mother was confiding all the details of her palpitations, and Fleming was reassuring her that the village doctor would be more than happy to pay a call every day.

  “He is not an untried practitioner,” he was saying now, as a footman took their pelisses. “Dr. Hatfield is well known and respected in these parts, but also in London. One of the youngest members of the Royal College of Physicians, as I understand it. I’ll take the precaution of sending a message asking him to pay you a visit this afternoon, Lady Rainsford, so that we can make absolutely certain that the arduous nature of the carriage ride caused no problems.”

  Lala felt as if a ten-stone weight had lifted from the back of her neck. Fleming opened the drawing room door and ushered in her mother as tenderly as if she were a day-old chick. It was a measure of what a bad daughter Lala was that the only thing going through her mind, other than gratitude, was a bleak guess that if she married Dautry, her mother would probably move to this house in order to bask daily in Fleming’s gentle ministrations.

  At which point Lala would move to Dautry’s London house, and everyone would be happy, she thought, pushing away a wave of panic.

  She saw Mr. Dautry the moment they entered the room. He was taller than everyone else, and remarkably male, which gave her a sensation that verged on dislike. Why couldn’t he have been a mild fellow, only a little taller than herself?

  Her feeling of dread grew when she glimpsed Mr. Dautry’s father, the man who might be her father-in-law someday. The duke was wearing a coat of patterned dark green, which was not extraordinary in itself except for the fact that it was lined in a misty purple silk that showed in the coattails and where his cuffs turned back.

  She wanted to run from the room, but he was strolling toward her, followed by the duchess, and there was nowhere to hide. Lady Xenobia started to her feet as well, stooping to help Lady Adelaide.

  Confronted by the entire party, Lala dropped into a curtsy before the duke, so deep that she almost turned her ankle, then straightened just enough to turn slightly and curtsy again before the duchess, who wore the most beautiful morning dress that Lala had ever seen. It was made of white chambray, with an overdress of pale yellow silk closely fitted across the shoulders and bosom. Her Grace certainly didn’t look like a woman who had an eight-year-old child. Her figure was exquisite.

  She couldn’t make herself meet Mr. Dautry’s eyes, after she curtsied to him. Lady Xenobia was there too, so Lala just kept curtsying until she nearly curtsied to her own mother by mistake.

  As they all exchanged greetings, panic started boiling up inside her, bubbling like molten chocolate in a pot. She didn’t want a father-in-law like this, one who
se cold, gray eyes looked her over and obviously found her wanting.

  He would be able to deduce that she couldn’t read. She knew it.

  But he was standing just before her, while her mother informed the rest of the company about the horrors of their journey. So Lala took a deep breath and said, “I trust you had a pleasant journey, Your Grace?”

  “Very,” he said. “I suspect this will seem odd to you, Miss Rainsford, but when one is the parent of an extremely active eight-year-old boy, nearly every carriage ride that does not include him is a joy.”

  “Ah,” Lala said. She could think of nothing else to say. “Where is the boy at the moment?” she blurted out.

  “Eton.”

  In the dreadful silence that followed, Lala remembered her plan. “Isn’t it awful about Napoleon taking Venice?”

  “Awful is one word for it, Miss Rainsford. I was more interested to read in the Morning Post that in a mere three years the Doge had allowed the Venetian fleet to dwindle to three hundred and nine vessels. No wonder Napoleon’s fleet took the city. Did you read that particular article?”

  Lala gulped. “No, I’m afraid we don’t take the Morning Post on a regular basis,” she said. “My mother is quite fond of Bell’s Weekly Messenger.”

  The duke bowed his head, and another silence ensued. Then he said, “My wife is an inveterate reader of novels; there are evenings when I can scarcely persuade her to retire to bed, as she is deep in a romantic tale.”

  Lala opened her mouth to say . . . to say what? “I can’t read?” “I never read?”

  Luckily Lady Xenobia turned from the cluster of people surrounding Lala’s mother and cried, “Your Grace, please tell me that you are not castigating your wife for an innocent enjoyment of novels! I told you last month that if you would merely embark on the first chapter of Sicilian Romance, you would soon find yourself trembling in the middle of the night, unable to stop turning the pages.”

  “If I am trembling in the night, it has nothing to do with literature,” the duke said, giving Lady Xenobia a teasing smile.