by Diana Castle
Lydia went back to pacing. Despite her having convinced herself that Tristan was never going to call her, he did, in fact, call her the next day to tell her he’d made the arrangements for their carriage ride and he would pick her up on Saturday at 6:00 p.m. sharp.
It was 6:25. Lydia nervously chewed a fingernail.
“Stop that,” Saffron scolded. “You'll mess up your manicure.”
Lydia lowered her hand but did not stop pacing. Maybe he was running late. Or maybe he had changed his mind and realized he really wasn’t interested in dating an older woman.
Her cell phone rang. She picked it up off the coffee table. It was her mother.
Lydia sighed, tempted to just ignore the call. She had no doubt what her mother wanted. She thumbed it on. “Yes, Mother.”
“The girls are all here. If you leave now, you can still make it for the bridge game.”
“Mother, I told you I wasn’t interested in learning how to play bridge.”
Saffron’s face twisted into a caricature of disgust and she pantomimed sticking her finger down her throat and gagging.
“Are you at home?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you’re apparently not doing anything. Come over now before we get started.”
Lydia glanced at the clock. It was now 6:30. Her hand tightened around the phone. He wasn’t coming. He’d changed his mind. She’d gotten dressed up for nothing. Maybe she should just go over to her mother’s and learn to play bridge. At least it would give her something to do on Saturday nights.
She looked over at Saffron, who was vigorously shaking her head and mouthing the word “No” as if she’d read Lydia’s thoughts.
“Mother, I—”
A car pulled up to the front of the house. Lydia’s heart sped up and she hurried over to the window. Saffron joined her.
Tristan got out of his car.
“Mother, I....I have to go. I’ll call you later...tomorrow.”
“But, Lydia—”
She thumbed off the phone. Tristan walked toward the house. He wore a dark blue double-breasted cutaway coat. Underneath it was a white regency-style shirt, complete with high collar and neck cloth. Fawn-colored breeches hugged his long legs along with a pair of black, knee-length boots. He also carried a cane.
“Is that him?” Saffron whispered. “He’s ab-so-fuckin-lutely gorgeous.” She frowned. “Damn, he is young.”
Lydia winced. Saffron had been dating younger men for years. It didn’t bode well if even she thought Tristan was too young.
“You two going to a costume ball or something?”
Lydia shook her head. She was as puzzled by Tristan's attire as Saffron was. The doorbell rang. Her hands were damp from nervousness so she quickly smoothed them down her skirt. She looked over at Saffron who made an impatient shooing motion.
Lydia went over to the door and opened it. “Hi, Tristan.”
He smiled widely, his deep dimples flashing. “Hello, Lydia.” He looked her up and down. “You look fantastic.”
“Thank you.” Her body warmed at the frank lust in his eyes. She opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
He stepped inside. “I'm sorry I'm late, sweet. But I had to—”
He stopped when he saw Saffron.
Lydia stepped between them. “Saffron, this is Tristan Drake. Tristan, Saffron Kidde.”
Saffron extended her hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Lydia’s told me so much about you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” Taking her hand in his, he bowed and kissed the back of it.
Saffron blushed then giggled. Never in all the years Lydia had known Saffron had she ever seen the woman blush. Much less giggle.
“So you two are going on a carriage ride,” Saffron said.
Tristan nodded and looked over at Lydia. “It is my lady’s desire to do so.”
Saffron tilted her head, a blatantly seductive look on her face. “And do you make it a habit of always fulfilling a woman's desires?”
He smiled. “I do. You might call it my life’s passion.”
Lydia looked hard at Saffron. Her friend was a natural flirt, so Lydia wasn’t surprised by her actions. But she couldn't help feeling a little anxious. She’d never be able to compete with Saffron when it came to being sexually confident.
She looked over at Tristan. Lust was flaming in his dark blue eyes.
But it was her he was looking at.
“So what's with the Mr. Darcy getup?” Saffron asked.
Leave it to Saff to be as subtle as a Mack truck.
“I wanted to give Lydia as authentic an experience as possible.”
“I wish I’d known,” Lydia said. “I would have dressed to match you.”
He smiled. “But then it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”
“He’s got you there,” Saffron said. She turned back to Tristan. “I love surprises.”
Lydia couldn’t have said whether she did or not. She’d rarely been surprised in her life. Actually, the only time she’d been truly surprised was the day she had driven Douglas’s BMW because her Volvo had been in the shop and she’d found a pair of red lace panties on the passenger side floor.
Lydia had never worn or even owned a pair of red lace panties.
“Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks,” Tristan said, breaking Lydia out of her thoughts of that horrible day when she’d come across the first major clue that Douglas was cheating on her.
“Is that from a play?” she asked.
Tristan shook his head. “Samuel Johnson. From his Idler essays.”
Saffron looked over at Lydia and pointedly raised her eyebrows. Lydia brushed off her friend’s questioning look. She couldn’t help it if the men Saffron dated considered monster truck rallies the height of culture.
“Well, I’d best let you two get going. Don’t forget this.” Saffron picked up a lace shawl from off the couch, along with Lydia’s favorite beaded purse. She handed the purse to Lydia, but Tristan took the shawl from her and put it around Lydia’s shoulders.
“Thank you.” She leaned over and gave Saffron a quick kiss on the cheek. “And thank you for everything. I owe you.”
Once they were outside, Saffron went over to where she had parked her car. “Call me later.”
“I will.”
“And I want details, hon. Lots of details.”
Lydia laughed and waved goodbye. Tristan opened the passenger door of his car. She got in, mindful of how high her skirt rode up her thighs. She noted, however, that as he moved to close the door his gaze lingered on her legs.
Once he was in the car, he placed the cane between the seats.
“That’s a nice cane,” she said.
He eased the car into traffic. “No well-dressed Regency gentlemen would be seen without one.”
Lydia looked closer at the cane. The handle was made of ivory but it was very old ivory. The surface was carved with tiny figures.
“What are those carvings?”
“Monkeys.”
“Monkeys?”
“It’s a Japanese monkey cane. The handle depicts the three wise monkeys of Japanese folklore. Mizaru who sees no evil, Kikazaru who hears no evil and Iwazaru who speaks no evil.”
Lydia was familiar with the saying. There were figurines of the three monkeys at the new age store.
“There’s also a fourth monkey.” Tristan remarked.
“A fourth?”
“Shizaru, who’s shown with his arms crossed.”
“And what does he symbolize.”
“Do no evil.” He glanced over at her, his dark blue eyes sober. “That’s the most important, don’t you think? Not to do evil.”
“I suppose so.”
He frowned. “You suppose so?”
“What if you had to do a wrong in order to prevent an even greater evil?”
Tristan was silent for a moment, as if he were mulling over her question. Then he suddenly smiled. “A philosophical
enigma and one that you and I will have to debate at some later time.” His glance slid down to her legs. “But not tonight.”
Debate at some later time? Did that mean he intended on seeing more of her?
She glanced over his regency style clothing. “Are you supposed to be someone in particular?”
He signaled a left turn then drove down a street that led to a park that fronted the lake. “I can be whoever you want me to be.”
Lydia recalled Saffron’s comment about his attire. “How about Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice?”
“He’s not real, Lydia.”
Driving down a narrow lane, he pulled over and stopped in front of a small stable. He turned off the car and looked over at her.
“Well, what about a historical figure?” Lydia browsed through her memories of the regency novels she’d read.
“The Earl of Kedington.”
“Who?”
Tristan smiled dryly. “The Earl of Kedington. He played a wicked hand of ecarte, drank far too much claret, and was an expert duelist. He had to be because his favorite pastime was dallying with women, both in and out of society, single or, as he preferred, married. He especially liked the recently widowed. The richer the better. He’d pretend to comfort them on their loss, insincere articulations of condolences oozing from his lips. Once he’d managed to undermine any guilt or defenses they had, he’d fuck them, all the while professing his undying love. When he grew bored, he left them but always a bit less wealthy.”
“He sounds like a scoundrel. And he was real? Was he famous?”
“Real? Yes. Famous?” Tristan shrugged. “But he did manage to touch quite a few lives and not for the better. He was a man who should have heeded the advice of the fourth wise monkey.”
“To do no evil?”
“Yes. To do no evil.”
“Is there more?”
“You called him a scoundrel. He was more of a villain.”
“In what way?”
“He was once described—and mind you by a very close friend—as possessing not one saving grace among his surfeit of iniquitous vices.”
Lydia smiled at Tristan’s choice of words, but her smile quickly dimmed. His somber eyes were looking through her as if she were nothing but a glass pane.
“Tristan,” she began hesitantly.
His gaze focused back on her. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “The Earl excelled at the art of indulging in every sin and depravity he could imagine. And he could imagine much.”
“You sound as if you admire him.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “Admire him? Good God, no. More like pitied.”
“Pitied? Why?”
Tristan released a heavy sigh. “He’d grown so tired of living that all he felt was emptiness. But instead of seeking some sort of meaning to his existence, he chose to fill that emptiness with the blackest of deeds.”
“How do you know so much about him? You said he wasn’t famous.”
“He wasn’t.” He got out of the car then went over to open her door.
A man came out of the stable. He was short and looked to be in his late sixties. He wore a top hat along with a black jacket and matching pants.
“Good evening, sir,” he said.
“Hello, Patrick. May I present Ms. Lydia March.”
Patrick touched the brim of his hat. “Evening. Everything’s ready, sir. If you’ll follow me.”
He led them over to a horse and a carriage. But it was not the kind of open carriage Lydia had seen people riding in downtown. This one was closed and looked like something out of a regency novel.
Patrick went over and opened the door. Taking hold of his hand, she climbed inside.
“You know the route?” Tristan said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I'll let you know when we're ready to return.”
“Very good, sir.”
Tristan climbed in through the other door and sat next to Lydia. It was dark inside although there was a window in front, framed by dark curtains. The interior was cozy enough that Tristan’s body pressed against hers. The carriage shook and through the small window she saw Patrick climb up to the driver’s seat. Tristan rapped the top of the carriage with his cane. Patrick snapped the reins. The carriage rocked as it moved, but not as much as she had thought it would.
“Do you like it?” Tristan asked.
“Oh, yes, very much so.” Her gaze traveled over his clothes. “You went through all this trouble for me.” Tears threatened to prickle her eyes. She quickly blinked them away. She didn’t want to ruin her eyeliner. “It’s…”
He smiled and leaned closer. He smelled wonderful. “It’s what?”
“It’s just that I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Of course you haven’t. It’s your fantasy.” He took her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Don’t worry. We’re only going to do what you want. Nothing more.”
She’d already been intimate with him. Why did she suddenly feel so shy? Was it because they weren’t really alone?
“Do you want me to close the curtain?” he said as if sensing her unease.
Outside the window the sun had set, but the sky was still a soft violet. The dark surface of the lake glimmered under the orange lights of the lampposts.
“No, I’m fine.”
Tristan lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers. She moved her hands about his waist and up his broad back. He pulled her into his arms, deepening their kiss.
It had only been a week since she last kissed him, but it felt like a month. She pressed her lips to his, desire moving through her blood like a warm river.
Breaking their kiss, Tristan stroked her cheek. “I had planned on indulging in some witty repartee appropriate to the era.”
He lowered his hands and began unbuttoning her blouse. “But I’ve thought of nothing but this night. I want you. Lydia. I want you now.”
He opened her blouse and cupped her bra, brushing his thumbs across her nipples. Lydia’s breath quickened, her breasts swelling under his touch. She too had thought about this night while at work, at home, in her bed. Thought about what it would be like. Wondered if it was going to truly happen. Afraid that it would not. But it was happening, and she was here with him in a carriage just as he’d promised.
He pushed down her bra. Her naked nipples quickly hardened in the cool, night air. Grasping both her breasts, he pushed them together, lowered his head and pulled the tight nubs into his mouth, moistly licking.
Lydia gripped his arms, her cunt throbbing in time with the mad beating of her heart and the steady lapping of his tongue over her nipples.
“Suck them,” she whispered. “Please.”
Tristan complied, drawing her nipples deep into his mouth, his tongue working around them both.
She moaned, pressing her breasts against his lips. “Oh, God, that feels so good.” She twisted her hips, her pussy aching to be filled, taken, fucked.
“Fuck me, Tristan. Please, please fuck me.”
He lifted his head from her wet breasts. “You don’t use that word often, do you?”
She blushed. “No, not really.”
She’d certainly never used that word when she and Douglas had sex. Actually, he had preferred while he was fucking her that she didn’t make any sounds at all. “Would you rather I didn’t?”
“Use whatever words you like with me, sweet. It’s your fantasy. Now lift up and sit on my lap.”
Lydia did so, although at one point, as she was maneuvering herself off the seat she banged her knee against the carriage door. “Ow!”
Tristan gently rubbed her knee. “Poor darling. Are you all right?”
She nodded and finished adjusting herself onto Tristan’s lap.
“Much better,” he said, smiling warmly at her. He quickly undid the front of his breeches and pulled out his cock. Lydia licked her lips at the sight of it. He shoved her skirt up around her hips. His eyes widened. “You’re not wearing any un
derwear.”
The stockings Lydia wore only came up to the upper part of her thighs. She had on a pair of garters, attached to a thin piece of fabric wrapped about her wasit.
It had, of course, been Saffron’s idea.
“Makes things easier, don’t you think?” she said, smiling impishly.
Tristan’s eyes lit up in the darkness of the carriage. “A woman who thinks ahead.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a condom. “So did I.”
“Let me,” she said. She tore the black and gold packet open, pulled out the condom and helped him slide it on his cock, her hands lingering around its impressive length and thickness.
He put his hands around her waist, lifted her up and slid her down onto his cock. Lydia gasped, gripping his shoulders. He filled her so completely, so thickly that her body warmed, a carnal heat spreading through her. It felt as if her veins were on fire. She had thought nothing could match the way he’d made her feel last week, but she was already on the verge of an orgasm. Closing her eyes, she slowly swiveled her pelvis against his groin.
“Hmmm, that feels good. Yes. Keep doing that.” He moved his mouth back to her breasts and licked her nipples even as he increased the pace of his thrusts inside her.
Lydia strove to match him, her hips working furiously. Her breath came quicker and her pulse was so fast it felt as if there was no separation between one beat and the next.
Lifting his head from her breasts, he gazed tenderly up at her. “The way you make me feel, Lydia. It’s been so long. So very long.”
There he went again. Talking as if years and years had passed in his life when it was obvious he’d only been alive less than three decades. She didn’t know what to make of it. A quirk of his, she supposed..
The carriage swayed around them and the sound of their slapping bodies and heated sighs and moans filled the interior. She burrowed her face in his neck, drinking in the heady scent of his cologne. He tightened his arms about her waist, his back arching, his cock driving steadily inside her.
Lydia braced her hands against the back of the carriage, her arms outstretched to keep her balance. Tristan whipped his hips off the seat, spearing his cock up into her. He grunted thickly as he fucked her, his arms gripping her waist. holding her steady. He nipped her neck with his teeth, not enough to bite but enough to send tremors of heat surging through her. He groaned with each hard thrust and, as he did, Lydia felt a hot, dark pleasure rising inside her. She beat her palms against the back of the carriage, no longer caring if the driver could hear her. “Oh, yes, yes, fuck me. Fuck me.”