by Diana Castle
“I'm the Earl,” he said thickly. “Remember? How do you address an earl?”
“What? I don’t know...my lord?” she ventured.
“Then say it.”
“Please, my lord, fuck me, fuck me.”
He moved his mouth down to one of her breasts, gripping the stiff nipple with his teeth, his tongue lashing wetly against it.
Lydia cried out, her thighs clamping hard about his hips as her orgasm consumed her. She felt Tristan throbbing deep inside her and he groaned long and hard as he came.
She struggled to catch her breath. Even as the aftershocks of her climax pulsed within her, she felt a twinge of embarrassment for she had no doubt the carriage driver had heard everything that had gone on.
“Don’t concern yourself with him.”
“What?” she gasped.
Tristan pushed her sweat-dampened hair, which had come undone, away from her face.
“Patrick has been well paid. He will be discreet.” He looked worriedly up at her. “Are you all right, sweet? I didn't hurt you, did I?”
Her pussy was sore from his hard fucking of it, but it was worth it. “No, you didn't hurt me. I’m fine.”
Tristan took her nipple between his teeth and gently nibbled it. Surprisingly, she climaxed again. She cried out softly as she did.
He lifted his mouth from her breast. “You’re so beautiful when you come,” he murmured. “Did you know that?”
“I am?”
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you’re not beautiful because you see yourself as old.”
Lydia ran her fingers through his dark hair. “I don’t see myself as old. I am old, Tristan.”
“No, my sweet.” He pulled her close and nestled his face against her breasts. “You’re not old. You’re far from it.”
“But I’m not young either. And I’m certainly not as young as you are.”
He raised his head from her breasts and looked up at her. The expression on his face was strange. He looked if he wanted to tell her something but was hesitant to do so. Before she could ask what was wrong, the expression was gone.
“Did you enjoy your fantasy?” he asked.
“Yes, I did. Thank you. And it was far better than a fantasy.”
A cell phone rang. It wasn’t hers because it wasn’t her ringtone.
Tristan reached toward the pocket of his coat.
“Do you have to answer it?”
“Sorry, sweet, but I must.”
He gave her a quick kiss. Lydia gingerly moved her hips and eased his cock out of her sex. She fixed her clothing and sat next to him on the seat.
He held the phone to his ear and listened for a moment. “No, that won’t be necessary. I'll be there shortly. Yes, as soon as I can. Thank you.”
He slipped the phone back into his coat pocket then reached over and took her hand. “I've spoiled tonight, haven't I?”
“No, of course not. It was wonderful. All of it.”
He pulled her next to him. “You’re not a very good liar. It was wonderful up until now.”
She looked up at him and nodded.
“I know, and I'm sorry.” He kissed her forehead then picked up his cane and rapped it against the ceiling. The carriage shuddered to a stop. “Take us back, Patrick.”
The carriage rocked as Patrick turned it about and headed back to where he had picked them up.
Tristan tightened his arms around her. “I'm so sorry, sweet. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”
“You don't have to apologize. It’s all right. Really it is.” But Tristan was right. She wasn’t a very good lair. Not even to herself. Another mysterious phone call. She tried not to let it bother her. She had no right to pry into his business. She’d only just met him for goodness sake and they certainly had no obligations to each other,
The carriage shook as Patrick climbed down from the driver's box. Tristan opened his door. Once he was outside, he helped Lydia out of the carriage. The wind had picked up. Clouds shrouded the moon as they scudded across the sky. She wrapped her shawl tightly about her.
“Thank you, Patrick,” Tristan said.
“You're welcome, sir. Have a good evening, miss.”
Lydia’s cheeks warmed as she recalled how she’d cried out when she climaxed and the noises he must have heard coming from inside the carriage as she and Tristan had fucked. She also couldn’t help but wonder what he thought about a woman her age having sex with a younger man. But there was nothing on his face to suggest he even noted or cared about any of it.
Tristan took her arm and led her over to his car. Once they were inside, he gently cupped her cheek.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, but she wasn’t. Not really. She couldn’t help flashbacking to all those phone calls Douglas had received and that had required him to leave suddenly. The ones she’d assumed had to do with his job, but had, in fact, been calls from Tiffany.
Tristan looked at her for a long moment. Then he leaned over and kissed her. “I promise. I will make this up to you. You do want to see me again, don’t you?”
She blinked. Was he kidding? “Yes, of course I do.”
He smiled. “Then tell me, Lydia. What can I do to make this up to you.”
Her mother’s fund-raising party. It was next Friday. Her mother was a member of the city’s arts council. She held a gala every October at her home to raise money. Lydia had always attended it with Douglas. This year would be her first time going alone.
“Would you be able to come with me to my mother’s party? It’s next Friday. I know it’s short notice but—”
“I’d be delighted.”
Lydia smiled, but inside she wasn’t feeling as relieved. She wouldn’t have to go to the party alone, but she also had no doubts as to how her mother would react to Tristan. It had not disturbed her in the least that her son-in-law had left Lydia for a younger woman, especially since she pretty much blamed her daughter for Douglas’s infidelity. She had bluntly accused Lydia of not supporting Douglas the way a proper wife should when she heard about the affair.
But the idea of older women dating younger men repulsed her. It repulsed her so much that she’d stopped speaking to one of her closest friends when that woman, at the age of sixty-seven, had dared to date then marry a man five years younger than she was.
What would her mother say or do when Lydia showed up at the party with Tristan, who was clearly far younger than she was?
She inwardly shook her head. She wouldn’t worry about that now. What was bothering her was the man sitting next to her. He’d given her what he’d promised. Helped her to fulfill one of her fantasies. Was willing to go to so much trouble to make her happy. What was she afraid of? He was as close to perfect as any man could possibly be. Good-looking, sexy, an amazing lover and, apparently, wanting very much to be with her.
He was, in fact, too good to be true.
She looked over at his handsome profile. Sensing her gaze on him, he glanced at her and smiled. His smile made him even more unbelievably gorgeous, as if he had stepped from out of her most erotic, passionate dreams.
Her stomach tightened. That was what she was afraid of. That was what had been troubling her since the night they’d met.
That he was, in fact, too good to be true.
Chapter Eight
“Are you sure you want to do this?
Lydia looked up at Tristan. They stood in front of the walkway that led up to her mother’s mansion. She was anxiously clutching his arm. She loosened her grip, but he placed his hand over hers and kept it clasped around his arm.
“It’s up to you,” he went on.
“No, I’m not sure at all. But I’m here. I mean, we’re here.”
He smiled and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. He was dressed in a dark gray bespoke suit, white shirt and dark blue silk tie that matched his eyes perfectly. He looked so handsome, in fact, that although she was wearing the black cocktail dress she’d worn for
her and Douglas’s last anniversary and which had cost a pretty penny, she felt completely overshadowed by Tristan, despite his compliments regarding how she looked in the dress. As gorgeous as he was, especially in that suit, he really should have had a tall, blonde twenty-something supermodel on his arm instead of her.
Cars lined the street leading up to the house. Lydia had not wanted to arrive late, but she had delayed getting ready, using it as an excuse to have a private debate as to whether it was wise to come. As she and Tristan walked up the long walkway, she recalled how she’d gone back and forth as to whether or not to bring Tristan. A part of her had no doubt as to how her mother was going to react when she saw him, but another part, which had started asserting itself more and more of late, wanted her mother to see that just because she was divorced and just because she was approaching middle-age, she had no intention whatsoever of stopping living or loving.
She led Tristan away from the front entrance and around to the back. She preferred to enter through the garden. It would be less noticeable and, she told herself, delay somewhat the inevitable confrontation between her and her mother. Voices drifted through the back windows. Lydia also heard what sounded like a string quartet.
“It’s a beautiful house,” Tristan said.
“Oh, yes,” Lydia replied. “Mother has always wanted the best. For everything and everyone. Or at least her version of what's the best,” she added.
She and Tristan made their way through the garden. Despite there being a nip in the air, guests strolled along the paved paths and among the carefully tended flowers and bushes. Lydia did not recognize any of them and, more than likely, they did not know who she was either. The men acknowledged them with a slight nod as they passed but the women stared openly at Tristan.
He did look handsome. He wore a sharply tailored suit and tie. No costume, this time, but Lydia couldn’t imagine Tristan looking anything less than stunning no matter what he wore.
They entered the door that led into the huge kitchen. Guests also milled about there, along with a bevy of young men and women dressed in dark pants and white shirts with black bowties. They moved swiftly in and out between the huge swinging doors, silver trays full of food balanced on their hands.
Lydia saw more people she knew, or that knew of her through her mother. She greeted them but kept walking, her hand securely around Tristan's arm. She tried to convince herself she only imagined the whisperings in the wake of their passage. As they entered the long hallway that led into the main part of the house the level of noise increased. People were everywhere; chatting away in the living room, walking up and down the stairs, coming in through the front entrance.
Lydia frowned. This was a mistake. She was about to tell Tristan she had changed her mind when she heard her name being called above the hubbub of the party.
“Lydia!”
She turned to where her mother moved, like some great ship of state, through the crowd, all of whom parted before her like the Red Sea.
Carlotta Richards was a stately, elegant woman in her mid-seventies. Her once dark hair was now entirely white. She carried herself like the queen she imagined herself to be. Back straight, head high, shoulders squared. She was and had always been an intimidating figure in Lydia’s life.
“You’re late,” her mother said, her voice crisp and disapproving.
Lydia tried not to wince, but she did. Years of having been subjected to her mother’s displeasure regarding her shortcomings was hard to let go of.
Then, like a general inspecting his troops and noticing something amiss among the ranks, her mother swung her large, dark eyes at Tristan. “Who are you?”
Despite her age, Carlotta’s voice was loud and strong. Surrounding conversations quickly died away. The queen was about to give a royal performance.
“Mother, this is Tristan.”
Although her mother was tall, Tristan was taller. Carlotta had to lift her chin to look up at him, which Lydia suspected did not please her in the least.
“Tristan? What kind of a name is that?” she asked.
“It’s a name, Mother,” Lydia replied, her voice hardening. “Like any other. Tristan Drake.”
“Well, Tristan is certainly unlike any name I’ve ever heard.” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you? Some kind of an artist? Or musician? Aren’t they the sort to go around choosing odd sounding names?”
“No, Mother,” Lydia said. “He’s not an artist or a musician.”
“Then what is he?”
“He’s my lover,” Lydia said before she could stop herself.
She glanced up at Tristan. She thought she saw amusement in his dark blue eyes but she wasn't sure.
He looked over at her mother. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Richards.” He made as if to take her hand, but Carlotta kept it well out of reach. Now the whispers swooped about the room like startled sparrows.
Carlotta looked away from Tristan and over at Lydia. “What did you say he was?”
“My lover, Mother. My date, my boyfriend.” She hadn’t meant to add that last one. It made her sound like she was fifteen years old.
“Well, he’s certainly a boy. I’ll grant you that.”
“Stop talking about him as if he weren’t here.”
A frown wrinkled along Carlotta’s high forehead. “You didn’t tell me you were dating.”
“Mother, can we please discuss this—”
“I don’t approve. No, I don’t approve in the least. He’s far too young, and you know my feelings about such things.”
All the conversations at the party had stopped. Tristan, Lydia and Carlotta were now the star attractions. But Lydia had no intention on providing salacious entertainment for her mother’s guests.
She looked over at Tristan. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
He inclined his head, but his eyes were anxious. She gave him a small smile of assurance. Her mother had always loved embarrassing Lydia, especially in public. She’d never gotten used to it, but it wasn’t anything new either.
She took her mother by the arm and, although it was like trying to move a mountain, managed through sheer will and growing anger to guide her mother into the mansion’s library. It had been her late father’s favorite room and was, therefore, strictly off limits to the guests.
Once inside, she closed the door firmly behind them.
“What in heaven’s name has gotten into you?” Carlotta demanded as Lydia whirled around to face her. “You’re old enough to be his mother.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. What is he? Seventeen?”
“Of course he isn’t. And you know he isn’t. He is younger than me, but—”
“Don’t tell me you’re planning on making this into something serious?”
“And what if I am?”
“Have you no shame?”
Lydia blinked. An image of her in the carriage with Tristan as he fucked her flared in her mind. She smiled. “No, Mother, I guess I don't.”
Carlotta’s eyes widened then narrowed. “What do you know about him?”
“Enough.”
“Which means you know nothing.”
“I know he’s a man. A real man.”
“As opposed to whom? Douglas?”
Lydia only shrugged. After she divorced Douglas, her mother didn’t speak to her for a month. She accused Lydia of acting rashly regarding the whole adultery thing. Insisted that she should have forgiven Douglass for his, as Carlotta termed it, little indiscretion. That it was not unusual for a man Douglas’s age to have an affair. That it was a mid-life crisis sort of thing and not something to make a major fuss over.
Lydia had not heeded her mother’s advice. She divorced Douglas and she divorced him because he hadn’t just betrayed her sexually. She had loved him with all her heart. In her eyes, she’d been a good, loyal and supportive wife. She had nurtured his dreams, celebrated his successes and cried with him when he was in pain.
And she had truste
d him. Trusted him to return her love with loyalty if not with passion.
Carlotta pointed a shaking finger at the door. “That gigolo wants only one thing from you.”
Lydia gritted her teeth. “His name’s Tristan. And he’s not a gigolo.”
“Your money,” Carlotta said. “That’s all that sort cares about.”
Lydia laughed. “Money? Mother, you’re the one with all the money.”
“Which when I die you’ll inherit along with the company. And I’m sure he is well aware of that. Or if he wasn’t, he’s certainly aware of it now.”
“Tristan is quite well-off. He doesn’t need any money.”
“Well, then, he’s just using you.”
“Using me?”
Her mother’s face tightened with disgust. “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”
“And what if I am?”
“Then he’s probably one of those young men who, out of some sense of misguided pity, indecent libidinousness or a perverse mother-complex, like to take advantage of women of a certain age.”
“A certain age?” Lydia threw her hands up in exasperation. “Mother, what are you—”
“If you’re going to date,” Carlotta said, interrupting her, “but which I highly suggest you don’t since you apparently have no idea what you’re doing, it should be someone your own age. Or older. It’s not fitting your being with that…that person. You’re only making a fool of yourself. Just as you were a fool to let Douglas go. At least he knew how to keep you in line.”
“I didn’t let Douglas go, Mother. He left me. Remember? To be with a woman half his age.”
The nostrils of Carlotta’s high-bridged nose flared. “Oh, so is that your justification for your behavior? Some sort of turnaround is fair play? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander?” Carlotta slowly shook her head. “I expected better from you. I know your father would have.”