How To Vex A Viscount
Page 21
Was carnal experience something that others could sense? Was the loss of her maidenhead somehow stamped on her features, invisible yet clearly discernible to one who took the time to look closely?
As Nanette was doing now . . .
She cocked her head at Daisy and narrowed her gaze. “And when shall you be telling Madame you are not in Cornwall, as she supposes?”
“As soon as we’ve found the treasure, Nanette, I promise.”
“Very well, cherie.” Nanette smiled at her. “But only because I see that you are happy with your young man. A handsome devil, that one.”
Now Daisy smiled. Nanette didn’t know the half of it. “A handsome devil, indeed.” Then her brow furrowed. “I have your promise?”
“Oui, mam’selle, I promise. I will tell no living soul I have seen you.” Nanette winked. “Your heart may rest easy. After working for Madame for all these years, I have great experience in the keeping of the secrets. Yours, she is safe with me.”
Daisy wondered, as she returned later to her chair with her refurbished hat neatly boxed, if Nanette would have given her promise so willingly if she’d known what Daisy was planning.
Night settled over London like a heavy black shawl. One by one, the thousands of small lanterns required to be lit by householders began to wink on around Lucian, bathing the soot-choked city in a kindly, hazy light.
Lucian bounded up the steps to Daisy’s new residence, taking them two at a time. The day seemed long without her, but he suspected wanting only increased his joy in having. Not only was he looking forward to discovering new delights with her, but the old Oxford don he met with at White’s had not disappointed him. Lucian now had the name of the island on the Thames where he fully expected to find Caius Meritus’s Roman cache.
Braellafgwen. The name sang in his ears and sent his blood surging hotly through his veins. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Daisy’s face when he told her.
He hammered the knocker on the bright red door and smiled warmly at the dour butler who admitted him.
Must be Witherspoon, he decided. The man was just as briny as Daisy had described him when she told Lucian of her newly established household in London. Witherspoon might be sour-looking, she’d said, but he was the very devil for efficiency and, more important, discretion. In light of Lucian’s fortuitous news, his heart was brimming with goodwill, even for an old pickle like Witherspoon.
“You would be Lord Rutland, I presume. Mlle La Tour is expecting you,” the sticklike man said, his face a bland mask. “Allow me to escort you to her chamber.”
Lucian was glad Daisy had been forward-thinking enough to lease the house and hire the servants in the guise of Blanche. That way, there was no need to hide their libertine activities from the servants. They already expected the worst from their employer. And if they spread tales, the fact that Daisy’s true identity was safe from evil gossip was icing on the cake.
There was no reason to hide his own identity. In certain circles, a man’s reputation was enhanced, not diminished, by association with a notorious woman of pleasure. An inequity, doubtless, but true all the same.
“No need, Witherspoon,” Lucian said as he mounted the wide stairs. “I can find my way.”
“Very good, milord. Second door on the left.”
Lucian smiled. Witherspoon was an unlikely prophet who had no idea he’d just announced the way to paradise.
Lucian climbed the stairs, his body thrumming with anticipation. Would she be wearing that naughty nipple-displaying red gown again, or maybe the elegant corselet with all those lovely lace ties? Perhaps this time he’d manage not to befoul the ribbons as he undid her.
But when he rapped sharply on her door and heard her call out, in French for the servants’ benefit, for him to enter, he discovered she was wearing neither of those delightful confections.
She was naked as a newborn babe.
“Bonsoir, Lucian,” she said from the burnished copper hip bath in the centre of the room.
She’d dispensed with Blanche’s mask and wig, her own blond curls piled on top of her head, just a couple of wayward locks teasing her slender neck. Her breasts were wreathed in bubbles on the surface of the bath. Where the froth of soap parted, the water was like molten gold in the glow of the candles.
He knew his mouth was opening and shutting, but no sound would come from his lips.
She laughed softly. “You might close the door behind you. The hall is drafty, you know.”
She leaned back and propped one foot on the end of the tub, water and soap bubbles slithering from her ankle, past her shapely calf and back into the bath. She sank into the tub up to her shoulders.
“I so enjoy a good soak, don’t you?”
“From this vantage point especially,” he finally managed to say as the latch clicked behind him. A bath had never seemed like anything other than a method for getting clean. Daisy Drake festooned with soap bubbles was as far removed from something next to godliness as anything he could imagine.
He wasn’t conscious of ordering his feet to move, but he found himself standing over her. The mysteries of her delectable flesh were hidden in the water’s shadows. His groin clenched anyway.
“A few more candles would not come amiss,” he said.
She laughed again, and this time, he thought he detected a little nervousness in the sound. He was a bit relieved by it. He knew she’d been a virgin when they made love in the Duke of Lammermoor’s library. But she played the wanton with such devastating conviction; he wondered where she’d learned the courtesan’s arts. True, her great-aunt was a famed paramour, but surely she wouldn’t initiate her innocent niece into those mysteries.
“No more candles.” She wagged a wet finger at him. “Blanche always says, ‘A man’s imagination is a woman’s best asset.’ It’s true, don’t you think?”
“Your assets need no enhancement.” He dropped to one knee beside the tub, letting a hand trail in the water. It was quite hot. No wonder her exposed skin was so flushed. “Blanche says? Then there really is a Blanche La Tour?”
“Indeed.”
Before he reached the soapy knee that was his goal, she found his fingers with hers and set his hand firmly back on the side of the tub. Evidently in this new game he was allowed to look, but not touch.
“I’ve never met her in person, of course,” Daisy said, lifting her arms in a languid stretch. Her breasts rose almost, but not quite from the water, their rosy tips visible for a blink before disappearing beneath the suds once again. Lucian’s breeches were becoming unbearably tight. “But I’ve read most of her memoirs, and believe me, she has plenty to remember. Blanche La Tour is a font of information.”
That explained much. “Ah! Bookishness has its reward.”
“Is that how I seem to you?” She sent a teasing splash his way. He recognized Daisy in the gesture instead of the courtesan and didn’t care that she was water-spotting his best and only remaining frock coat. “Bookish?”
“No. You seem . . .” He had no words to describe her. She was so much of everything—vixen and virgin, siren and saint, Eve and Jezebel at once. Dark and bright, she was a contradiction with feet. Lovely, soapy feet with delicately arched insteps. Lucian finally settled on “. . . womanly.”
She smiled, a satisfied feline smile, and he knew he was lost.
He didn’t care one whit.
Lucian fought to maintain eye contact with her, but it was a losing proposition. Her skin gleamed wetly, and where the bubbles parted on the surface of the bath, he was treated to tantalizing glimpses in the shimmering depths below. A curved waist here, a dimpled knee there, a quick peek at her belly with the tiny indentation of her navel winking at him—it was all he could do not to hoist her from the bath, throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to the waiting bed in the corner. The little minx was treasure begging to be discovered.
Lucian suddenly remembered the news he had for her. “Oh! I found the name of the island where—”
She leaned to kiss him and her breasts fell forward into his waiting palms. Soft, full, just the right size for his hands. They were a perfect fit. Her nipples hardened against his palms.
Her skin was slick and smooth. As their kiss deepened, he slid his hands down her ribs, into the water to cup her sex. She was even softer there, and when he slipped a fingertip in the small crevice, she moaned into his mouth. Her legs parted in invitation.
She was wet, more than wet from the bath. Her intimate folds were heavy with the dew that meant she wanted him as much as he did her. He slid a finger into her opening, caressing and seeking.
She pulled away from their kiss. “Not yet,” she said breathily. “You haven’t had your bath, sir.”
“A man must hear a few no’s in order to fully appreciate a yes.”
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“My bath?” Lucian said with a hard blink.
“Of course, you need a bath, too,” she purred. “Those are fresh linens on the bed. Don’t you think fresh, clean bodies should romp on them?”
Romp? God, yes.
He stood with alacrity and peeled out of his frock coat. He was already fumbling with his waistcoat buttons when Daisy’s laughter stopped him.
“In good time, milord,” she said. “This tub is only big enough for one.”
He eyed it in randy speculation. “I can think of at least three ways we could both fit. I’m certain more will come to me if I put my mind to it.”
She grinned wickedly. “Later, perhaps,” she promised. “For now, I simply want you to relax and enjoy your bath. Would you please bring me that towel over there?”
Relaxing and enjoyment didn’t seem to go together in his mind at present, but he did as she bade. The Turkish cloth, with its tiny loops and silk-embroidered hems, was draped over her vanity chair. As Lucian went to fetch it, he heard her rise from the bath behind him, the water tinkling merrily as it sloughed off her body.
Daisy, naked and aroused and dripping wet. This was more than enjoyment. This was the stuff of his dreams.
He turned and found her standing beside the tub with her back to him. He was disappointed for only a moment before he began admiring the slope of her shoulders, the delicate indentation of her spine, and the curve of her bum. His mouth went dry.
Lucian imagined her in one of the poses from the Roman mosaic, bent double, grasping her own ankles, all her vulnerable parts open to him.
Spread for him.
He swallowed hard. Was it possible for a man to die of an erection?
She lifted her arms and peered over her shoulder at him with an impish grin. “Are you coming, or do you intend for me to drip dry?”
Reluctantly, he brought the cloth.
“This is a great deal too much fabric for the subject at hand,” he said as he wrapped it around her form.
She tucked a corner over her bosom and turned to him. The soft cloth covered her from breast to knee, but the sight of her bare calves and naked feet was still almost unbearably erotic.
“You look like some exotic princess escaping from a Turkish bath, all flushed and rosy,” he said.
“If I were, no doubt I’d have a band of frantic eunuchs at my heels,” she said with a laugh.
He smiled. “And the pasha would be after you, too, if you tried to get away.” Lucian pulled her close, all traces of merriment suddenly gone. “I certainly would if you thought to elude me.”
“No danger of that, my sultan.” She eased herself away from him. “Now, sir, if you’ll stand perfectly still,” she said as she started to unbutton his waistcoat, “I will try my hand at undressing a man.”
Her hands trembled a bit on the last button. He caught them and brought them to his lips for a quick kiss.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s no way you can make a mistake.”
“On the contrary, society would say we are making a huge mistake. Or it would say I am, at least.” She gently pulled her hands away from his and eased his dimity waistcoat off his shoulders. “I’ve a feeling this would be much easier if I were still playing at being Blanche.”
“But it wouldn’t be real,” Lucian said.
“And you want it to be real?”
“Yes, Daisy.” He kissed her softly, then rested his cheek against hers and inhaled the fresh, clean scent of her skin. “What we’re doing is as real as it gets between a man and a woman. And I want you. Not Blanche.”
Her lips turned up in a slow smile. “That doesn’t mean I can’t put what I’ve learned from Mlle La Tour into practice, does it?”
“Not if you care for me in the slightest,” he said fervently.
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him and gave him a quick nip on his lower lip. “I assure you, sir, there is nothing the least slight in the way I care for you.”
Ever since Daisy caught her first glimpse of Lucian with his shirt off at his excavation site, she’d longed to run her fingertips across his broad shoulders. She’d ached to trace the indentations of his ribs and circle his brown nipples with her thumbs. To place a reverent kiss on his belly button and maybe dart her tongue into the space to see what he’d do.
Turned out, he groaned with need.
But he stood perfectly still, just as she’d asked him to. Tease the Statue was one of Blanche’s games, and like all her naughty suggestions, this new diversion was delivering plenty of titillation.
And Daisy hadn’t even gotten to the good parts yet.
She took her time, walking around him, trailing her fingertips along his narrow waist.
My, his fine bum fills out those breeches.
She ran her hand down the indentation between the firm globes of his buttocks, teasing him through the threadbare Manchester velvet of his breeches.
A sharp intake of breath hissed over his teeth.
When she completed her circuit, the front of his breeches was so strained she feared she’d have difficulty with the buttons. She brushed her palm across his erection, caressing him mercilessly through the fabric.
“Have a care,” he said through clenched teeth. “You may push me beyond what I can bear.”
“Then it must be time for your bath,” she said as she undid first one, then the other button on his drop-front breeches. “Before the water gets too cold.”
“At this point, I view cold water as a mercy.”
“Never fear. I have a kettle on the hearth. We can warm the water a bit.”
She knelt to tug the breeches over his hips and down his muscular thighs. His erection sprang free and took aim at her, point-blank, like a loaded pistol at a burglar.
She swallowed her giggle at that thought. She suspected Lucian wouldn’t find anything funny about that part of his anatomy.
Besides, she was quickly overcome with wonder at its thickness and length and the engorged vein that snaked along its left side. His scrotum was drawn tight, the dark skin dusted with darker hair. The sight of him made her belly clench, and moist warmth gathered between her legs.
“You were right,” she said.
“About?” The tension in that one word told her he couldn’t venture more for fear of losing his control.
“That lewd little lamp wasn’t anywhere near life-size.”
Laughter made his balls shake.
She made a mental promise to return to the region for further study while she bathed him. She considered kissing him, pressing her lips to the flesh so aching for release, but she thought better of it. For now.
After all, he’d already complained that she was teasing him beyond what he could endure. Daisy continued to pull down his breeches.
“Can I move yet?”
“Not quite.” She stared at his ankles in consternation. His breeches were hop
elessly hung up on his pewter-buckled boots. “I guess I should have taken off your shoes first.”
He grinned down at her, past his waving cock. “And I thought that when it came to undressing a man, there was no way to make a mistake.”
“It appears I’ve discovered one,” she said with a wry grimace. “Perhaps I should grant you permission to move before you topple over like a felled pine.”
He didn’t need further encouragement. He was toeing off his shoes and peeling off his breeches and stockings before she could utter another word. In an instant, he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
They were pressed together, chest to breast, belly to belly. She could feel his hardness, his need. Only her towel separated them. When he released her mouth to kiss her cheeks, her closed eyelids, the sweet spot of her temple, she pushed against his chest.
“Lucian.”
“Hmm?” His kisses headed south now, leaving her jaw and traveling down her throat to the tops of her breasts.
“Your bath,” she reminded him gently.
He released her with a hint of a scowl and stomped to the tub. As she suspected, his derriere was glorious, the tight musculature bunching and flexing beneath his smooth skin as he moved. Lucian Beaumont, clad in only the skin God gave him, was, without doubt, the finest thing Daisy had ever seen.
He stepped into the tub and lowered himself with no concern about the water surging over the sides. Daisy shrugged. Mr Witherspoon could worry about the water stain on the carpet later.
“It’s barely warm,” Lucian said, his knees rising like mountainous isles from the surface of a soapy sea.
“That’s something I can remedy.” She skittered to the fire and brought back the steaming kettle. “Tell me when.” She tipped the spout and, taking care to aim at a place on the surface where there was nothing of Lucian poking out, she let the steamy water flow. As the heat spread throughout the tub, Daisy could see his muscles unclenching in the growing warmth. She emptied the entire kettle. “Better?”