How To Vex A Viscount

by Marlowe Mia

  “The water’s warmer, if that’s what you mean.” He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned against the raised back of the tub. “My definition of better would be for you to lose that towel.”

  “That can be arranged.” She tugged at the corner of the fabric she’d tucked over her left breast and drew the towel off slowly, basking in the complete approval she saw in Lucian’s dark eyes. “And now for your bath.”

  She knelt beside him and felt for the soap and washcloth along the bottom of the brass tub. She brushed his skin in several sensitive places before she came up with the items she sought.

  “Not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing?”

  “Wouldn’t the harem girl bathe her prince?”

  “I’d rather find out if Daisy will bathe Lucian,” he said. “Remember, whatever games we may play, this is still real.”

  “All right, Lucian. Real it is.” She lathered up the cloth and took one of his hands,

  soaping and caressing. She moved up his arm, then across his chest to his other arm. She took her time, committing him to memory, every pore, every inch of skin.

  She met his gaze when her hand slipped beneath the water to wash his belly and to dip lower. She held him, rubbed the nubby cloth along the length of him. She handled his balls, lifting and kneading gently.

  A fire blazed behind his eyes, but he remained still, except for one hand. He found her breast and teased her nipple with his fingertips while she continued to wash him.

  He made her ache something fierce.

  She stroked his inner thighs, down to his knees and calves. Finally she lifted his foot from the water and soaped it, massaging the ball and instep with her thumbs.

  “That feels wonderful,” he said. “But you’ve had your hand on the tiller of this little adventure long enough. It’s time for a change of command.”

  He drew his foot away and crooked his finger at her. “Come here.”

  “Lucian, the tub—”

  “Let me worry about how we’ll fit.” He sat up straight and caught both her wrists. “Just step in. Here and here.” He pointed to either side of his hips.

  If she did as he asked, she’d be astraddle him, totally open to his gaze and whatever else he might have planned. “But that will have me . . .”

  His smile grew wicked. “Yes, it will. Soon I’ll know all your secrets. All you have to do is trust me, Daisy.”

  Trust him. It was either that or stop breathing. She didn’t think she could live in a world where she couldn’t trust Lucian.

  She stepped into the soapy water.

  “The thing to remember about adult games is that unlike in whist or hazard, the rules are not hard-and-fast. Laws governing adult play are not to be regarded as permanent. They shift like smoke or disappear entirely in the blazing inferno of molten passion.”

  —the journal of Blanche La Tour

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Blanche’s words tumbled through Daisy’s head while Lucian slid his hands up her legs. The teeniest bit of fear tingled alongside his fingers. She couldn’t remember any reference to this sort of game in Blanche’s exhaustive tome, never a mention of letting a man view and handle a woman from Lucian’s unique perspective.

  Soon I’ll know all your secrets, he’d said. He’d know more about her body than she. Daisy had no idea what she looked like from that angle. And there was no way to bring her legs together with one foot on each side of his hips.

  Courtesans must be careful always to present themselves to their patrons in the most favourable light, according to Blanche.

  Would he find this view “favourable”?

  He reached the tender skin of her inner thigh and teased around each leg, front to back. So far, he certainly approved. Heaviness settled in her groin, making her swollen and prickling with sensitivity.

  “So soft,” he murmured.

  Then he caressed her intimate folds, his fingers sliding easily in her slick wetness. He avoided her ‘spot,’ and she forced herself not to move so his touch would ease the familiar ache. But she clenched her teeth with effort.

  “No hair, though,” he said. “That surprises me. Are you always thus?”

  “No,” she admitted. “It’s a courtesan’s trick. I kept having the hair removed so I could play Blanche more convincingly. Do you . . . do you like me like this?”

  “Daisy, I would adore this part of you regardless,” he said as he touched her gently. “Even if you were hairy as a bushman.”

  “A bushman!” She smacked the top of his head. “I rather think I’m not as bad as that.”

  “Hold a moment,” he said. “I thought we were still playing Tease the Statue. Since when are statues allowed to move?”

  “When the one doing the teasing does so with his mouth instead of his hands,” she said, glaring down at him.

  “With his mouth. What a capital idea!”

  Lucian sat straighter and grasped her bum, pulling her close. “Now, stand still, Daisy.” He glanced up at her, smiling wickedly. “If you can.”

  His breath was hot on her, and when he covered her naked sex with kisses, her knees quivered. When his tongue invaded her, they nearly buckled. The world went suddenly liquid, and Daisy’s only goal was remaining upright. If she went down, it meant he would stop.

  And she thought she might die if he did.

  He’d avoided her special place before. He did not avoid it now. He twirled his tongue around her seat of pleasure, flicking it with quick strokes. He suckled. He tormented. He danced her to the edge of completion and pulled back in maddening retreat. The empty ache threatened to split her open.

  She moaned his name. She pleaded. He would give no terms. She could only surrender and hope for mercy.

  “Bend your knees,” he finally ordered. She sank down into the cooling water with him. As she settled on him, the tip of him slid into her with the rightness, the naturalness of two halves coming together to make a whole.

  “Oh, Lucian.” She sighed.

  He filled her completely in one sure stroke. The emptiness was gone, but the ache remained. She rocked her pelvis and he moved beneath her, hands on her hips, meeting her with strong thrusts. They started a tidal wave in the small tub, the water surging over the sides in cascading waves.

  Daisy arched her back, presenting her breasts to Lucian’s mouth. He took her nipple between his lips and sucked in rhythm with their long strokes. Daisy felt the coil tighten inside her.

  “Bite me,” she urged, and immediately felt his teeth on her hard nipple. The pinch of pain cut all her bonds, and she unravelled completely, pulsing around his hot shaft in strong contractions.

  Lucian groaned. He pulled her down hard against him, and she felt his release as hers subsided. When the last throb faded, she collapsed on him, breathing hard.

  His heart pounded beneath her. Hers was beating in time. There was no need for words. Their bodies had said it all. No need to do anything. For the moment, just breathing, just pushing the blood through their veins, just being was enough. So long as they were being together.

  “I can ring for supper if you like,” Daisy said much later. They’d moved to her large featherbed and discovered that lovemaking on a mattress had every bit as much to commend it as dallying on a duke’s desk. Or coupling in a copper bath. At this rate, Daisy was sure Lucian and she could manage to unite their bodies almost anyplace and find the experience transcendent. She moulded herself to his long frame, laying her head in the crook of his shoulder, totally at peace with the world. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” he admitted, “but too sated with love to care for my belly just now. Besides, ringing for your servants would mean getting dressed, and I find you delectable just as you are.”

  He kissed her forehead and ran his hand over her crown.

  Sated with love. He’d done it again. He implied that he loved her without actually saying it. He was the one who insisted that what they were doing must be real. How hard could it be f
or him to put the words together?

  The real ones.

  Her peace frayed a little at the edges. With a sigh, she hooked her ankle over his calf. How good, how right this could all be if—

  “Oh!” He sat bolt upright, making the bed bounce Daisy into a trough in the soft mattress. “I almost forgot. The professor I met with gave me the name of the island we’re looking for. It’s—”

  “Braellafgwen,” she said along with him, then added, “Hill of the blade and sheath.”

  He leaned on his elbow and looked down at her. “How did you know that?”

  “Because you’re not the only one who can discover things, Lucian,” she said, tracing a circle around his brown nipple. “I understand why you didn’t want to go to the Society of Antiquaries, but I had no trouble there at all.”

  “After I told you not to—” He caught her hand and held it still. Anger sizzled in his tone. “Whom did you speak with?”

  “Sir Alistair Fitzhugh,” she said. His grip tightened so she almost cried out. Then he released her hand, his brows lowering like thunderclouds. “He was most helpful and—”

  “What did you tell him? No, never mind. It doesn’t matter now.” He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and climbed out. “You gave him enough, and now he knows where to look for the treasure as well.”

  He stalked back to his discarded clothing, picked through the pile and pulled on his stockings, smallclothes and breeches. His silence bristled with fury.

  “Give me a little credit.” Daisy pulled the sheet up and tucked it under her armpits to shield herself from his gaze. Of course, he’d have to deign to look at her in order to feel the slight. “I gave him nothing at all, and I certainly didn’t tell him we’re seeking Roman treasure.”

  “You didn’t have to.” Lucian shrugged his shirt on and tucked the hem into his breeches. “He already knows.”

  “After your presentation at the Society, he knows you’re looking for it. I’d wager half of London knows you are, but he couldn’t possibly connect me with your Roman treasure,” Daisy said, puzzled by his irritation. “I gave him a perfectly plausible tale about my ladies’ sewing circle being interested in druid sites on the Thames.”

  “You gave him everything he needs,” Lucian accused. “I told you not to go to the Society.”

  “You categorically did not. You merely said you couldn’t go. That didn’t mean I shouldn’t, and I don’t know why you think you can order me about.” She glared at him. “It’s not as though we’re married.”

  “You’d never be a biddable wife, at any rate,” he growled.

  “Probably not. In fact, it would be my duty to be as unbiddable as possible so long as you insist on being so mulish,” she agreed, her own anger rising to meet his. “But I am not your wife. Neither am I in your employ.”

  “But Mr Peabody thinks you are my assistant, and he’s been spying for Fitzhugh since he started working at the site. So Fitzhugh saw through that flimsy tale you told him like—Oh, blast and damn! He may be halfway to the island already.”

  “Peabody was spying?” She climbed out of bed with the sheet wrapped toga-style about her. “Why didn’t you give him the sack?”

  “I wanted to know what he was up to.” Lucian put on his waistcoat and began buttoning the long line of pewter marching down his chest.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Mr Peabody?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to know my—” He stopped himself. He’d nearly said it aloud. My father may be involved in a plot to overthrow the king. Just thinking it was terrible. Speaking it was more than he could bear. He straightened and looked her in the eye. “My business. I didn’t want you to know my business.”

  She flinched as though he’d slapped her.

  “Your business,” she repeated woodenly.

  “Yes, my business.”

  “You come here and make love to me and tell me you want things real and demand to know all my secrets.” Her voice started softly, but now was building toward shrill. “And you don’t want me to know your business?”

  Better to have her angry with him than delving for the unspeakable truth.

  “What an astute mind you have.” He shoved an arm into the sleeve of his frock coat. “You’ve managed to grasp my point very quickly . . . for a woman.”

  He probably should have expected the kettle to come flying, but Daisy was so quick, he barely had time to duck. It sailed within a finger’s width of his head and crashed into the wall behind him. A spider web of cracks rippled the plaster.

  “Careful! That might have been me!”

  “That should have been you,” she said, green eyes blazing. Her hair was wondrously tousled, and the sheet drooped low on her breasts. “Stand still next time.”

  Lord, she was magnificent. Part of him wanted nothing more than to heft her over his shoulder, carry her back to bed and swive the living lights out of her.

  Another part warned that it would be more than his life was worth to try.

  Besides, if Fitzhugh was already in possession of the name of the island, he had no time to lose.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To Braellafgwen.” He bent to buckle his shoes, careful to keep his eyes on her in case she should rearm herself.

  “And how do you intend to get there? Swim?”

  “No, I’ll hire a boat.”

  “With what as payment?” She laughed mirthlessly. “Your skills as a gigolo?”

  “Why? Are you offering to write a letter of recommendation?” He wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge the cake of soap that zipped across the room. It was hard and Castilian and beaned him squarely on the bridge of his nose. Stars danced across his vision.

  He probably deserved that.

  “Now that I have your attention, it occurs to me as your business partner”—she spat the words at him—“that between the two of us, I am the only one with sufficient funds to make a journey to Braellafgwen. Therefore, I shall see to the arrangements.”

  Before he could object, she tugged the bellpull and Witherspoon appeared at her door. If the man was shocked by the soggy carpet around the tub, the dishevelled bed or his mistress’s state of undress, he gave no indication. His expression was locked in perpetual neutrality with a hint of boredom.

  “How soon can you arrange to hire a boat and crew capable of taking Lord Rutland and me upriver to an island called Braellafgwen?” she asked. “No, wait, better just say an unnamed destination until we settle on our arrangements. We need to travel with all speed and extreme discretion.”

  Witherspoon cast his eyes heavenward, as if he might receive a sign from above. Then, satisfied he’d made the correct calculations, he lowered his gaze. “I shall make a few inquiries among my connections, but I believe you may rely upon a dawn departure.”

  “Very well. Meet me on the wharf at dawn, Lord Rutland, or I shall go alone.”

  Her bearing was so regal, Lucian figured she’d completely forgotten she was clad in nothing but a rumpled sheet.

  “Witherspoon, please see this . . .” She glared at him as if he were a particularly repugnant sort of vermin. “Show this gentleman out.”

  “‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ or so said the Bard. Wouldn’t it be boring if he were wrong?”

  —the journal of Blanche La Tour

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The six-oared shallop Mr Witherspoon engaged was perfect for their needs. It was captained by a Mr Crossly, who, despite his dour name, had a pleasant way about him. Daisy found his aromatic pipe comforting as he deftly managed the tiller one-handed and kept up a running conversation punctuated by frequent gestures with the other. The oars were manned by his six strapping sons.

  “Wanted to go for an eight-oar tilt boat meself, but the missus drew the line at birthing six boys and started poppin’ out daughters instead,” he explained with a laugh.

  The merry little craft was graced with a small tilt—a cloth-covered, open
-sided cabin—where Daisy could shelter from the sun. The day had dawned cloudless, the water a rare blue, the breeze fresh and frequent. They were making remarkable speed, thanks to the surging tide in addition to the strong backs of Mr Crossly’s sons.

  All things considered, Daisy should have been pleased. The shallop was an exceedingly comfortable mode of travel, much nicer than a dusty coach on a rutted road. It only reinforced her faith that she and Lucian had correctly deciphered Caius Meritus’s poem. The current was strong; she could easily imagine the ancient thief making his way up the Thames, even in a single-occupant craft. Mr Crossly estimated that they’d travel the thirty miles or so of river to Braellafgwen in about six hours.

  Daisy was finally having an adventure. She should have been outrageously happy.

  And would have been, except for the other passenger with whom she shared the tilt.

  Lucian sat with his arms folded over his chest in taciturn surliness. He propped his tricorne over his face and lounged with his long legs outstretched. The rapier he’d worn as part of the highwayman costume turned out not to be ornamental. It was strapped to his left hip, and the angle of the sheath kept Daisy from sitting too close to him.

  Not that she wanted to. He hadn’t apologized yet, and she had no need to, thank you very much! Lucian deserved everything she gave him.

  Including that faint purple bruise on the bridge of his nose.

  So they spoke to each other only when absolutely necessary, and even then with cold civility. Now that he seemed intent on a nap, they glided along in stony silence.

  Daisy leaned her cheek on her palm and sighed. Even though they were making good time, this was going to be a very long trip.

  “I still don’t see why we had to wait to follow them to the treasure when we might have stolen the march by leaving yesterday and beaten them to it,” Lord Brumley complained.

  “Because we may not be privy to all Rutland and the Drake chit knows,” Sir Alistair explained. “There may yet be pieces to this puzzle we couldn’t begin to guess.”