by Cara Elliott
“Did they sound satisfied?” asked Lucas slowly.
“Very.” She hesitated a fraction before adding, “Though I cannot imagine what they… implied.”
“A kiss to a lady’s quim?”
“Quim?” she repeated.
“It’s one of the terms that I prefer for that feminine spot. Grotto of Venus sounds a bit gothic, don’t you think? While quim reminds me of a sweet, ripe piece of fruit.”
Ciara squirmed, embarrassed and yet intrigued. “There are… other names?”
“Cunny, muff, notch, nick-nack, honeypot, pipkin,” he recited slowly.
The wicked little words seemed to slide over her skin like melted butter.
“And simply, paradise. There are lots more, of course, but that should give you the idea.”
“Yes,” she replied, trying to repress the tingle running up her legs. “How very illuminating.”
“You see, there is much to learn outside the quiet confines of a library or laboratory,” murmured Lucas. “As for naughty kisses…” A slow, sensuous lick traced the length of her sole. “Perhaps you simply need a little help in stimulating your imagination.”
As his hands caressed her ankle and then stole up her calf, she didn’t dare think about such erotic fantasies. Never in her wildest dreams did she picture a man… and a woman…
Oh, surely that was wicked beyond words.
And yet. And yet, Ciara was suddenly aware that her foot was not the only part of her body growing moist.
She squeezed her thighs together to stop his roving touch. “Th-that’s far enough,” she said thickly.
His hands stilled on her knee. The lamp swayed, casting his face in darkness. After a moment, his voice drifted out from the shadows.
“Very well.” Leaning back, Lucas smoothed her stocking down and slipped her shoe into its rightful place.
The satin felt oddly cold after his warmth.
Ciara sat up, just as the carriage came to a halt. Grateful that the low light hid her flaming face, she gathered her skirts. “It appears that our evening has come to an end. I bid you good night, Lord Hadley.”
“Good night, Lady Sheffield.” As the coachman came around to the door, he added, “I hope that the lovely, virginal hymns we heard will inspire sweet dreams.”
Lucas rose earlier than usual the next morning and rang for his shaving water.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said his valet as he set down the basin and razor on the washstand. “Is there something else you need?”
“Hmmm?” It took a moment to realize he was humming a passage from Handel’s Messiah. “No, no, that will be all, Humphrey. Please tell Cook I shall be down shortly for breakfast,” replied Lucas. “I shall dress myself today.”
A long-suffering silence greeted the remark.
Lucas turned from the mirror, his jaw half covered in soap. “Is something amiss, Humphrey?”
“Aside from the shocking state of your wardrobe, sir?” The valet folded his hands across his chest. “Perhaps you would prefer for me to hand in my resignation. It appears that you are unhappy with my services.”
“Are you crying over a stained sleeve?”
“Your best coat will never be quite the same, sir. And the dove gray trousers…” Humphrey shuddered. “They are utterly ruined.”
“So order another pair.” Lucas patted his face dry. “Hell, order a half dozen if it will wipe that scowl off your phiz.”
“Fashion is nothing to laugh about, milord. Allow me to point out that no one has ever dared criticize your clothing.”
“No, only my lack of it,” he quipped.
Humphrey sniffed.
Moving to the dressing room, Lucas picked out a navy jacket, buff breeches, and a pair of his most comfortable boots.
“Those are in need of a good buffing, sir,” said Humphrey, eyeing the scuffed leather with horror.
“Don’t bother. I’ll be walking through the muck at Tattersall’s,” said Lucas. He paused, brushing a hand to the boots. “Tell me, did I have a pony when I was a small boy?”
“Yes, milord. Sir Henry gave you one for your seventh birthday.”
“I thought so.” He took a moment to knot his cravat. “Every boy ought to have a pony.”
“So long as he doesn’t try to ride it up the marble staircase of his great aunt’s mansion in Grosvenor Square,” said his valet.
“Aunt Prudence had no sense of humor, if I recall.”
Humphrey coughed. “Apparently not. You and the animal were banned from the premises for life.”
“I doubt Ajax went to his grave lamenting the loss. And nor shall I.” With that, Lucas slipped his pocket watch into his waistcoat and went down for breakfast.
He was just digging into a plateful of shirred eggs and gammon when the door gave way to a shove.
“What are you doing, keeping country hours?” called Farnam.
“We expected to find you abed,” added Ingalls, his voice suspiciously slurred. By the look of their wrinkled clothing and bleary faces, neither of the two men had slept the night before.
“Coffee?” asked Lucas, holding up the steaming pot. “Or kippered herring?”
“Oh, God, I think I shall puke if you mention food.” Ingalls sprawled into one of the dining chairs and took his head between his hands. “I had better have another brandy.”
Farnam brought over the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”
Lud, was he always such a sorry sight after a night of carousing? Lucas slowly chewed a bite of his toast, finding the mingled reek of smoke, sex, and stale perfume was leaving a rather sour taste in his mouth.
“When did you arrive back in Town?” he inquired. “I thought you planned to spend the month in Kent.”
“Yesterday,” said Farnam. He frowned. “Or was it the day before?”
“’S’hard to remember,” agreed Ingalls with a grimace. “Hell, it’s hard to tell time when you never see a wink of daylight.”
Lucas watched his friend slosh another helping of spirits into his glass, spilling half of it onto the carpet. “Er, why did we come?” muttered Farnam. “I know there was a bloody good reason…”
“The mill!” Ingalls straightened somewhat.
“Oh, right, the mill!” Farnam slapped a hand to his head. “We just got word—Booker, the Negro champion from Jamaica, is set to meet McTavish, the Hulk of the Highlands, in the village of Cookham this afternoon.”
“For a purse that is rumored to be over a thousand pounds,” added Ingalls. “The betting is already astronomical.”
“Aye, it promises to be the fight of the decade! And if we don’t get moving, we’ll never get near ringside.” Farnam struggled to his feet. “Where the devil is Greeley with the carriage? He should have been here by now.”
“Going the last few rounds with Mathilde—you know, Lucas, the ladybird you left behind.” Ingalls lewdly rocked his hips and guffawed. “A few stiff jabs and his opponent will cry surrender.”
Funny, but such schoolboy chortlings did not seem half so witty when one was sober, observed Lucas.
“Mad, Bad Had-ley ain’t interested in Mathilde anymore. He no doubt has a luscious new set of feathers to pluck.” Farnam leered. “Who is she?”
Lucas poured himself another cup of coffee.
“You can squeeze his whirligigs for the answer once we are in the carriage, Freddy,” said Ingalls. “Bolt down your eggs, Lucas. We have to be off.”
He made no move to rise. “Sorry, gentlemen. You will have to go on without me.”
“What!” Both of their jaws dropped in unison.
“I have a previous engagement for the afternoon.”
“Bloody hell! Break it! What could be more important than watching two goliaths try to batter each other into submission?” added Ingalls.
Champion pugilists, raucous crowds, oceans of ale… For an instant, Lucas was sorely tempted. “Sorry, I can’t.”
His friends blinked in disbelief.
“But why�
��”
Farnam’s sputtering was cut short by Greeley, who sailed through the door with his shirttails still flapping around his thighs. “By God, I’ll tell you why. I just ran into Jervis on the street, and he filled me in on the latest news.” Making a mock bow of obeisance, Greeley went on to explain. “Our Mad, Bad Had-ley has upstaged the prize fight. Indeed, he has knocked all of London on its ear. He’s announced his engagement.” He burst out laughing. “To the Wicked Widow.”
His other two friends doubled over in mirth.
“Do be a sport, Lucas, and let your friends buy into the bet, whatever it is,” said Greeley, once he had caught his breath.
“Aye, we want to share in the fun,” urged Farnam after another chortle. “What buffle-headed idiot was willing to wager that you wouldn’t dare do it?”
“The fellow doesn’t know you like we do,” said Greeley.
“What I want to know is what stunt you have planned to get out of it.” Ingalls fixed him with an expectant grin. “It’s got to be a real corker.”
Lucas calmly consulted his pocket watch. “You are going to be late if you don’t leave now. And so am I.”
“Leave off your joking, Lucas. Our carriage is waiting.”
Comrades. Cavorting. Not a care in the world. He drew in a deep breath, the devils in the back of his head all urging him to say yes.
“Sorry, but no.”
“Satan’s arse,” growled Ingalls. “What in the devil has got into you?”
Perhaps a modicum of good sense. Lucas couldn’t explain it, even to himself. Shrugging, he rose. “Nothing. I simply have something else to do.”
“If you are sneaking off to swive the widow, just say so.” Farnam winked at the others. “We can keep a secret.”
His hand shot out for his friend’s throat, but he caught himself in the nick of time. Tapping a light pat to Greeley’s shoulder, he smiled. “Let’s leave the lady out of this, shall we?”
Dumbfounded, Greeley could only stare in mute surprise.
“Now, if you all will excuse me, I must be on my way.”
“Are we really going for a walk in the park?” asked Peregrine.
“Yes,” replied Ciara, trying to decide which bonnet to wear. All of a sudden, they all looked so dowdy.
“With Lord Hadley?” persisted her son.
“Yes.” She sighed. “Unless he changes his mind. Gentlemen like His Lordship lead very busy lives in Town, so it’s possible he may have to cancel at the last moment.”
It was also possible that Hadley would forget. Or decide that such a public display of courtship was unnecessary, after all. Last night, she had tried to dissuade him from the idea of attending the ton’s daily ritual. The only purpose of the fashionable afternoon promenade was to see and be seen. But Lucas had been strangely stubborn about it, raising his voice enough to attract sidelong glances from the other guests. His argument that Peregrine would enjoy seeing all the fancy had silenced her misgivings.
Now she wasn’t so sure. Ciara smoothed a tangle from the ribbons. She was a little nervous. A Mayfair ballroom had been bad enough, but all of Society strolled along Rotten Row, eager to keep up with the latest ondits and scandals.
No doubt she and Hadley were the talk of the town.
“I like Lord Hadley, Mama,” said Peregrine after a lengthy pause. “Do you?”
“He has been very kind in showing you the fine points of cricket,” she said evasively.
“Marianne says… she says that you are going to marry him.”
Damn. She would have to speak to the maid about repeating gossip in front of her son.
“Perry…” Turning from the cheval glass, Ciara took a seat on her bed beside the boy. “Lord Hadley and I have agreed to help… a friend. And to do so we must…” She hesitated, unsure of how to explain things to Peregrine.
He looked up at her, his blue eyes very solemn and serious. “You must tell a little white lie?”
Oh dear, this was going to be even more difficult than she imagined.
“To tell a lie is very wrong, Perry. The earl and I have announced that we are engaged to be married, which is the truth. But whether we actually become man and wife is another thing altogether. We are allowed to change our minds.”
“Oh.” He dropped his gaze. “I think I understand.”
Her heart gave a lurch, but any further attempts to explain the situation were ended by the maid’s announcement that Lord Hadley was waiting downstairs.
Peregrine was very quiet as they left the townhouse and headed for the park, but the earl quickly coaxed him into lively discussion on upcoming cricket matches at Lord’s. Ciara listened in silence, wondering if she had made a mistake in allowing Lucas to get close to her son.
Right and wrong. If only there were a scientific formula that spelled out the difference in no uncertain terms.
As they walked through the Cumberland Gate, Lucas headed toward the wide carriageway straight ahead.
“That’s the famous Rotten Row,” he said to Peregrine.
The boy giggled. “What a silly name.”
“It’s said to derive from the French Route de Roi, or King’s Road,” replied Lucas. “King William III built the avenue in 1690, in order to have a safe way to travel between St. James’s Palace and his new court at Kensington Palace. At night, it was lit by over three hundred oil lamps.”
Her son appeared suitably impressed.
“Today, it is a popular spot for a promenade,” continued Lucas. “The Tulips of the ton like to come and show off their horses and carriages. See, there goes Lord Huntfield in his new high perch phaeton. And over there is Sir Sidney, mounted on a chestnut hunter from Ireland…”
Hadley kept up a running commentary as they joined the strolling crowd. Ciara was aware of the sidelong stares and whispers, but the earl merely smiled and returned the greetings with a nonchalant wave.
“Don’t look so apprehensive, Lady Sheffield,” he murmured. “If you will notice, you are garnering your share of pleasantries.”
To her amazement, Ciara saw that he was right. The looks were not all hostile, and a number of people met her gaze with a polite nod.
“Do you ride, lad?” asked Lucas in response to one of Peregrine’s eager questions.
“A little, sir.” The boy looked longingly at the parade of horses. “Mama says perhaps when I am a little older she will hire a riding master for me.”
“No reason to wait. I happened to be at Tattersall’s this morning and saw a splendid pony for sale.” Catching her eye, he flashed an apologetic grin. “I took the liberty of purchasing the animal, so if your mama has no objection, I could give you some basic lessons.”
Peregrine’s mute appeal was impossible to deny. “That is very kind, Lord Hadley. An occasional ride will be fine, but, Perry, you must not pester him too much.”
“I promise, Mama!”
On seeing her son’s beaming face, Ciara didn’t have the heart to be cross with Lucas for making such a move without her permission. Still, it was a little unsettling. Her life seemed to be slipping out of her control.
“Sorry,” he murmured, inching a touch closer as they walked. “I hope you don’t disapprove.”
“It was very thoughtful of you. But next time, please consult me in advance before making decisions about my son,” she replied. “I don’t like surprises.”
He answered with a wink. “Ah, but surprises are what add a little spice to life.”
Ciara could not help but smile. “Perhaps. But please do not pepper Peregrine with too many new things. Our life may seem bland and boring to you, sir. However, I prefer that it stay predictable.”
They walked on for a way in silence, and then halfway down the drive, Lucas turned down one of the graveled footpaths. “Enough of horses, lad. Let’s have a look at the Serpentine. At this hour of day, there are sometimes some boating enthusiasts sailing their pond yachts in the shallow waters.”
She couldn’t help but admire his sangfroid
. “You are certainly taking this sudden upheaval of your life in stride, sir.”
“My life was not exactly stable to begin with.” He smiled as Peregrine raced ahead, following the antics of a small dog playing with a stick. “Besides, it doesn’t take much exertion on my part to indulge in a pleasant walk with such charming company.”
Ciara expelled a sigh. The thought of how soon the charade was likely to end made her reply a little sharply. “You need not wax poetic when we are in private.”
“What makes you think I am exaggerating my sentiments, Lady Sheffield?”
“The fact that you are a shameless flirt and notorious womanizer,” she said, unwilling to meet his gaze.
“You left out ‘lewd libertine,’” he murmured.
“The litany of your sins probably stretches from here to Hades,” said Ciara, repressing a smile. “But I saw no need to go on past the first few.”
“Thank you for sparing my delicate sensibilities.”
Oh Lud, there was no denying that he had a devilishly sly sense of humor. She would miss their banter.
“Be serious for a moment, sir.” Seeing his gaze drift to a wooded area bordering the path ahead, she let her words trail off. Perry had veered off to chase the dog across a wide expanse of grass—
Suddenly, from out of the trees burst a horse and rider at full gallop. Hooves slashing like scimitars, the big black stallion thundered over the turf, kicking up clods of earth.
Ciara opened her mouth to scream, but Lucas was already making a mad dash for her son.
With a last, desperate leap, he managed to knock Peregrine down and keep him from being trampled beneath the pounding stride.
“Hadley!”
In twisting to shield her son, Lucas had caught a flailing kick to his chest. He now lay on the ground, still and silent.
Gathering her skirts, Ciara raced to his side. After a quick hug of her son assured her that Peregrine was unharmed, she fell to her knees. “Hadley!” Her breath was barely more than a whisper as she struggled to loosen his cravat.
“Is he hurt, Mama?” Peregrine, his face pale as a ghost, stared down at the earl.
“I pray not, lambkin,” she replied, feeling for a pulse.