Lady Be Good

by Heather Hiestand

  His body was hot over hers, overwhelming in its hardness, and his hands moved everywhere. Had she given him an invitation? She wore nothing under the slip but a thin-to-translucent pair of step-ins. He pulled off her stockings first, his knife clattering to the ground as her garter slid down her lower leg. The slip went next, over her head; then, he nudged off the loose straps with his nose, holding her step-ins over her breasts. When the fabric had bunched at her waist, his mouth closed over one nipple.

  She gasped, moaned. The shifting of her torso pressed the intimate crevice of her lower body against him, and instantly, that part of her that he’d explored so thoroughly rubbed against him. Her hands went to his bottom, pulling him against her so that she could rock, find that explosive place he’d introduced.

  Instead of letting her do what she would like, he lifted his body. Before she could protest, he’d pulled the last of her clothing completely off, leaving her in nothing but a cheap necklace.

  With that realization, she lost all reason. She tore at his jacket, molding her mouth to his again. He helped her with his clothing, whispering approval as each piece fell to the carpet next to them. Each removed item gave her more of his scent, more of his skin, more of him to learn and adore, taste and lick. When he slid between her legs again it felt natural to wrap her legs around his, slide the soles of her feet up the furry backs of his legs, tilt her pelvis.

  All of a sudden, he went rigid. She felt something hard nudge her intimate place and then press against her inner thigh.

  “What?” she asked without completely removing her mouth from his.

  “I thought you didn’t want this.”

  “I need you.” She kissed her way across his cheek and sucked his earlobe into her mouth.

  His gasp sounded like surrender, and when she did it again, she felt the hard, smooth tip of him at her center again. It pushed into her, spreading her inner petals. He stilled when her body protested and moved deeper when her body dampened and relaxed for him. Her arms were locked around his waist, her mouth against his neck.

  “I love you, Douglas,” she said, as he seated himself fully in her virgin body. “No one could love you more.”

  His arms shook as he braced himself over her. He lifted his head, his eyes dark pools of lust. “I believe you.” Then he reversed the movement of his hips, pulling out of her slowly, and dipped in again.

  Her gasp stuttered as he repeated what he’d done. She lost track of her breaths then and just held on for dear life as the sensations concentrated in her lower body, her skin slick with their combined sweat.

  When her body seized, he shuddered into her, finding his bliss at the same moment. A wedding of souls, it seemed to her, and she regretted nothing.

  Chapter 15

  “Has the carpet in the Artists Suite been sufficiently cleaned?” Peter Eyre asked his day manager late on Saturday afternoon. He sat in one of his own guest chairs, too weary to even walk behind his desk and take his usual command post. His clothing, still yesterday’s, had lost its usual crispness, and he could feel sweat had hardened the fabric under his arms. He probably smelled like he’d done manual labor for his daily bread.

  “It will need replacing when Lord Walling moves out,” John Neville said, his face betraying nothing at the sight of his disheveled manager.

  Peter rubbed his hands over his eyes, digging into the sandpaper-dry corners with his index fingers. “At least we know he can’t request another suite from us. We’ve nothing free on the seventh presently.”

  “That is a good thing”—John paused—“although I’m eager to hear the status report on the eighth and ninth floors on Monday. I’m certain some of our suite guests will want to move into the new flats.”

  “They will. The pricing is a bit better than the seventh, but the rooms are similar, except for the lower ceilings.”

  “I haven’t seen the interiors yet. Are they similar to the rest of the hotel?”

  “Very luxurious. Lots of golds and reds and greens. No white carpet or upholstery as we won’t have as much ability to clean long-term residences.”

  John pulled off his spectacles and wiped them on his handkerchief before replacing them. “I see. Speaking of rooms, what do you want me to do with Miss Plash’s suite?”

  Peter closed his eyes for a moment, but he couldn’t give into sentimentality. He was worried about bloodstains there as well. Georgy Ovolensky had been a scourge on his hotel. “Have her belongings packed. Olga can do it. Then they’ll need to be stored. After she was released from hospital this morning I had her packed off to a sanatorium for a long rest. She won’t want to appear in public with her facial injuries.”

  John’s eyes widened as if he desperately wanted to say something but couldn’t get his mouth to obey. “So we can rent the suite again?”

  “Yes, after an exquisitely thorough cleaning.”

  John cleared his throat. “You gave Olga the day off. She’s not working until Monday.”

  Peter frowned. “Then have another chambermaid do the packing, under your personal supervision.”

  “Of course, sir. Anything else?”

  Peter shook his head. He waved off the man and leaned back in his chair, weary to the bone. The two people he was closest to in the world still living, his brother and Emmeline, were both hospitalized. Would they ever be freed from their mental prisons?

  Restless energy born of exhaustion made him want to move. He needed fresh air. For the first time, even his hotel didn’t feel like a refuge. His own mind felt like a prison, too.

  He caught a whiff of his day-old clothing and frowned. But no energy remained to change or bathe. No, he’d find a taxicab to somewhere with people who smelled no better, a suitably lowbrow public house where he could get drunk in peace.

  Not that he went to places like that normally, but he’d heard enough about where Ivan Salter had lived before taking up residence on the tenth floor to know that Poplar was the neighborhood for him right now.

  * * *

  “How does it feel to have two days off in a row?” Glass asked as the taxicab pulled up in front of his father’s house on Hanover Square. Behind them, a taxicab expelled three fashionably dressed women eager to enter the French dressmaker’s next door. More and more businesses involved in women’s fashion were moving into the square. The house was not entailed, and Glass expected he’d be approached to sell it to some fancy milliner or furrier when his father died.

  He might even sell and find a house less eighteenth century. Security was hard to manage when your front door immediately abutted the sidewalk with no filter and people could stare right into the windows on the ground level, even climb through them without lifting their legs very much. And with so many tradespeople on the square, strangers wandered about constantly. Not a home for a spymaster, even a retired one.

  “I feel like the leisure class,” Princess Olga said, “with a proper weekend.”

  “Err, yes,” he said as the butler opened the door and inclined his head. “So sorry. I was woolgathering.”

  They walked through the decidedly old-fashioned foyer, with its Gothic wood-paneled walls. One of the earls had been a weapons collector and crossed battle-axes decorated the space.

  When they reached the small drawing room on the next floor, he felt relief. He noted the instant the princess’s attention was captured by the family portraits. “My mother is there, and my brothers, just there. All the rest are older, of course. We were an expansive lot in the early years of the last century, but the family has been on a sad decline since.”

  “My family has faced a similar fate,” she said.

  Glass heard a cough behind him and turned to see his father at the door. “My boy.” He gestured Glass to him and handed him a worn velvet case. Glass opened the case and found the Crewe diamonds.

  “I didn’t remember those two,” his father said, pointing at the rings tied to a dusty pillow with faded white ribbon. “But these brooches were my grandmother’s favorite. And
, of course, my mother wore the necklace.”

  “Yes, even in her portrait.” Glass peered at the rings. “I think they must have been made from earrings. There is a Regency-era portrait of some long-ago countess with this necklace as well as earrings.”

  The earl tilted his head. “Let us take a look. We will be back in a moment, my dear.”

  Olga didn’t respond, completely entranced by the portraits.

  Glass followed him his father into the corridor. “I think I know the one you mean.” They climbed the steps up to the next landing, halfway to the floor with family bedrooms, and stopped in front of a three-quarter-length portrait of a woman in flowing draperies.

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  “A second wife as I recall,” his father said. “Not our direct line.”

  Glass took the velvet case and untied one of the rings. “Exactly the same number of diamonds as in the earrings.”

  “You are correct. I wonder what happened to the pearls?”

  “Probably strung into necklaces.”

  “No,” his father exclaimed. “I remember now. My great-grandfather had five daughters, and they were given two pearl rings, one for each hand. I’ll bet that is where the pearls went.”

  Glass silently counted the countess’s pearls. “Five pearls in each earring. How clever you are, Father.”

  The earl chuckled. “Those rings made from the countess’s earrings are long gone from the direct line, but by Jove, we kept the diamonds. And now you have a ring selection for the princess.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “I must say she is looking particularly smart today.”

  “I treated her to some new clothing. Dreadful business with a man dying in my suite yesterday. She had to view his body and clean up the woman the deceased man had beaten the night before, a friend of hers, no less.”

  “Poor dear, but she’ll have seen worse in Russia I expect. Will she have any family at the wedding?” The earl scratched his chin.

  Glass inclined his head. “I haven’t told her yet, but I tracked down her sister in Shanghai, and I’m bringing her here. Also, I’m sure any number of Russian royalties will come to the wedding. If there are free food and champagne, they will descend like pigeons to a child’s bread crumbs.”

  His father patted his arm. “Jolly good business with the sister. Why haven’t you told her?”

  “I don’t know what state’s she’s in. She’s an elite taxi dancer.”

  His father sighed. “I see. I suggest finding her a good dresser and a companion. You can lodge her at the country house, make sure she’s presentable.”

  “Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

  “Will you wed soon or make it a society affair?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’d like it to be both, for her sake, but with her dangerous cousin on the loose we can’t risk it.”

  His father had been staring at the portrait again, but his head snapped back to Glass. “What’s that?”

  Glass spoke more slowly. “Her cousin is a killer, and he’s escaped the authorities up until now. Until we find him, it wouldn’t be safe to have a large wedding.”

  The earl clucked his tongue. “Then he’d better be found.”

  “I quite agree. It’s heating up. He’s involved in the recent bombings.”

  “After your engagement is announced, I could take the princess out of London while the police sort out the situation,” his father offered.

  “I don’t want Konstantin to target you, sir,” Glass said. “He has a tendency to find the princess to get funds. Used her for years.”

  “We need to keep her safe. Be practical, Walling. As soon as she’s known as yours, this man will know her pockets are full. He might even kidnap her for a large ransom.”

  “Then the safest thing to do is not announce the engagement.”

  His father took the velvet box from Glass’s hand. “Or not propose yet.”

  “That would be unwise,” Glass said, untying the second ring from the pillow and slipping both into his handkerchief pocket.

  His father searched his face. “I see. Anticipated, have you?”

  “Emotions ran high.” He kept his gaze on the pillow.

  “Then you had best marry quietly, and before May. We don’t want tongues wagging if your heir comes too early.”

  “Yes, sir,” Glass said. “With any luck, her cousin will be dead by then, and we can use mourning as the excuse for a quiet ceremony.”

  “I’ll speak to the bishop of Waketree,” his father said. He’d been at Eton with the future bishop, and they still stayed in touch. Glass had eaten dinner with the man at their family table many a time when he was visiting from West Yorkshire.

  “We could marry out of the Redcake family hotel in Leeds,” Glass said. “The princess worked there last year. It would be easy to explain here in London why we would choose to marry there.”

  “Excellent. It’s practically sorted already.”

  Glass nodded. “You speak to the bishop, and I’ll have something organized at the hotel. We’ll plan on a month from now and hope I have the matter of her cousin sorted before that.”

  The earl clapped him on the shoulder. “I only have one of you left. Don’t get yourself killed just when I finally have plans for another generation.”

  Glass grinned. “Are you taking all the responsibility for my marriage, sir?”

  “Someone had to. A Russian princess, indeed.” His father shook his head and stared up at the portrait of the long dead countess. “At least she’s a looker. Almost up to your mother’s standard.”

  Glass smiled at his father and went downstairs to the small drawing room. The princess stared intently at the 1913 brothers’ portrait.

  “You all look so similar,” she murmured as he reached her.

  “That may have been the artist’s fault,” he said, feeling his smile still dancing on his lips. Finally, his personal life would suit the position he’d never wanted. He would have a wife and the heirs his family needed from a suitable bride. “Come here, would you?”

  She let him take her hand and escort her to a wingback chair with chintz upholstery. The reds and yellows clashed with her beautiful blue-and-silver coat, but he only noticed her face as he knelt on one knee before her and pulled out the set of rings.

  Despite his pleasure, he had to focus to keep his arm steady as he held them out. “Your Serene Highness, I wanted to bring you here to propose marriage. A woman does not only marry me, but a long, respected family history, and an estate as well. You wouldn’t just be taking a husband but a position in society and a great deal of work.”

  “Lord Walling,” she whispered. Her cheeks had gone pink. She looked flustered, as if she truly hadn’t anticipated his proposal.

  Her obvious state of nerves made him a little less sure of himself. “I know you are equal to the tasks of Lady Walling,” he said, stuttering slightly, “that of being my father’s hostess in his declining years and estate management. You are more than equal to the title. What I am afraid of is that I am not equal to you.”

  “You know I love you,” she said. Her lips parted; her chest rose.

  “I know you’ve said such things in the heat of the moment, but it has been a very trying time for you.” He took her hands. They were cool like his. “I promise you my protection and support in all things. I will do my best to keep you and our children safe.”

  “I knew you to be an honorable man. I expected your proposal after last night,” she said, very low. “I am sorry you have been forced into this.”

  “You know I wasn’t,” he exclaimed. “I’m a cautious man. Here.” He turned over her hand and dropped the rings into them. “My father had to get these out of a bank vault. There was forethought in this, even before last night.”

  Her lips curved slightly at his words. “He likes me, the earl.”

  He folded her fingers over the rings. “Yes. I’m stubborn enough to marry without his approval, but I’m glad I don’t hav
e to.”

  “Of course, you need to secure the succession.”

  He nodded. “As an aristocrat, you understand these things.”

  “Yes, although I am a Russian, we are at least of equal rank. I wish I brought more into the marriage. There was a time when I would have. We might be able to fight for property someday, but my sister is the elder.” She opened her fingers when he took his hand away.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He stared at the rings on her palm. “We’re going to be very wealthy. You’ll never want for anything.”

  “Unless the British government falls as well,” she said. “We must fight, Douglas. You must continue your work.”

  “Will you be my helpmate?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze was fierce as she folded her fingers around the rings. “I will marry you.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest, unaware until that moment quite how nervous he had been. He’d finally made his choice of a bride at thirty-one. There had been times when he doubted this moment would ever come. “You do me a great honor.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her, but she didn’t notice. Her gaze had gone back to the rings.

  “They are about the same in terms of the stones,” he said.

  “One band is larger than the other.” She tried the smaller one first. It didn’t slide on easily. “I think my knuckles are larger than they once were.”

  “Try the other.”

  When the second one slid on smoothly, she smiled and held her hand up to the lamp on the table next to the chair. It sparkled. “It’s perfect, Douglas.”

  He took the first ring from her and tucked it away. “You can decide what to do with this other ring later. I thought we could marry in Leeds. My father’s dear friend is a bishop in West Yorkshire, and he can arrange a church there. We could stay at the hotel.”

  “Eloise’s?” She rubbed her lower lip with her finger, unconsciously showing off her ring. “Yes, it has a lovely suite on the top floor overlooking Park Square. I wouldn’t mind spending my wedding night there.”