Of course, Dancing Girl had known all this for quite a while; it was Lucy who was learning.
There were too many people around. Not as many as during the season, she remembered from having escorted her former employer, Mrs. Marrack, on occasion, but there were still a great many, and of those, a few who were obviously birds of paradise. Like her. Which was probably why they were attracting so many curious stares. That or her abysmal attempts at riding.
It was only on the way back, when Harry once again took the reins and all that Lucy had to concentrate on was keeping her balance and staying in the saddle, that her mind turned once more to the idea of Robert marrying.
The circumstance would change if he took a wife. Clearly, he was looking, so change was even closer than she had imagined. She had just been settling into this new role in life. He might be away much of the day when he had business or social engagements, but he had spent every night with her. That, of course, would change. She’d have to share him with some nameless woman. Some other woman who lived in that beautiful house with him, who slept in that rose bedroom and took one of the parlors for her own.
Nearly a month before, when Lucy had first taken him to her bed, she hadn’t thought beyond that night. Having watched him with so many women over the years, she had never imagined that one day she would have his undivided attention. Or that she’d wish to guard it jealously.
Chapter Twenty-One
For two weeks Lucy had been his mistress. Two very quiet weeks, for after a few days the excitement of shopping with his carte blanche paled.
The day after he’d taught her to ride, he’d had to leave town for Portsmouth to check on a ship that was due to arrive. That night with him gone was pure torture.
However, Lucy hadn’t realized she was lonely for female companionship until the day Charlotte handed her a cream-colored card and said it had just been delivered by a handsome footman who wondered if the lady of the house was at home.
Lucy enjoyed the way the crisp card felt between her fingers. The lotion she’d been using had softened the calluses and she was delighting in the more heightened sensation of touch.
The name on the card was vaguely familiar and she tugged at the faint wisps of memory.
Miss Penelope Partridge.
Suddenly she knew.
“Yes, Charlotte, I am at home.”
Of course she would be at home to this woman. Who would not be interested in meeting the infamous Miss Partridge, who, according to the gossip of Harridan House, had taken both the London stage and the beds of the aristocracy by storm when she’d arrived on the scene more than two decades ago?
Tall and voluptuous, with black hair and striking eyes. The woman might be in her late thirties, but age had only refined and sculpted her beauty.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Miss Partridge, your reputation precedes you.”
The woman’s satisfied smile slid quickly back into haughtiness.
“I’ve come to meet you, of course,” the lady said, studying Lucy carefully. “It would be utterly remiss of me, upon hearing that the infamous Sir Robert George has finally taken himself a mistress, to not find out just what new competition has entered the field.”
“Competition?”
“I suppose you could hardly be called that. You’re much older than I imagined. What are you? Twenty-six?”
“Eight and twenty,” Lucy returned, despite herself, too many years of servitude ingrained in her.
“Eight and twenty,” the woman repeated, shaking her head. “And Sir Robert just plucked you up from obscurity, from some remote Cornish village if I trust my ear, and made you his mistress.”
“I’m not intending to be a mistress professionally,” Lucy protested. “Just Sir Robert’s. When he’s tired of me, I’ll marry some other man.”
“I’ve heard that story more times than I can count,” the woman derided. “Turned to a whore by love. How utterly boring. I can see there is no point introducing you to anyone else in our society, for you shall be on the street in months, spreading your legs for the ha’pence of sailors.”
Suddenly Lucy felt the need to prove herself and she grasped at the woman’s unanswered question.
“I was a maid at Harridan House, you know,” Lucy drawled in her best imitation of Lady Blount, pleased when the woman’s eyebrows arched upward in surprise. “Not a nymph, you see, but a lady’s maid, in service to Madame Rouge.”
“Then you know her identity.” The woman’s eyebrows swept back down as her gaze narrowed, her interest quickened. “Who is she?”
Lucy laughed, again drawing on the throaty tumbling sound she had practiced well. “I would never betray the lady so.”
Miss Partridge invited her to a small gathering of a select few—an afternoon tea for her inner circle of the demimonde.
“You’ll need friends, my dear,” the woman purred, “for London is a dangerous town for courtesans.”
Friends. Somehow Lucy doubted that she would find friends at this gathering if they were all like Miss Partridge—“Penny” as she wished to be called—but one could not sit around the house in wait of a man. Lucy was used to Harridan House, where there was always activity or someone with whom to chat. Here, there were too many hours of the day when he was not with her, and Lucy was terribly bored and terribly lonely.
She accepted.
Hours later, Robert arrived. He let himself in and found her in the parlor, lounging on the sofa in a new green silk dress, perusing the latest copy of The Philosophical Magazine, which he had forgotten a week earlier.
Which in itself was arousing, but then one leg was draped over the back of the sofa so that the dress gathered around her thigh and the long expanse of creamy flesh was laid out for him to see.
She saw him and smiled, tossing the magazine aside, and started to rise off the pillows to greet him.
“No, don’t move,” he ordered, coming closer. He laid his hand on her bare ankle even as he knelt down on the cushions between her legs.
Her smile grew as she relaxed, arching her back so that her breasts swelled over the very low neckline of her dress.
He ran his hand along her calf, up her thigh, pushing the cloth as he did till it bunched at her hips. Then he undid the falls of his trousers and settled himself over her, thrusting into her tight, heated flesh.
He groaned into her hair and then lifted himself back up to look at her.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, circling his hips slowly, enjoying the way her eyes glazed over as he moved. She was so responsive, so open to him. He enjoyed learning everything about her, each reaction, each sensitive inch of her flesh.
“I missed you, too,” she whispered. She reached up to caress his chest. He could feel the pressure of her touch through the many layers of cloth. Too many layers, he now realized, but the moment he’d seen her, legs parted so invitingly, he’d wanted only to seat himself within her as quickly as possible.
He moved slowly inside her, testing out each subtle movement.
“How was Portsmouth?
“The shipment arrived and all is well.”
She thrust her hips up toward him, grasping for more, but he stilled her with a firm hand at her hips.
“There’s no rush, love,” he said. “We have all night.”
“Mmmmm.” But she stilled her urgency and opened her eyes. Such a pretty, clear green. Like fresh grass. “Well, that’s a relief for you then,” she said, finally.
That was one of the many things he liked about the woman, she understood the value of hard work. It wasn’t like the rest of society that branded trade vulgar even as their coffers dwindled.
“Yes, and I visited with Mr. Davy today.”
“The man you said plays with that electricity?”
“He might take exception to the word ‘play,’” Robert chided with a short laugh, “but he’s working on a new invention I might invest in.” It was a beguiling idea really. He’d never imagined such a thing poss
ible, but it was a new world these days. First light from the coal-derived gas, now from electricity.
Odd, whoever had hung the painting in the far corner had done an abysmal job, for it was crooked and tilting to the right.
He groaned as she tightened around him, squeezing him. He didn’t chastise her, for he could feel the fluttering motion of her body, the involuntary clenching. She was close, too close, and he had to decide if he was going to let her come just yet or if he wanted her to wait.
“I had a visitor as well,” she gasped, and he could hear the tension in her voice, trying desperately to hold back the orgasm. “Miss Partridge came to welcome me.”
“Penny?” He stopped moving and stared at Lucy. She forced her gaze on him again, but her eyes closed quickly again as she took a deep breath and swallowed hard.
“Robert,” she pleaded, her voice high and breathy. “Please. Please.”
He had to admit, he liked to hear her beg. To hear his name in that passionate voice of hers.
He laid his right palm flat on her lower belly and pushed himself deeper inside her. Then he arched back, to give space so that he could move his hand down and massage her flesh between his thumb and third finger.
She jerked under him, crying out and shaking. Her whole body moved with the force of the climax and he marveled at how she embraced it all, as if she’d been electrified. Each orgasm was different and each time she reacted slightly differently.
He pumped into her, short, hard strokes to pull more tremors from her body, to lengthen the ride. Finally, when she’d calmed to mere shivers, he stilled again.
“Do you think that’s really possible, Robbie? To make light out of copper and zinc?”
“I don’t know but it’s exciting.” Just thinking about the possibility intensified the pleasure he was feeling simply being encased in her heat. It had been hard enough to resist taking his own pleasure after being squeezed so vigorously by her cunt.
“How exciting!” Lucy flashed him one of her sly smiles, complete with that look.
He groaned again and, laying himself down over her, sucking her lower lip between his teeth, he took up a new rhythm: slow, long, deep strokes.
He knew his revival time was slower than it had been in his youth. If he went with this now…
“Robbie,” she sighed, wrapping her legs around him, her thighs squeezing his hips. He slid his hand down, to hold the firm curve of her buttock.
Really, he didn’t have much of a choice, he thought briefly before his climax hit. It came the way his movements had been, a long, deep shuddering that traveled all over his body till he felt it everywhere, even in his toes. He wrapped his arms around her and held her to him tightly, burying his head in the curve of her neck.
Could a man be more sated?
Chapter Twenty-Two
There was something distasteful about leaving Lucy’s bed in order to call on Miss Clarke. Yet he was expected and the fact that he had changed his mind upon returning from Portsmouth, and had spent the night in his mistress’s bed, should not upset his plans.
It did. He struggled to hide his irritable mood. He felt like a veritable codger, but even being aware didn’t lesson the effect.
He found her in the sitting room, her mother close by. A bit of cloth peeked out of a work basket, which itself peeked out from behind her mother’s chair. One small forgotten bead glittered on the floor beside it.
“It’s so good of you to call,” Mrs. Clarke gushed. “Mr. Clarke is not at home, but perhaps my daughter and I can entertain you?”
Robert spared a smile for Miss Clarke, who was much more reserved than her mother, eyeing him under pale lowered lashes. Entertain was such an unfortunate word. He could hardly imagine either of these women—the young girl fresh out of the schoolroom or her mother, who was closer to his age—knowing how to properly entertain a man.
Miss Clarke said softly, “You mentioned your estate is in Kent. Do you go there often?”
“No, hardly ever,” Robert answered. “My brother’s widow lives there now. I much prefer London, or my smaller estate in Sussex.”
“The dowager house must be lovely,” Mrs. Clarke said.
“Actually it’s quite small, which is one of the many reasons my mother prefers her childhood home in Richmond. As I said, my brother’s widow, Lady George, lives in the main house.” Robert saw the next question in Mrs. Clarke’s eyes. “I don’t intend to inconvenience her.”
“You’re such a kind man,” Miss Clarke said in that soft, dulcet voice. He wondered if that was how she spoke to her mother when there was no marriageable man around.
“Hardly,” Robert returned with a laugh. “I simply enjoy London.”
Miss Clarke didn’t like that and Robert wondered what it was she didn’t like: life in London, or that he’d somehow rejected her compliment?
“At Monsieur Molineaux’s,” Miss Clarke continued, pronouncing the French word abominably, her voice still soft but not quite as dulcet, “you mentioned your new stallion. Is he very large? Wonderfully powerful?”
It wasn’t his horse that filled his mind at Miss Clarke’s words, it was the image of Lucy after he’d taught her to ride, naked and sweaty astride him, urging him on. You’re so large inside me. This is much, much nicer than sidesaddle.
Robert shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He couldn’t do this, try to sit here and do the pretty when all he wanted to do was get back to Lucy.
“The horse performs admirably,” Robert managed to say, and then steered the conversation to a safer topic.
The next twenty minutes passed interminably, and when politeness allowed, he gratefully took his leave.
There was something mildly attractive about Miss Clarke, but she was everything he had avoided since he knew what to avoid: fresh out of the schoolroom with more understanding of notions and beads than of any conversation that would matter to a man. Comely as she was, she was a virgin in a way that Lucy had never been. And last of all—perhaps most important of all—she didn’t want him. She didn’t say as much, or let on in any of the obvious ways, for she did, after all, want his money.
And that realization was far more dampening than any attraction he found in her soft, submissive voice.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Penny Partridge’s sitting room was pink and white with lace and floral chintz everywhere. The women who filled the space were pink and white underneath their jewel-colored afternoon gowns.
These were what proper mistresses looked like. Lucy found herself studying her own new pale yellow muslin dress critically.
It was daytime and the dress that Mrs. Baswick had created for her was stylish but reserved, the fine muslin making her look every inch the proper lady. In front of her mirror at home, Lucy had been pleased with the way she looked. Here, among these women, she realized she was sadly outshone.
She would definitely need to lower her necklines.
They were like birds, their plumage out for effect, competing quite obviously with each other in their own little game. It might be midday, but there was no modesty here.
“What little mouse have you brought us, Penny?” One very rouged woman asked. “Don’t tell me this is Sir Robert’s mistress?”
Lucy laughed, drawing on all her best Madame Rouge affectations.
“A little Cornish mouse, Bess, that somehow found her way into Harridan House. Miss Leigh, allow me to present to you the ladies: Bess Nightingale, Regina Smitten, Calliope Andrews and Flora Pheasant.”
After a round of “how do you do,” the women settled back into gossip.
“Did you hear?” Calliope leaned forward, her voice in a theatrically hushed whisper. “Nan Lunt had enough of Jenny Smollett tempting her lover and has thrown the slut out.”
Lucy smiled politely though she hadn’t the faintest clue who either of the women were.
“Let this be a lesson to you, Miss Leigh.” Penny Partridge wagged her finger toward her. “As fast as one rises, so does one fall.”
“It’s one thing to cuckold your protector discreetly, but to do so publicly?” Regina Smitten added.
“And when her contract specifically said she would forfeit everything Humboldt had ever given her if she did!”
“But you worked at Harridan House, Miss Leigh. Did you see the orgy?” Flora Pheasant asked. All the women leaned forward attentively for Lucy’s answer.
“There are many orgies at the club,” Lucy said with a shrug, “and so many are masked, I couldn’t say.”
The women grumbled and relaxed back into their lounging postures.
“Ah well, keep it as a caution, Miss Leigh: the life of a courtesan is not easy.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Lucy murmured, thinking this little gathering held much more in common with the frustrating battles she had with her sister than she would have imagined. She was not this bored. She would find ways to occupy herself.
“And for your dresses, Miss Leigh: really, Madame Fifi is much more fashionable. She dresses a woman as she should be dressed, not as some virginal little girl. Perhaps Sir Robert likes that though? Does he make you wear leading strings?”
Outraged, Lucy stared at Miss Partridge. She could accept the warnings and the pointed gossip, but suggesting anything about Robert she would not tolerate.
“Really, Penny,” the one named Calliope chided, “whatever will Miss Leigh think of us if you say such things? Sir Robert is truly all that a noble protector should be.”
Lucy drew on her gloves, noting with satisfaction that that simple action had made all of the women shut up.
“I’d better be going. Thank you very much for the invitation, Miss Partridge. It has been an edifying afternoon.”
Edifying? Lucy inwardly laughed at herself as she left the room. Funny, the same word that had been so useful today had cost her the position with Mrs. Marrack three years ago when her employer took offense at the idea of a maid having an opinion.
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