Lord, it had been a long time since her body had felt the attentions of an experienced lover. Not since Teddy had taken what Robert had forsaken had she been this in thrall.
“Oh!” she squeaked when he touched the slick, sensitive nub between her thighs. She’d not expected to be so aroused, and certainly not this early, with so few preliminaries.
Over his shoulder, she could see the glow of the streetlamps through the window, and hear the late afternoon shouts of a newsboy, selling his wares.
Was this what he presumed she was? A woman selling her wares? A flicker of dismay quelled her excitement, but only briefly, for the truth was that she was enjoying Mr McTavish’s ministrations like she’d never enjoyed a man’s attentions.
He groaned, and she shivered with excitement and anticipation to feel him tense as she opened her legs to him, a split second before he drove into her slick entrance.
“Oh, bliss,” she whispered into his ear, holding him tightly as he moved within her, and she matched his movements, feeling the vicarious thrill of bringing him pleasure, and the ratcheting up of her own desire before, with a cry of triumph, he came, withdrawing at the last moment though he held her tightly against his chest as his breathing subsided.
She glanced over at him and saw that his eyes were closed, his jaw clenched, his body stiff. As she shifted, ever so slightly, he raised himself on one elbow to look at her.
She tensed, awaiting his reaction.
But when his features relaxed into the tenderest of smiles, she smiled too, gently pressing her lips to his before she nestled into the crook of his arm.
For a long time, they were silent. Then, staring at the ceiling, he murmured, “That was unexpected.”
Her breath left her in a soft sigh as she whispered, “I don’t think it was,” and his chuckle was instantaneous.
“True,” he agreed, turning to gaze at her. “I’ve been fighting it from the start.”
She cleared her throat and reminded him, with a nervous twitch of her lips, “Not quite the start.”
He blinked as if he didn’t understand before realisation made him say, haltingly, “Now that…this has finally happened between us…I think you should tell me the truth about you.”
The truth.
Yes, the truth was uncomfortable, but he had shown himself a man of honour. All subterfuge had been on her part, and he deserved a full accounting from her.
That is, if she could manage it, for the very utterance of Robert’s name and the many painful indignities he’d inflicted upon her could not be divulged in one cosy, convenient revelatory conversation.
“I was married to a cruel man, and I ran away.” She squeezed shut her eyes, and the wetness ran a crooked path down her cheek before he kissed it away.
Then they were in each other's arms once more; the passion reignited into a flame that would make words redundant until such time as their sensual urges were sated.
With kisses even more loaded with feeling, and bodily senses aquiver, Lily threw herself into their second bout of lovemaking, another surfeit of desire metamorphosing into a crystallisation of awareness that this really was a man worth cleaving to.
Not for what he could do for her in terms of survival through the material necessities of life.
But what he could be for her as their souls seemed to rise and mingle in another dance of intimacy before they became one again, mouths and bodies fused with a final thrust of ownership and openhearted sacrifice.
Yes, Lily was prepared to sacrifice all she had to give—her body, her soul—for a future with this man.
Chapter 16
“Get yerself downstairs, me girl! Newcomers are arrivin’, an’ yer at risk o’ exposin’ everyfink!” Mrs Moore admonished as Lily peeked out of the parlour window when she heard voices outside. A party of three women and one man was advancing purposefully up the front path.
Lily stepped back, stroking the crystal ball on the baize-topped table before heading obediently towards the passage. In front of Mrs Moore’s mystical glass orb, the trapdoor to the floor below would disgorge Lily amidst a burst of swirling mist in about twenty minutes’ time.
She wondered, hopefully, if Mr McTavish would attend. His sister was keen but her brother was clearly determined to uphold the appearance of sceptic, and not indulge the spiritual craze that was sweeping the nation.
He’d indulged his sensual desires not long before, though, which should give Lily hope.
Nevertheless, she’d not heard from him since, which was troubling.
Even more troubling was where they would meet when the time came. She’d made it clear that she spent little time at the address in St John’s Wood. It was difficult to know how to navigate discussion surrounding her lodgings, though it was also clear by the magical evening they’d indulged in together that he understood matters between them would not be straightforward on account of the obvious gaps in Lily’s history which she’d promised would be forthcoming…when the time was right.
“Ah, ladies and gentlemen, you are in for a treat tonight!” Mrs Moore hurried into the hall to greet the first of her audience. Dressed in an elaborate bustle gown of black crepe with a sequin-adorned black lace bonnet over her dark hair, she was a forbidding sight. By contrast, Lily had been dressed to appear vulnerable and mysterious with her long golden hair, unbound, lightly covered with a black mantilla that cascaded over her shoulders, wearing a secondhand gown of black and purple purchased the day before.
With a final, backwards look at the festooned concealing drapery between the parlour and the passage, she headed towards the trapdoor in the scullery, daunted by tonight’s new role. By comparison, the Lambton seances felt safe. She felt authentic, talking to the old man as any loving daughter might, and it was easy to find the right words; words that brought him to tears, and words that clearly brought him comfort. All she had to do was pretend to repair the schism between herself and her own disinterested parent.
But the atmosphere tonight felt different and dangerous. She wasn’t ready to descend to the cellar, wanting to gauge her new audience. Hesitating, she decided to hide herself a few minutes longer behind the tasselled drapes, so she could watch as the room slowly filled with ticket-holders.
The audience was composed of all walks of life: working-class people in the clothes of their trade, middle-class men and women in their formal finery. Even a couple of government ministers. With a frisson of fear, Lily recognised several from her short time at Madame Chambon’s. Customers of the girls; men who had paid for Celeste’s services. Although Lily didn’t feel afraid of being recognised from those days, for she’d been such a poor physical specimen who had kept to the shadows for the most part, and she was veiled tonight, she did feel afraid of the expectations of these people here tonight.
And the expectations of Mrs Moore and Mr Montpelier.
She was glad Mr McTavish was not coming, or likely to come either. She was glad she’d not entreated him, as had been her intention.
Remembering their afternoon together, her body pulsed with a deep longing and desire for his company. And for his comfort. He wasn’t at all the taciturn, judgemental gentleman she’d first thought him.
As she withdrew from her hiding place, she caught a glimpse of Gracie conversing with a fellow in a checked, cloth jacket and trousers, who’d just removed his cap and was scratching behind his ear. Gracie looked animated, and, when the fellow turned, Lily recognise Archie in the moment before Mr Montpelier took her by the arm and hustled her towards the scullery where he pointed at the trapdoor.
“There’s a man wot’s brought ’is photographic equipment so yer jest be sure yer keep that veil down, yer ’ear?” he exhorted softly. “We want the essence o’ the spirit world published in the newspapers, not some picture o’ yer that anyone can recognise.” Clearly, he did not know that Lily had been photographed with Lord Elkington and Mrs Bennet.
As he raised the lid of the trapdoor with one hand while the other lay heavy on
Lily’s arm, his tone softened. “But yer did well persuadin’ that young newspaper man ter send ’is feller ter take pictures.” For a brief moment, they locked eyes, and despite the uncharacteristic kindness of Mr Montpelier’s tone, Lily wondered if every move she made these days was watched.
Surely, though, Mr Montpelier would have indicated if he’d known of Lily’s secret tryst with Mr McTavish at the house in St John’s Wood.
Downstairs, in the chill, damp cellar, Lily shivered and tried to focus her mind on all the possibilities that might be thrown at her during her convening with the so-called spirits.
With Mrs Renquist paying a handsome fee just to hold the event, Lily felt the burden of expectations. She listened as Mrs Moore attempted to glean all she could from the widow about her husband’s disappearance for the benefit of the audience.
At least, that was how the woman had described the proposed prelude would proceed. Lily could only hear the indistinct murmuring of Mrs Moore, with intervals of silence punctuated by a gong which reverberated from rafters to cellar. It was at the third of these that Lily was to show herself, which she did, emerging amidst the fragrant smoke to the sound of gasps and applause.
With her head bowed, she listened as Mrs Moore intoned, “Tell us, communicator with those in the afterlife and those caught somewhere between the two, have you seen or heard anything of this man, Bernard Renquist, who vanished mysteriously eight weeks ago?”
While Lily’s role was to keep Mrs Renquist and a growing and interested audience returning for several weeks, Mr Montpelier and Mrs Moore had conceded that discovering the truth was unlikely.
Lily’s own brief hopes of playing investigator were of course little more than foolish child’s play. How could she, a mere woman with no means whatsoever of learning anything valuable in her limited sphere, hope to shed light on the mystery?
Nevertheless, if she could supposedly summon the spirit to the satisfaction of those in Mrs Moore’s parlour tonight, she would be assured of a roof over her head for at least another few weeks.
As she stared at her black boots peeking out from beneath the hem of her gown while Mrs Moore began chanting, her head swam with fear.
Robert was coming to London in two weeks. Mr Montpelier knew as well as Lily did the dangers of discovery and might therefore decide she was replaceable at the first opportunity.
She went over all the avenues open to her, and her heart grasped at possible salvation. The first of these was obvious.
Mr McTavish?
“Speak, communicator!” demanded Mrs Moore, throwing up her arms and swaying. “Speak to the dead! What can you tell us?”
With an effort, Lily trotted out her carefully curated words of mystery.
The audience gasped on cue.
They oohed and they aahed.
Once, they even shrieked, though that was because Mrs Moore’s judicious thud that was the cue for Lily’s bloodcurdling cry acted in concert for a response that was hardly surprising.
Yes, Mr Renquist was apparently trying to communicate from his prison in the afterlife. He was, he indicated, in torment; and only by solving the mystery of what happened to him on Earth would he be freed from the eternal condemnation of trailing the confines of his nether world, unable to find peace.
Only then would Mrs Renquist be granted her rights as a widow rather than a woman in limbo with a missing husband, enabling her to claim his fortune and remarry.
It was a fine show, and one that had bereaved Mrs Renquist, afterwards, exhorting Mrs Moore in tears not to give up until she’d found the truth; declaring that the spirit summoner clearly knew more than she was prepared to divulge about what had happened and, possibly, even, the location of her dear Bernard’s body.
As Lily once again, huddled in the secrecy of the curtain afterwards, she gathered by the lively commotion that her performance had been satisfactory.
But it wasn’t until Grace spoke to her that she learned more of the details.
The girl had slipped away from the crowd and discovered Lily, still veiled and in hiding.
“Ooh ma’am, but they was all enraptured an’ called yer a vision. A spirit caller. They says yer can summon the dead an’ that them’ll be comin’ back next week. Bringin’ their friends too, I ’eard ’em sayin’. Archie reckons ’tis a ‘front-pager’ fer sure!”
Excitement fizzed through Lily. Of course, she hadn’t expected Mr McTavish to attend. But Archie had come, and he would relay her success.
Not that Lily’s only hopes hinged on her success in the spiritualism arena.
Warmth flooded her as she closed her eyes briefly and thought back once again to the intimacy she’d shared with the young newspaper editor.
Mr Montpelier and Mrs Moore weren’t the only two upon whom her survival could depend. The beginnings of something deep and serious had been established with Mr McTavish, and if Lily could only nurture this with care and honesty, something might grow as a result, providing her the salvation she so desperately needed.
Chapter 17
Hamish leaned back in his chair and watched in amusement as his sister and Archie argued over the merits of the photographic offerings Archie had carefully laid out on his desk ten minutes before for his perusal.
“A true spiritualist! This is the one that will have the readers clamouring for more!”
“Wiv respect, Miss McTavish, I b’lieve the young woman’s mystical powers are shown in greater respect when juxtaposed wiv the painted ol’ crone rubbin’ ’er crystal ball opposite ’er,” Archie objected.
He might have been tempted to discount them all if only to light a fuse to Archie’s pique, but the business side of him had to concede there was a strong case for including one of these pictures in the publication. Other serious-minded publications had covered the wealthy industrialist’s disappearance, after all.
“Lor’ but she’s a sight fer sore eyes,” Archie remarked, holding up one of the photographs to the light.
And Hamish silently agreed, though he did add mildly, “Not that you can tell what she looks like in that disguise.”
“And you wouldn’t have it any other way, Hamish, of course,” said Lucy.
“Know ’er, do yer?” asked Archie, in a burst of egalitarian impertinence. Hamish was only glad their father was not part of the conversation. But then, if he had been, Archie’s place would have been made very clear to him. He would not be part of any editorial decisions made.
The fact was, Archie Benedict was something of a genius with his box camera though Hamish would never tell him so.
Lucy straightened and stuck her nose in the air. “She’s a beautiful widow fallen on hard times.” With a meaningful look at Hamish, she added a trifle defensively, “The fact she’s always in disguise means she can still be accepted into society.”
Despite himself, Hamish smiled. “Yes, she can, Lucy.”
His sister’s mouth dropped open in clear surprise before her eyes lit up. It was obvious Lucy had taken to Mrs Eustace, and that she took a dim view of her brother’s distrustful attitude.
Hamish would have to gently and subtly make it clear that matters had altered slightly somewhat, and no doubt Lucy would be delighted. Their father would not be so easy to convince, but that could be navigated, later.
In the meantime, Hamish would pay another visit to Mrs Eustace to reorient matters between them. They’d parted with sincerity and tenderness and promises to meet again, soon. Tingles of sensation speared him at just the thought of being alone with her. But perhaps it would be safer to meet for tea where hot-headed passion didn’t skew the conversation.
Of course, there were many issues that needed to be dealt with in practical terms; the first one being that if his father got wind of the fact that Hamish was involved with a woman, the resulting inquisition could be uncomfortable for everyone.
And while Hamish had no doubt there were some aspects to Mrs Eustace’s past that would not be acceptable to his father, Hamish was also very co
mmitted to helping her appear in the best light as regarded a potential romantic interest for old Fergus McTavish’s son.
If Lily had fled a violent husband, a future was still salvageable. The law had changed and it was easier for women to bring redress.
Hamish knew he was getting wildly ahead of himself but the truth was, he was wildly in love. Lily Eustace had secrets and, no doubt, he would rather not know the worst of them. But, of all the women he’d met, she exerted the most fascination.
Who knew what the future held for both of them?
But Hamish was very determined to find out.
“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking about this very excellent woman,” said Lucy, and would have said more except that Mr Miniver was at the door, announcing Sir Lionel, and the next moment the old man was making his rather shaky progress towards the chair offered to him while Lucy drew back and, at a nod from Hamish, Archie excused himself.
“Hope I haven’t intruded,” said Sir Lionel. “Fact is, I was passing your offices and thought I’d look in just in case your father was here.” Wheezily, he lowered himself with a thud, carefully hooking his walking stick over the arm of the chair; then adding, after he’d been told that Mr McTavish senior rarely visited the office these days, “No matter, the old haunts of elderly gentlemen like myself are mostly in here.” He tapped his skull. “Truth is,” he added, “our last conversation at my club, in which I laid out some of those achievements of which I’m most proud, cannot be put into perspective without a true accounting of my youth.” He glanced at Lucy. “Are you the young lady who proposed that your brother write a profile of a respected figure in public office?”
She nodded.
“A redemption story, I believe you suggested, and in a moment of weakness, I declared I had much material to contribute; however, as I was amongst company at my club, I balked at revealing some of the earlier exploits of my misspent youth.” He chuckled. “Not to be repeated in front of delicate ears here, either,” he said with a look at Lucy as he drew forwards several of the photographs Archie had taken the previous night. “Well, well, what’s this all about then? Didn’t peg you for a spiritualist, McTavish.”
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 12