That they were needed was evidenced by her narrowed-eyed squint when she turned to check the time on the clock mounted over the mantelpiece, as if she were perhaps as anxious as he for their appointment.
Not that he was anxious. Not at all. He was simply drawn to her.
That he was bored and she was diverting—so very diverting with her wide, questioning eyes magnified by those strangely seductive spectacles—was adequate to explain his strange sense of…hope.
Which was ridiculous, of course. To Miss T, he was simply the means to an end—a happily spinsterish end. And end he would help her reach most enjoyably.
“Well, Simon, to what do we owe your presence and attention in the ballroom?” his aunt Cathcart finally asked in a low, amused voice. “Do tell me her name so I might be the first to wish you happy.”
Simon deflected her interest with his usual nonsensical banter. “Thought I might give it a try, what? But no, my darling aunt—still makes my head spin, what? Afraid I must be off to my usual haunt.”
“Haunting, or rather hiding, in the library?”
“Keeping peacefully in the library, never you fear.” He bestowed a quick kiss upon her cheek, and a fond pat upon her hand. “Take your time and send for me when you are ready to leave, but not before.”
And away he went down the stairs to the library wing to arrange things to tell the story his Miss T wanted told.
The first job was to clear out extraneous characters. “Make yourself scarce, Hastings, old man.” He tipped up the fellow’s chair to all but spill him out of it. “Go find somewhere else to hide this evening.”
“What? Where am I to go?”
“Some. Where. Else.” Simon didn’t have time to sketch out the particulars for young Hastings. “If you make yourself scarce, I promise to return the favor someday very soon.”
Hastings balked. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Simon dug deep into his pocket and extracted a golden guinea. “Here, go find the card room and have a flutter.”
The young man stood stubbornly flat-footed. “But I don’t gamble.”
“Then now’s the time to try,” Simon rejoined with decreasing patience. “Do what you will with it. Just leave me in peace, if you please.”
“What about my peace?” Hastings grumbled. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea, old man. I’m eccentric like that, what?”
Simon had the library to himself and had made himself negligently comfortable in an armchair before the glowing hearth by the time Miss Lesley poked her myopic nose around the door.
“Miss T!” Simon covered his strange jangling excitement by hailing her amiably. “Over here.”
She retrieved her spectacles from her reticule and returned them to their proper place on the end of her divinely pert nose, resuming her delightfully curious, deliciously governess-y air. “Colonel Cathcart. Good evening.”
“Simon, please, Miss T.” He found himself standing, rubbing his hands together in happy anticipation, too nervy to sit. “What’s it to be this evening, then?”
But Miss Lesley shared none of his enthusiasm for a rush to ruination. “Before we do get started, I should like to thank you for the tulips, but urge you to greater caution should you ever be required send flowers again. Though I can’t think of why you would be—this evening should see the end of our association.”
Her warning doused the spark of his enthusiasm like a bucket of sand. “Caution?”
“My mama remarked upon their beauty and extravagance straightaway.”
Discretion was clearly the better part of valor, and he needed to re-learn what it meant to be discreet. He took her meaning, even as he pretended not to. “Thought they were pretty, what? Reminded me of you.”
The lovely warm blush that pinked her cheeks was his thanks. “You are very kind, I’m sure, sir.” She gave up trying to urge him to any greater sense, and turned to the business at hand. “As to our agreement, I should like to make a slight change from my original plan.”
His disappointed hope made him puckish. “Indeed?” His object, he decided, would be to see how many euphemisms he might elicit from her—how many inventive ways she would politely circumvent the delicate topic of trying of only appear to have sex. “Is it kissing that you want?”
Her blush went from pink to a deep, rosy coral, but she held her ground like a trooper. “I think our object can be achieved with only an escalation, if you will, from our first…embrace.”
Two points straight off the line. “I’m afraid I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you, Miss T. Are you sure it’s not kissing that you want? Best to give me clear orders, what?”
She did so, as politely and euphemistically as possible. “No. That is… I think it best, if this evening, when we are found, if your hands were rather particularly upon my person.”
Particularly upon my person. Four more points to Army.
He schooled his mirth into a show of dim curiosity. “Right ho! Which part of your person? In particular?”
“Well,” she hedged. “I don’t think it really matters which, just that when Mama comes through the door this time, things appear a great deal more…advanced.”
“What a capital idea.” He beamed at her. “But if I might make a suggestion?”
Simon was ashamed to find she looked a little astonished that he might have cobbled two thoughts together at all. “Please!”
“To achieve the effect you’re after—”
“Lightly ruined,” she reminded him.
“Indeed, lightly ruined, Miss T.” He arranged his face into a serious, considering frown. “In order to be lightly ruined, I suggest that my hand be found lightly upon your breast.”
That she was shocked was apparent by the widening of her already wide eyes. That she was also seriously considering his proposition was made manifest by their slow narrowing. “I see your point, Mr. Cathcart.” She cleared her throat slightly. “Which breast, do you suppose?”
He gave every appearance of studious thought. “While they are both equally lovely, I assure you, Miss T, I should think whichever of them is closest to the door, in order to provide the view you are intent to achieve?”
She took a shaky breath of equitable consideration. “Yes, very sensible.”
“Thank you.” And because he had clearly spoken too sensibly, he added, “I thought it was a jolly good idea, if I do say so myself.”
And because he was a considerate, thoughtful sort of idiotic cad, he rubbed his palms together to warm them. And then he smiled and asked, “If I may?”
Chapter 8
Tamsin ought to have known what to do. And say. Because she was the one arranging this ruination, wasn’t she? But she hardly knew how to act. Or where to look. Or how to breathe.
But she heard herself say, “Yes, do,” and hoped she sounded more worldly than she felt while her heart stuttered in her chest.
She leaned back in an awkward attempt to grant him some sort of greater access.
And still, she was entirely unprepared for the indescribable feeling of his palm closing ’round the whole of her breast. All at once.
Her lungs seized up in some strange attempt to make herself as small and still as possible. But then, of course, she held her breath too long, and practically had to gasp for air. Which, of course, made her chest expand into the warm pressure of his hand in a sort of involuntary, but entirely too-pleasurable caress, when his thumb, most particularly, brushed against her bare skin above the neckline of her gown.
Heat scorched across her face and down her neck, no doubt pinking her from forehead down to where his hand sent a thrill blazing across her brea—
Best not to think of the thrill. Best to keep her eyes closed and concentrate on breathing evenly. In and out. In a normal sort of cadence. Nothing untoward.
“That’s it, what?” he murmured as if he knew all about what was normal. “Just keep breathing.”
Tamsin at
tempted to do so, though his other arm had made its way to the small of her back, where it urged her closer to his chest. Closer into his embrace. So close, she could smell the bright scent of starch on his cravat. And feel the warmth of his body seeping through the intervening layers of clothing. And sense the extraordinarily intimate press of his hand subtly changing position upon her breast.
Oh, holy heavens. A mixture of heat and mortification and want washed across her skin so strongly that for the first time in her life, Tamsin feared that she might actually faint.
Because she liked it. Very much.
But this was meant to be an arrangement with Colonel Cathcart, not a tryst.
Tamsin attempted to assert logic to keep the topsy-turvy feelings at bay. “What can be keeping her?” she asked at the same time that she hoped whatever it was took a good deal longer. Hours or even days longer.
Because she had never felt so…everything. Everything so utterly delightful.
“Patience,” he whispered closer to her ear. “Would it help if I…” And as if he meant to soothe her with his hand as well as his low voice, he began to absently brush his thumb back and forth along her skin.
“Oh, yes.” Though she did not feel the least bit soothed—beneath her stays and chemise, her nipples went tight and achy. It was the most disconcerting, uncomfortable, pleasurable thing that had ever happened to her. And she prayed he would stop.
She was happy he did not.
Because the feeling was extraordinary. And rather wonderful.
“Such interesting things, breasts,” he murmured, as if he were talking about the weather or the stock market, or some other phenomena wholly out of his ken. “Lovely, soft, firm things. Yours has gone a bit firm, hasn’t it, Miss T?”
“Yes.” She swallowed over the sudden drought in her throat. “I suppose it has.”
He must have heard unease in her voice. “Too much, Miss T?”
“Yes.” She was relieved and embarrassed and bereft, all at the same time. “A bit.”
“Right ho.” But he said it quietly, as if he were thinking. And then he slowly slid his hand away toward her back, where his clever fingers began a careful exploration of her spine, from the bare skin at the top of her nape down, over the layers of silk and linen and whalebone, to mesh snugly with its partner in the small of her back. “Better?”
Now the firm pressure of his hands urging her deeper into the embrace was comforting instead of titillating. And when she gave in to the temptation to find out what it would feel like to lean all the way against the solid breadth of his chest, his hands swept up to lightly play with her hair.
“Yes.” She grasped for something to say that wouldn’t make her the veriest, most breathless ninny. “I thank you.”
His fingers traced little spirals at her nape. “This is rather lovely, what?” But his tone held none of his former hail-fellow enthusiasm, but instead a sort of quiet wonder. “I think we’re getting a better feel for this ruination, now.”
“Yes, quite.” She felt it, too, the lovely wonder. It really was quite nice to be held so securely within his arms. It felt as if she wasn’t…alone.
Even though that was exactly why she was doing this—to be left alone.
How…odd.
“If I might make another suggestion, Miss T?”
“Certainly,” she agreed, because it seemed necessary that one of them think, and she didn’t seem capable of rational thought at the moment.
“Perhaps we might sit? In this chair? Bit tiring, all this ruination, standing up.”
“Oh, I did not realize—”
But Colonel Cathcart didn’t wait for her apology—he had already somehow picked her up, and settled her upon his lap as effortlessly as if they were making a turn at the waltz. “That’s better.” He made himself comfortable against the back of the chair and urged her to relax against his chest. “I can put my hand on your lovely breast again now, if you’d like, Miss T?”
That was the stratagem for the evening, wasn’t it? Her mama couldn’t ignore something so personal. So deeply intimate. “Yes, that would be…suitable.”
Oh, holy heavens. There it was again, that thoughtfully gentle, but somehow firm, press of his palm against her breast, and the indescribably lovely, full feeling that followed.
So personal. So deeply intimate. Tamsin was mortified and gratified and aroused, all at the same time.
“That’s nice,” he murmured. “Almost as if it fits there, what—my hand on your breast,” he clarified helpfully, in case she was somehow unaware of what he was talking about, or where his hand was.
But it was almost as if his hand was the exact right size to comfortably cup her breast, or perhaps her breast was the right size to fill his hand—she had no idea of how one measured such things. Or if one should. Or anything else, except the strangely thrilling feeling of delicious, curious, comfortable anticipation that was enveloping her.
“Do you mind if I…?” His other hand seemed to have found its way to her hip.
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “I think it will look correct if your other hand is covering my haunch.”
He cocked his head, as if he were not sure if he had heard her aright. “Your…?
“Haunch,” she repeated, feeling her face flame higher. “My backside.”
“Ah. Right ho.” But this time, his nonsensical banter felt more like a benediction. “Your sweet bottom, do you mean, Miss T? For it is lovely, as bottoms go.”
“Thank you.” As bottoms go.
“Quite welcome, Miss T. Happy to oblige. Quite happy.”
And so they were still quite alone, for her mama still did not come.
Tamsin redirected her mind to marshal her arguments for when Mama did come. She took a deep, clarifying breath and edged herself bit to the right, away from the chair arm poking into her bottom so that Mama would get such an eyeful, she could not possibly gainsay the scandal.
“Right ho.” Colonel Cathcart’s voice took on a different pitch—he sounded almost…pained.
“Are you all to rights, Colonel?” She tried to shift again, to make him more comfortable as well. “I beg your pardon, but something was pressing into my…my…”
“Lady bits?” His voice was curtailed, and abrupt. “Yes, mine too.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” But she didn’t really. Because how could Colonel Cathcart have lady bits? But then as she shifted again, the bit pressing into her seemed to…move. Or…grow. “Oh!”
He met her shocked gaze. “Indeed.”
“Is that your…”
He drew a short breath. “Cock, Miss T,” he specified. “Indeed, that’s my cock. Apologies.”
There was a pause the length and breadth of Tavistock Square before she could even begin to formulate any answer. “I do beg your pardon, Colonel. How…uncomfortable that must be.”
“Simon, please, under the circumstances. Don’t trouble yourself, Miss T. I assure you, I’m well used to the phenomenon.”
“Phenomenon?”
“Aye. It’s not always in this state, my cock. It’s just the circumstance of having you so near.” He smiled down at her in his sunny, uncomplicated way, but it was as if the longer he held her eye, the harder it was to keep the expression upon his face. As if the sunshine was overshadowed by something deeper, something darker and more honest and intimate. “Pray don’t concern yourself.”
His voice was low and quiet and very, very near. So near, she could see the flecks of gold and black in his green eyes. Could count his individual eyelashes. So near, she was already imagining what the firm fruit of his lower lip might taste like against hers.
So near. Just…there. If she straightened up just a little more, she might find out. Might discover for herself what all the fuss was about.
“My dear Miss T,” he whispered. “Perhaps, since we’ve touched on breasts, and haunches, and cocks, we really ought to spare a moment for lips?”
“Yes.” She finally found her breath. And her voice
. And her nerve. “Yes, that would seem eminently suit—”
“Good Lord Almighty, Thomasina Lesley! I told you to stay away from this man.”
They sprang apart this time, flustered and awkward, fumbling to stand.
But Simon seemed to have some presence of mind. “Dear Mrs. Lesley.” He stood and stepped behind the chair. “How nice—”
“Don’t you dear me.” Mama snatched Tamsin out of his reach as if she feared her daughter might catch something. “What on Earth are you playing at with this man? You know they call him Simple Simon.”
“Mama!” Anger, and something that had to be shame scorched her skin. The poor man was right there. He might not be the smartest whip in the race, but he was a very nice man, and he had ears enough to comprehend the slight against him. “Please.”
“If you please,” her mother returned. “Simple Simon,” she repeated. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but they say he’s not right in the head and would be in Bedlam but for his well-connected relations.”
Tamsin found herself stepping in front of him, as if she might shield him from her mother’s casual cruelty. “Mama, I know what we’ve done is wrong, but there is no reason for you to attack poor Colonel Cathcart like this.”
“Listen to yourself—poor Colonel Cathcart. A colonel,” her mother huffed. “I won’t let you make the same mistake I did and be brought to grief over a shining uniform. And if that isn’t reason enough, I don’t know what is. You’ve lost your head, girl, and I aim to make sure that this”—she gestured from her daughter to Simon—“unfortunate liaison goes no further. Come along.”
She took possession of Tamsin’s arm, and rather than turn her into a ragdoll being pulled between them, Simon let her go.
“Nice to see you, too, Mrs. Lesley,” he said in his sweet, sunny way.
His easy self-possession took Mama aback. She turned to Tamsin. “He really isn’t all to rights in his brain, is he?”
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