Mayfair Maiden: Eighth Day of Christmas: A Lord Love A Lady Novella (Regency Cocky Gents Book 4)

by Annabelle Anders

Peter closed the door behind them, glancing around the room he’d acquired for the remainder of the evening, feeling torn.

  After the lovely drive and enjoying her company immensely, almost as though he was courting her, it didn’t feel right for him to bring her here.

  At the same time, he doubted she would have agreed to the drive if he hadn’t first agreed to what she wanted.

  “So, this is what a hotel is like.” She ventured across the room, touching the top of a dresser, running her fingertips along the back of a chair.

  She was not the same as she’d been the night before.

  “I’ve ordered a meal sent up.” He swallowed hard at the sight of her standing beside the bed. Seeing the curves he’d not had a chance to fully explore the night before stirred the most basic need inside of him, but he wasn’t ready to move in that direction yet.

  Because she was gradually sharing the things that he suspected she normally kept closely guarded.

  She met his gaze meaningfully and, for the first time since he’d collected her for their drive, she withdrew.

  “Tomorrow I will play for you.” He wanted her here—all of her. “I’ll have my manservant deliver Rosa to this room.” Because he didn’t want today to be the end of things between them.

  “You are awfully certain of yourself, Peter Spencer.” But she had not told him no.

  A knock sounded at the door and neither of them spoke until the meal was laid out on the small table and the servant closed the door behind him.

  “I hope you are hungry.” Peter pulled out one of the chairs for her and breathed a sigh of relief when she uncrossed her arms and lowered herself onto one of the chairs at the table. “I didn’t know what you would like so I told them to send some of everything.”

  And when he removed lids from a few of the plates, he sensed her relaxing again. “This appears to be fowl of some kind, definitely beef, lamb perhaps?”

  “You are ridiculous.” But she was assisting him now, revealing some vegetables and some mixture that might or might not consist of potatoes. “But it smells delicious.”

  She tasted everything in tiny bites, making faces but also appreciative sounds when the food deserved it. Although she was a few years older than him, there were moments when she seemed much younger. Her father had thrust her directly into marriage from childhood, not allowing her to experience the normal rituals that came with adolescence.

  She was delightful, Peter realized, leaning back in his chair having eaten his fill, as he listened to her share a story about her late husband. And yet only one of her strings was in tune. Because just beneath the surface, tension was building inside of her again.

  That need he’d felt the night before. He’d given into it; hell, he’d more than given into it. But was giving in the best thing he could do for her?

  Was giving in the best thing he could do for them?

  And if he did not, would she consent to see him again in the few days before he had to leave?

  “You are thinking very hard over there.” She leaned forward, having folded her napkin and discarded it on the table.

  “You know that I want you.” He wouldn’t play games.

  She stiffened, becoming suddenly alert to his mood.

  “But I don’t want this to be a business transaction between us. Because I like you. I…” He cleared his throat, suddenly wondering if he was making a mistake. “I’m coming to care for you.”

  “But you hardly know me. You can’t.” Her eyes were wide with what he could only describe as panic. “You are leaving.”

  “Brighton is not the end of the world. You wouldn’t even have to stay with your husband’s relatives. I could rent a house for you, but I know that you are independent and would likely prefer arranging your own accommodations.”

  She pushed her chair back. “Unfasten your trousers, sir.”

  She did not shock him this time. It was the manner in which she could take control of a situation. And watching her, his blood heated, his cock already hard, he didn’t have the self-discipline to deny her this—or, by God—to deny himself.

  “Do you want me, or do you need me?” He slid the buttons out of their slots, all the while locking his gaze with hers as she seemingly searched for an answer.

  “Both.” Her throat moved.

  “Then come here.” He slid down his chair and gripped her waist as she lifted her gown and straddled him.

  A moment later, he was filling her again, but unlike the night before, she was facing him. He captured her mouth with his and explored the tender flesh inside with his tongue. When she whimpered as she rode him, he tugged her bodice down and buried his face between her breasts.

  “Miranda,” he breathed. In a single day, she’d invaded his soul. His music had been everything to him. He’d thought it had been enough.

  He’d been wrong.

  Her fingers tugged at his hair, stinging his scalp and stirring the most wicked of urges. He breathed in her very essence. He lifted her, moved with her, and greedily claimed everything she would give to him this night.

  But her body wasn’t the only prize he wished to claim.

  He was beginning to suspect that he might also want to claim her heart.

  Miranda crept out of the room just before the break of dawn, riding home in a hired hackney and filled with conflicting emotions.

  Peter was just so… transparent with who he was and what he was feeling. How was a lady supposed to respond to that?

  Once safely ensconced in her home again, she bathed and dressed and went over a few bills Herman brought to her. After that, she made her usual visit to the nearby foundling hospital in an attempt to reclaim some sort of normalcy.

  She experienced only a modicum of success.

  Because even as she assisted two of the older girls with their reading assignments, she’d caught herself dreaming of the night ahead, and then had to push the romantic nonsense from her mind.

  He’d asked her the day before if she had loved Baldwin, and she’d told him she didn’t know what love was.

  Why did he care? It couldn’t be because he was falling in love with her. She was a temporary diversion, an enjoyable fling before immersing himself in his playing again.

  And he was only a temporary diversion for her, as well. She couldn’t allow herself to fall for his unrelenting charm and talk of love. Because he was leaving, and attaching any real emotion to him would be painful in the end.

  After returning home again, she polished the silver with her housekeeper, went over menus with her cook, and then discussed her wardrobe with Constance, her lady’s maid, all the while contemplating the wisdom of spending another night in Peter Spencer’s bed.

  In his arms.

  She even penned out an excuse but then failed to order it sent to Burtis House, where he resided with his family.

  And then his missive arrived.

  Miranda,

  I’ll arrive to collect you at four this afternoon. Round two of your driving lessons, a picnic, and more...

  Yours,

  Peter

  P.S. Not good of you to leave without saying goodbye.

  P.P.S. I can’t wait to taste all of you again.

  She could hear his voice in her mind as her eyes skimmed over his words. She shivered inside each time she read through it again.

  This note didn’t read like a business transaction, nor was this a note from a suiter. It was a note from a lover.

  She’d had every intention of making an excuse to not go this evening but as the sun moved across the sky, it became too late to cry off.

  Her hands clammy and her heart dancing, she donned one of her favorite gowns, sapphire silk, almost too elaborate for a drive, and then she waited anxiously for his arrival.

  “He’s here,” Constance announced from the window. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?” The maid’s expression was shuttered, as usual, showing neither approval nor disapproval.

  “Thank you. No.” Miranda d
ismissed the woman who’d been with her since before her marriage. Constance was proficient and performed her duties without question, but for the first time, Miranda wondered why she’d never hired a lady’s maid closer to her own age. Someone she could talk with. Someone who had not been chosen by her father. “Please tell him I’ll only be a moment.”

  Left alone, Miranda raised shaking hands to smooth her hair. This was only their second evening in one another’s company, not counting their encounter in the garden. There were only two more nights before he would have to leave for Brighton.

  Pausing at the top of the staircase, she caught sight of him before he knew she’d appeared. And when his gaze lifted, it was more than appreciative. He stared at her with tenderness and a shared intimacy that weakened her knees.

  Before she arrived at the lower landing, he took her hand in his, and then presented her with flowers.

  He’d acknowledged the rational aspect of their agreement but then gone on to act like a suiter—and touch her like a lover. It was impossible to not be affected by each corresponding emotion.

  Pleasure and excitement from the suitor. Desire and satisfaction from the lover. And the knowledge that this affair was only temporary from the agreement.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, annoyed with herself when she felt her neck, and then her cheeks flush with heat. “But it isn’t necessary.”

  “I know.” He led her outside, ignoring her attempt to reestablish any distance between them. “But I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Foolish man.”

  “Foolish for allowing you to drive my curricle.” He winked. “Daft enough to put my life in your hands.”

  And within moments, she was again helpless against his playfulness, the wicked glint in his eyes and his all-encompassing allure.

  As promised, he allowed her to drive them across Mayfair and then back again. After their picnic, while driving past Berkeley Square for the second time, she mentioned that she’d never been to Gunter’s. He insisted she take several right turns and return to the square so he could remedy such a travesty. She parked the curricle in the shade of a large tree and when a waiter dashed across the lawn, Peter proceeded to order one of every flavor.

  “You must make up for lost time,” His eyes twinkled.

  She shook her head. “On the heels of that picnic, I doubt I’ll be able to move after tasting all these ices.” Although, after having a spoonful of the chocolate, lavender, pineapple, and saffron, she still managed to finish off most of the glass full of chocolate.

  She placed her hands on her abdomen and rested her head against the back of the bench, at a loss as to when she had enjoyed herself more.

  Even knowing several notable members of society could observe them, Miranda didn’t feel the need to feign disinterest or boredom. In fact, sitting beside Peter Spencer, she didn’t even feel the need to try.

  “You will play… Rosa for me at the hotel, and I will lie back on that comfortable bed and nap.” She stared at him from beneath half-closed eyes.

  His responding glance curled her toes. “Putting you completely at my mercy.”

  It was to be their second night together—would it be their last? He was scheduled to depart for Brighton the morning after next.

  She sat up straight and turned to face him. “Take me to the hotel now.”

  Those perfect blue eyes of his regarded her intently, not bothering to hide his desire, nor his awareness of her need.

  With a curt nod, he covered her hand with one of his and waved over the waiter with his other. And as soon as the glasses had been collected, he reclaimed the reins and expertly steered them to the hotel.

  Chapter 5

  Meandering

  He collected her shortly after noon the following day and, after allowing her to drive, had her park near Piccadilly Square where they spent nearly an hour perusing Hatchard’s together. Afterward, he led her down Bond Street, where they took tea in one of the teahouses and then walked again, meandering along as though they had all the time in the world, stopping often to appreciate many of the window displays and occasionally venturing inside.

  She sampled an array of perfumes in one of the shops and, although he offered his opinion, he did not attempt to pay for her purchase. She was grateful that he did not. Had he done so, it would have tarnished the afternoon. He seemed to realize that, even going so far as to excuse himself while she paid for the perfume she’d decided upon. The scent differed from what she’d always worn in the past. It was warmer, with an orange citrus base and soft floral notes.

  When she emerged onto the pavement, he pushed off the wall he’d been lounging against and offered his arm. “It’s perfect for you,” he whispered near her ear.

  She glowed at his appreciation. It wasn’t often a woman decided to change her scent. “You don’t think it’s too subtle?”

  “Not at all. The aroma expands when it absorbs into your skin. Like you, it’s a bouquet of innocent sensuality.”

  The compliment sent tingles down her spine. Only… “Such a contradiction. It isn’t really possible.” She’d embraced her carnal needs and surely, that precluded any notion of innocence.

  Didn’t it?

  Peter slid her a sideways glance. “There is something childlike about you.” He pinched his mouth together almost as though he hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts.

  “I’m practically thirty.” Miranda disabused him of such a ridiculous notion. “Five, six years older than you?”

  “Only three. But it isn’t about years.” He raised his free hand, pinching his fingers together, as though the explanation eluded him. “When you tasted the ices yesterday, you finished off the chocolate with refreshing gusto, unapologetically. You are the same with your sexuality.”

  Miranda glanced around in alarm. This wasn’t exactly something people discussed while casually strolling down Bond Street and the topic would be considered scandalous—even for her. “I liked the chocolate.”

  “And you didn’t pretend otherwise. Eating can be as sensual as making love. I adore the… innocence in your enthusiasm… for both.”

  She’d experienced moments where he seemed older than his years. This was one of them.

  “Like the enthusiasm you have for your music?” She squeezed his arm. “You still haven’t played for me.”

  “I promise I will tonight.” They walked together in silence, and she wondered if he too was reflecting on his imminent departure.

  But then he added, “I love playing. I love the feel of the strings, the vibrations as I draw the bow back and forth… The music defines who I am, and I could not live without it. Only…”

  Regret tinged his voice, almost as though he felt guilty for the admission he’d almost made.

  “Only?” Miranda asked, aware that he’d tensed beneath her hand. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t wish to.” Did this have something to do with his upcoming apprenticeship?

  “At times, it’s as though the music owns me, as though it’s taken over…” He shook his head dismissively. “It’s nothing.”

  And yet she didn’t think it was nothing. Was it possible that his love for playing controlled him in the same way her physical needs had controlled her?

  “Like a compulsion. Something out of your control.” She blinked, barely aware she had uttered the words until she felt him glancing at her, nodding.

  “At what point will it cease to dictate my life?” He mused aloud.

  Which had her asking herself the same thing. Was it even possible?

  “When the compulsion begins to harm the person. At that point, the person must reclaim his or herself.”

  “Unless he or she endures the pain for too long,” he added. “And they are already too weak to resist it.”

  They were talking about two very different things, and yet the moment was an extremely intimate one.

  Had Miranda endured the pain of her exploits too long? Confusing thoughts raced through her mind. When Baldwin
died, she’d endured an isolated mourning period as society dictated. After the year was up, she’d felt ravenous, empty, but with a craving she hadn’t quite understood.

  Without her husband, there was no single person to show her affection in any way—no one to assure her that she mattered. He’d cared for her for over a decade, and had become her entire world.

  His death left her existing in a giant void.

  She’d taken her first lover by accident, when she’d finally accepted an invitation to a house party at the year’s end. She’d been shaken afterward, however, when she realized the affair had been nothing more to him than a means to physical fulfillment.

  She’d only had to learn that lesson once—the lesson that she could replace the loss of physical connection with a string of anonymous lovers. In accomplishing that, she could rationalize that emotional connections didn’t matter. They hadn’t mattered before her marriage; why should they matter after?

  Even her own father hadn’t considered her feelings important enough to address. Nor had her governess or any of her father’s servants.

  Had she allowed the pain to numb the need for anything more?

  She swallowed hard, shaken by her thoughts. “Are you having second thoughts about accepting the apprenticeship?” She doubted anyone else would ever ask him this.

  “Not at all.” His answer came quickly. Perhaps too quickly?

  They both fell silent again when a small group of cocksure gentlemen emerged from the building just ahead.

  “Gentleman Jackson’s.” Peter gestured toward the boxing club.

  Miranda braced herself when she realized Peter was acquainted with the men. The more fashionable amongst them she knew to be the Marquess of Greystone, the handsome large man with the scar, Viscount Manningham-Tissinton, and the third—a lofty gentleman who’d been conspicuously absent for much of the season; the Duke of Blackheart. All of these gentlemen were well acquainted, she knew, with Baron Chaswick—one of her most recent lovers. Did they know?

  Of course, they knew.

  “I see you’ve decided to make the most of your last days in London, Spencer.” Lord Greystone addressed them first. “You won’t find anyone as beautiful as Lady Starling down in Brighton.”