A looming shadow caught her attention, charging through the mews with a purpose to his stride. It sent her heart into a gallop, a pace that only quickened when she heard the pounding on the back door that led into the storeroom. Delivery men used that entrance so as not to disturb any customers. But for a gent who lived around the corner, it was the most direct route to her shop.
She rushed from her rooms and down the stairs, the litany “I’m coming, I’m coming,” reverberating through her mind until she reached the wide portal, shoved back the bolt, and swung it open. The light from the streets barely reached here, and she hadn’t thought to turn up the gaslights, so he was almost lost to the shadows, and yet still she felt she saw him clearly.
“I wanted to ensure you were all right.” His voice came out strained, as though he’d been in fear of her life, as though she’d gone on safari and spent the evening facing wild animals that were intent on devouring her. Perhaps she had.
“I survived and am none the worse for wear.” She stepped back. “Do come in. The fog is making it chilly out there.” It wasn’t yet so thick as to make it difficult to see, but wisps of it were floating in.
Crossing the threshold, he shut the door behind him. Now that they were both standing inside, the storage room seemed incredibly small. Perhaps it was just that his presence overwhelmed the space. She’d noted it before, the manner in which he dominated his environment with such ease, as though it was his right to be in command. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any spirits on hand to offer you.”
“I’ve had enough scotch for the night.” She could feel the intensity of his gaze as it roamed over her, as if he was searching for wounds. “Your coming out was a success, then.”
Statement, not question, and yet it demanded a reply. She gave a tiny scoff, hating that it sounded so hard and bitter. “No, not really.”
Feeling the burn at the back of her eyes, she refused to give in to tears.
“What happened?” His tone was that of a man displeased, a man on the verge of calling others out to answer for their actions.
“My family had such hopes, but I fear they were rather dashed. I danced with my brothers, my brothers-by-marriage, the brothers or good friends of my sisters-by-marriage—always some relation in one manner or another. When they’d all had their turn, I wandered among the guests for several dances. Observed, but not approached, not spoken to. Very much like an exhibit at the zoological gardens. Or some theater of curiosity. Come see the girl born out of wedlock—”
“Fancy, no.”
He’d never called her by her given name before, nor had his palm ever cradled her cheek so lovingly. She wasn’t quite certain which of those two occurrences were responsible for making her feel as though her heart were made of candlewax and slowly melting.
“People fear what they do not understand,” he continued.
Slowly she shook her head, grateful his warm, gentle fingers stayed against her skin. “The worst was yet to come. Of a sudden, gentlemen began asking me to dance. But I sensed they were simply going through the motions. So I began making inquiries.”
If his thumb had not begun stroking the curve of her cheek, she might not have found the strength to confess the rest. “It seems my brothers were offering favors to those who took me on a turn about the room. I was beyond mortified because I’m certain everyone knew. The aristocracy adores gossip, and tonight I provided it.”
“Those lords are fools, every last one of them. I would not have needed a bribe to ask you for the honor of a waltz.”
She gave him a sad smile. “But you weren’t there. And you’re my friend.”
Something—an irritation, an anger—flashed across his face. He looked up to the ceiling. His jaw tautened, relaxed, and as though he’d reached some conclusion, he lowered his gaze to her. “Waltz with me now.”
Her laugh was soft, gentle. “We have no orchestra.”
“We don’t need one.” His hand left her cheek, skimmed down her arm, and laced itself between her gloved fingers. He began leading her out of the storage room. “What is your favorite tune?”
“‘The Fairy Wedding Waltz.’ The first one I danced to at my first ball.”
“I know it. If you had a pianoforte, I could play it for you.”
“You play the pianoforte?”
She had expected him to take her upstairs to her lodgings, to her parlor where there was more room—although she quickly realized he wouldn’t know that. Instead he stopped in the middle of the area that separated her counter from the walls of bookshelves that ran perpendicular to it, faced her, and released his hold on her. She nearly snatched back his hand. “My mother insisted. When I was a lad, I hated the lessons. But she told me if I practiced diligently, I would acquire very deft fingers. I’ve found they make me quite popular with the ladies.”
The seductive way he looked at her made it difficult to draw in breath, and when she thought of his fingers doing more than touching her cheek as they had earlier, she had a strong urge to unfasten lacings and hooks and invite him to play a tune over her skin. Why was it that when she was with him, she wasn’t content to be separated by a few inches? Why did her musings conjure up images of bared flesh and limbs entangled, kisses and embraces?
Bowing slightly, he held out his hand. “Miss Trewlove, may I have the honor of this waltz?”
She didn’t know why she was more nervous than she’d been at the ball, why it was imperative she not trip over her feet, but dance to perfection. She wanted to impress him, to demonstrate that her lessons hadn’t been a waste of Mick’s coins. With a sigh to calm her rioting nerves, she placed her hand in his, taking comfort from the surety with which he wrapped his fingers around hers. His other hand came to her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder, her posture perfect.
He began humming and, with the slightest dip, glided her over the floor, past the shelves that housed books on various countries, continents, and wildlife, around the edge of it, and up the aisle where one could find information on constellations, down a row where biographies brought long-ago personages back to life. They circled round and round, past romantic novels and detective stories, past Dickens, Brontë, and Austen. This waltz was better than any she’d had earlier because he took her along a route that encompassed all she loved and adored.
All night she’d longed to have a man look at her as though he’d waited his entire life to have her in his arms. Matthew never took his eyes from hers.
She liked thinking of him as Matthew rather than Mr. Sommersby. As they journeyed around the room, an intimacy swelled up between them, like an ocean wave leading a tempest toward shore. She was aware of everything about him. He carried the fragrance of bay rum, but beneath it was the very essence of him, and a hint of the scotch he’d had earlier. Before coming to her, he’d not bothered to tidy himself up with waistcoat, neck cloth, or coat. She rather appreciated that he wore only his boots, trousers, and a shirt, a few buttons free of their moorings so she had a clear view of his throat, a glimpse of the edge of his chest.
She was willing to dance in his arms until dawn. But he ceased his humming and slowed their steps until they were still and quiet, the only sound their breathing. Although he didn’t release her, not completely. One hand remained on her waist, while the other slipped away from hers and came to light upon her cheek. He skimmed his thumb over her lips. Everything within her tightened, as though he’d taken that thumb over places that had never before been touched by a man.
“May I kiss you, Miss Trewlove?”
His voice was raspy, like that of a man lost in the desert who’d gone years without water. Her mouth was suddenly dry as well. She barely nodded, yet he noted it and slowly lowered his lips to hers.
A gentleness accompanied his actions, as though he feared breaking her—or perhaps he sensed that he was the first to ever take such liberties and sought to ease her into it. On her waist, his fingers jerked before closing more firmly around her. His other hand left her cheek and
his arm circled her, pressing her steadfastly along the length of him until her breasts were flattened against his chest.
To her astonishment, his mouth opened slightly, and his tongue lapped at her lips before urging them to part. Then his tongue was stroking hers, over and under, rough and silky. With a deep groan, he took the kiss deeper until she felt its effects in her toes.
Oh God. She wound her arms around his neck before her knees gave out and she embarrassed herself by tumbling to the floor. Numerous times she’d caught her brothers kissing their wives, but she’d never understood what a wondrous compelling thing it was. How it warmed one throughout and caused tingles between one’s thighs. How it made one long to have deft fingers working some sort of magic, and even as she wasn’t quite certain for what precisely her body was reaching, she knew he possessed the means to assuage the yearnings that were building to a fevered pitch within her.
She was vaguely aware of him backing her up. Her bottom struck something hard, the counter her addled brain realized. Then, with his mouth never leaving hers, he lifted her onto the polished wood, scandalously parted her knees so he could stand between them, nearer to her, and, with a low growl, began to plunder with more earnestness, exploring every hollow as though his life depended on his being able to describe her mouth in exquisite detail.
Aware of soft sighs and keening whimpers echoing around her, it took her a moment to realize she was the one making them. The sensations he was stirring to life within her were threatening to cause her to come undone.
He dragged his mouth over her chin, along her throat, and up to her ear, where he nibbled on the lobe before whispering, “May I have permission to kiss your breasts, Miss Trewlove?”
Dear Lord, she nearly melted into a puddle of desire on the spot. Scandalized, she knew what her answer would be. No. No. Absolutely not. “Y-yes.”
His mouth slowly trailed along the décolletage of her gown, while his hand glided up to cup her breast, to squeeze, to plump gently. Hooking a finger in the silk, somehow he managed to free the orb until it was straining toward him. He took her nipple in his mouth and began to suckle. Pleasure jolted through her. With a small cry, she dropped back her head and wrapped her legs around him, pressing her most intimate spot to his. Good Lord. Her actions were met by the hard ridge of his desire, and she wanted nothing more than to rub against it with no clothing separating their skin.
His tongue swirled over the areola soothing what he’d tasted. She was vaguely aware of her fingers tangled in his hair, her palms pressed to his scalp, as he once more closed his mouth around her breast. It felt wicked, so very wicked, to have so much of her flesh within the heated, cavernous confines, stroked lovingly by velvet and silk. She’d never known a sensation so sublime, so intoxicating, so . . . necessary. Her entire body called out for him to continue, to go further—even as she wasn’t quite certain what all the further might entail. Oh, she’d seen dogs rutting in the mews, and while she knew that was the eventual end of this journey, she hadn’t thought the getting there would include such a vortex of pleasure.
Not that she had any plans to allow him to reach journey’s end. They could only engage in the beginning, the start of the trek. As long as he was asking permission, and she remained in control, but every nerve ending, every muscle, every inch of flesh screamed for her to give in, to relinquish her hold on remaining proper and above reproach, to allow him to carry her to the ultimate climax. Her mewling grew louder, her sighs higher in pitch. She was fairly squealing with abandon.
A screech and hiss—
“God’s teeth!”
His mouth was no longer working its magic over her breast, and she jerked out of her wondrous state as reality crashed in on her in the form of Dickens crawling onto her lap, seeming to claim her as his. As much as she loved him, at that particular moment she was a bit put out at him for his intrusion.
Shaking his hand, Mr. Sommersby moved back slightly.
“Did he claw you?”
“Poked me. Didn’t break the skin.”
“I’m so sorry.” Lifting her cat, she gazed into the slumberous green eyes. “Bad Dickens.” Then she set him aside on the counter, where he promptly leapt down and wandered off. “Let me see your hand.”
“It’s fine.” Leaning in, he peppered kisses over her sensitive flesh before tucking her breast back into her clothing.
She could sense his retreat, and wicked girl that she was, she wanted him to remain. “You’ve left one completely unattended.”
She could scarcely believe she’d been so bold as to utter such a thing.
He lifted his gaze to hers, one corner of his mouth curling up into an ironic grin. “Yes, but things are likely to get out of hand if I don’t stop now. Your cat very likely saved your virtue.”
“Why did you even begin it?”
“Because I spent the better part of my night imagining some lord luring you into a garden and doing just this. Because I want you, Fancy, but I like you far too much to ruin you for anyone else, not when your Season has only just begun.”
Taking a small step back, he placed his hands on her waist, brought her down to the floor, and cradled her cheek. “Are you still intent on securing a lord as a husband?”
“My family will be devastated if I don’t marry into the nobility.”
“Perhaps you should consider what you want.”
“I want them to be proud of me. I want all the effort and coins they’ve put into me not to have been for naught. Perhaps at the next ball, some fellow will dance with me of his own accord—and the rest will follow suit. Thank you for the waltz. It was a lovely way to end the evening.”
He hesitated, and she thought he might pull her back into his arms. Instead he headed for the storage room. Opening the door, he glanced out, then leaned back in and brushed a soft kiss over her lips before stepping outside.
After closing the door, she pressed her fingers to her swollen lips. Would her family understand if she set aside their plans for her in order to embrace her own desires?
Chapter 14
Fancy took that kiss to bed with her and woke up still able to feel the press of his lips against hers. The first kiss he’d given her had been devastating in its complexity. The last kiss devastating in its simplicity. It was the sort of kiss that spoke of a far greater intimacy than that created by unbridled passion. It was the sort of kiss that branded one as belonging to another.
Those thoughts traveled with her in the coach as she journeyed to her mum’s residence. When she arrived, she shook them off, thanked the footman for handing her down, and crossed over to the door. Opening it, she stepped over the threshold into the small abode where she had spent most of her youth when she wasn’t off learning how to project the image of a proper lady.
“You’re right on time, love!” her mum sang out from the kitchen. “I have your tea ready.”
She shuffled in balancing a cup on a saucer in each hand, and Fancy was hit once again with how much she loved this woman whose brown eyes warmed and sparkled at the sight of her.
“Sit down, pet.”
Fancy took one of the two chairs set before the fireplace while her mum took the other, placing the saucers on the low table between them. Settling back, she smiled as though nothing brought her more joy than visiting with Fancy. “Now, tell me everything.”
“Ah, Mum, I wish you’d been there. Nothing I describe could do it justice.”
“People came, did they?”
She rolled her eyes. “So many people. The ballroom was packed. I could hardly move through it. Gillie was so pretty and self-assured. She charmed everyone.”
“As did you, I’d wager.”
“I tried. Here, I brought you something.” Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out her dance card and handed it over to her. “My dance card. The first several dances are blank because I was standing in the receiving line, but as you can see, I had quite a few gents dance with me.”
Her mum didn’t need to kno
w why they’d danced with her. Her annoyance with her brothers was mollified a bit since their efforts gave her a card with names on it that she might not have had otherwise.
With a great deal of reverence, her mother stroked the elaborate dance card. “Oh, it’s so pretty.”
“Gillie did everything to perfection. The flowers, the orchestra, the footmen wandering around.”
“Did any of the gents snag your attention? Were any of them worth a second look?”
Matthew. But how would she explain him to her mum? “The gentlemen were all quite nice, polite, respectful.” They wouldn’t dare be otherwise in fear of losing their boon.
“Handsome, I’ll bet.”
“Most, yes. But I’m more interested in how he treats me than how he looks.”
“Did any of them make you laugh?”
She shook her head. “Not that I recall, no.” Although Matthew had on occasion.
A dreamy expression came over her mum’s face, followed by a faraway look, the past passing before her eyes. “My husband made me laugh. Oh, we had some good times, we did.”
“And my father? Did he make you laugh?”
As though awoken from a pleasant dream, she gave a little jerk and snapped her attention back to Fancy. “Of course, love. I wouldn’t have been with him otherwise. Now, tell me more about these fellas you danced with.”
“There’s not much more to say. I had a fine time visiting with the gents, but none made my heart sing.” She scooted to the edge of her seat. “Mum, what if the man capable of making my heart sing isn’t a lord?”
Her mum’s face went through a series of contortions as though she were striving not to let her disappointment show. “You have to follow your heart, naturally, but wouldn’t it be nice if it led you to a dukedom?”
She had a feeling her mum didn’t really realize what she was asking. Like so many, she’d placed the aristocracy as a whole upon a pedestal. “There aren’t that many dukes, and Gillie already claimed one.” Did she have to sound like a petulant child? “It’s just . . . there’s a gent who comes into the shop, and he’s rather nice. I find myself thinking about him quite a bit. To be honest, Mum, the men I met last night all seem to run together. Not a one really stood out.”
The Earl Takes a Fancy Page 16