Читать книгу Three - Noelle Mack - Страница 8

As the day continued fine, Lady Fiona decided to ride out in Hyde Park after Harriet’s departure. From the open carriage that she drove herself, she looked down upon the crowd jostling each other in the leafy paths and edging by their superiors, whose numbers were far fewer.

The breeze puffed out the dresses of the promenading ladies, whose sedate pace did not alter no matter how high their hems were lifted. It was as good a way as any to permit the gentlemen a glimpse of pretty shoes and stockings that would otherwise be hidden, Fiona thought.

Women had to do what was necessary to capture masculine attention if they had ensnared no likely prospects for matrimony by late spring. The season was well underway and the bachelors of the ton would soon be departing for their country estates, to spend the languorous months of summer in pursuit of trout and the more willing servant girls of the household.

Yet the married women seemed as eager to catch the eye of the men who strolled by, sometimes alone and sometimes in groups of two or three. Some men rode, putting on a display of muscular buttocks in breeches that were almost indecently tight, their thighs gripping the saddle leather in a most provocative way as they trotted by on the finest horseflesh in London. From behind she could glimpse something even more delicious: the balls of the well-endowed men, compressed slightly by the supple buckskin that contained them, but very much there. Fiona never tired of that sight.

She would not have minded being swept away by such a man for a wild ride over a moonlit moor, if a convenient moor could be found that was not too cold or too desolate, she thought with an inward smile. He would clasp her to his chest with one strong arm during their desperate ride…his stiff cock pressing into her bouncing behind while she clung to the saddle horn and rode astride, just as he did.

Fiona let her mind drift and elaborated upon her fantasy of ravishment. He would know that her soft cunny smacked the saddle with each bounce and that would make him grit his teeth and groan with hot longing…until, wild with desire, her faceless lover would make the horse rear and scream, then dismount to lay her down upon the heather…well no, that was scratchy stuff. Anyway, he would make her come again and again.

The very thought made her feel randy. It was rather at odds with the decorous scene through which she was driving at the moment, certainly, but the fleeting fantasy was quite diverting.

Fiona did not see the piece of paper that the breeze tossed under her horse’s nose, but she felt a hard jerk as the animal shied and the reins went flying. Both her hands clung to the side of the carriage when the horse launched into an all-out gallop that sent the strolling fashionables scurrying to safety on every side.

Fiona had not the breath to scream. The horse swung away and headed over the greensward as the shouts receded. She heard only the dull thud of pounding hooves and the rattle of the light carriage. It was likely to lose a wheel at this breakneck pace over open ground or shake itself to bits with her in it. But there was nothing she could do besides hang on.

Another sound came to her ears, of faster hooves overtaking them. One of the horsemen upon the Hyde Park paths had come to her rescue, an excellent rider who brought his mount near as he dared to her panicked animal and made a swift grab for the loose reins.

He missed. He grabbed again and missed again. Then, whether from the closeness of the other horse or simply because hers had grown tired, the hooves slowed to a trot, and then, blessedly, a walk. The winded gelding finally stopped…and hung his weary head.

“As well you might,” the man said softly. His voice was deep and soothing. He reached for the reins as he halted his mount and got them at last.

“Th-thank you,” Fiona stammered when she found the strength to speak. She put a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the strong sun. Her bonnet had been lost in the pell-mell gallop and her hair had come unpinned, tumbling down over her neck and shoulders in waves of glossy honey. “That was a trick worthy of the Roman arena. Do you race chariots, sir?”

Her rescuer kept both sets of reins in his hands as he dismounted. “No. But I was a cavalry officer, and I and my horse are veterans of the Peninsula battles. You might say that we learned that trick together.”

He made soothing noises to her gelding and stroked the animal’s sweating neck with fine, strong hands turned a deep color by a foreign sun. Despite that, they were a gentleman’s hands, she thought, wishing that he would stroke away her trembling as well.

He dropped the reins, moving to her carriage to help her down. She alighted upon the grass, almost too weak to stand, but she stiffened her spine and took several deep breaths, then felt a little better. They were not far from the shade of the trees, where she might sit and rest. Then Fiona realized that she would have been thrown instantly from the carriage had her runaway horse swerved to avoid the trees, and began to tremble again.

The man noticed. He slipped off his light riding coat and put it over her shoulders, saying only, “Wear this. And do not argue.”

She looked up at him with astonishment. “Why would I argue?”

He smiled slightly. “A riding coat does not go with an elegant gown, milady.”

“I don’t care. It is comforting. And it smells very nicely of bay rum, and—” And you, she wanted to say, but didn’t. A powerful, virile man who had ridden hard and risked his neck to save her. “What is your name, sir?”

“Edward Finch, Lord Delamar, at your service.”

“I am—”

“Ah, but I already know who you are. The Incomparable Fiona. The Belle of Mayfair. Also known as Lady Gilberte. The young widow of that filthy old scoundrel who died under mysterious circumstances. You are as lovely as the scandal sheets say. But did you poison him, as they also say?”

“Wh-what?” she sputtered.

He was opening a small compartment at the back of her carriage and seemed not to notice her consternation. “Do you have a lead rope? Ah, here is one. We can tie the horses while you rest and tell me everything.”

She felt inclined to fling his coat to the ground and tread upon it. Yet he did not seem to be the sort of man who would be intimidated by a fit of womanly pique. “There is nothing to tell,” she said at last.

“Of course not. I was speaking in jest, but I apologize. You are still upset, understandably so.”

Fiona looked back at the distant path to the point where her horse had bolted; the crowd that had fled before her had resumed their peaceful promenade. Then she looked back at him.

He offered no more explanation of his remarks about the scandal that had sullied her reputation—what little remained of it, she thought—and was busying himself with the horses and leading them a little distance away once he had freed hers from the tangled harness.

He returned. “Since you have not asked for my forgiveness, Lord Delamar, I shall not give it. But I accept your apology.” There was a noticeable edge in her voice.

He nodded, giving her the slightest of smiles. “Rest assured that I never believe what appears in print. The scandal sheets provide coarse entertainment for the rabble, nothing more.”

“Ah, yes. They were out in force upon the path. Did some low fellow notice me and mention my name?”

“No.” He smiled. “I was riding close behind you with a friend. A very respectable friend. But he knew who you were.”

“I see. And when my horse shied, did he tell you to come after me?”

Lord Delamar shook his head. “When I saw the danger you were in, I spurred my horse and came on straightaway. I don’t suppose that my friend or the others thought you had lost the reins; only that you had decided to amuse yourself with a mad dash. You have a reputation for being rather wild, you know.”

“This conversation seems to be going in circles. You have returned to the subject of my reputation, such as it is.”

“So we have,” he said genially. “Well, if it is any comfort, we are two of a kind. I am not received in the very best drawing rooms myself.”

Lady Fiona favored that unexpected response with a slight smile of her own. “Is that why your friend did not follow you? I suppose that being seen with you is bad enough, but adding a scandalous female like me is far worse.”

He snorted. “I have very little use for propriety, milady.”

Fiona pondered that interesting statement as she walked up and down. “Then I am glad that we met, even under these circumstances.”

“Yes. Wild horses brought us together. It seems quite fitting, does it not? We are as far from polite society as one can get on a sunny afternoon in London. Do you have a blanket?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Lord Delamar rummaged in the compartment where he had found the lead rope. “Let me see. Ah—here is a very fine blanket. It smells strongly of horse but that can’t be helped.” He shook it out and picked a few bits of dry grass from its rough wool.

She was amused by his carefulness and watched without comment as he bent down to pull the corners into neat right angles. Military training, of course, she thought with a smile. That Lord Delamar had been an officer did not surprise her.

That he bore a startling resemblance to the amorous highwayman she had imagined did.

His thighs were as hard, his body as powerful. And his features were a striking improvement upon her faceless fantasy. Lord Delamar was handsome, with a long scar upon one cheek that only made him more attractive. The scar cut through a deep dimple that flashed when he smiled and added an ironic twist to his expression that intrigued her.

“Madame.” He made a gallant wave at the blanket. “Please sit down. You need not fear grass stains upon your beautiful arse.”

“My wha—you are impudent, sir.” Her tone was properly indignant, but secretly his candor secretly amused her. If he wished to waste no time furthering their acquaintance, she was in agreement. Just looking at his long, strong legs, braced apart as he stood with his hands on his hips, and the breadth of his chest was enough to make a fool out of any woman.

“That light gown hides very little, Lady Fiona. The sight of you in it would tempt the devil himself.”

“I wore it because the day is warm. And I did not know I would meet the devil upon a Hyde Park path today. Or that he was so handsome.”

Lord Delamar grinned wickedly. “Thank you.”

She stepped onto the blanket, sinking gracefully down into her skirts and letting his coat slide from her shoulders. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under the folds of the airy muslin, looking about to see if anyone was nearby or watching from a little distance.

They were quite alone.

Edward settled down beside her, stretched out on one side and rested his head upon his elbow. His eyes moved over her with slow pleasure, taking in every detail of her body, from her rounded thighs to her high bosom but lingering longest upon her face. It was quite clear that he liked everything he saw.

She returned his scrutiny but more discreetly as he took off the neck tie that had come undone during his chase and tossed it onto the blanket. The loose linen shirt he wore hinted at the brawn beneath, and his buckskins hinted at nothing but showed everything. His natural endowments were quite evident in that close–cut article of clothing. Soft leather covered a long hard cock and balls that would fill her palm with satisfying heft.

She looked up and caught him watching her. He laughed in a devilish way and rolled over on his back. “So, my lady—where shall we begin?”

Fiona folded her hands primly in her lap. “Not here, my lord.” Had they been anywhere but out in the open, she would have undone his breeches and freed his sex from its confinement. She was eager to see it jut out, ready to be stroked and sucked; eager to tease his scrotum with gentle fingertips until it tightened over his balls, eager to watch him ejaculate in healthy spurts and hear him groan with lust when he did. But…not here.

“Oh? My dear Lady Gilberte, the look in your eyes tells me—”

“I have told you nothing, merely made small talk.”

“Then continue to talk to me, Fiona,” Edward said. “There is no harm in that, surely. You have a very pleasant voice. Soft and sultry. Like summer rain.”

“Hmph.”

“You seem displeased by the compliment.”

“Did you expect me to blush and giggle?” she asked tartly. His flattery had pleased her nonetheless. And a pleasant chat in the dappled shade was a decorous way to begin an affair—she had no doubt that they both had the same thing in mind.

There was no reason to be discreet about it.

Although the promenading crowds were far away, her wild ride and Lord Delamar’s pursuit must have been thoroughly discussed and dissected by now, and certainly all assumed Lady Fiona had spurred her horse into dashing away so she could lead him on.

None of which was remotely true—she hadn’t known he was behind her or even who he was until he introduced himself. Fiona had heard something of Lord Delamar, of course, though she rarely paid much attention to gossip, having been the subject of it so often.

She let her gaze drift over his long body, enjoying the sight of so fine a man so close to her. So he likes to hear women talk, she thought. Then he is easy to please and even easier to seduce.

It would not be long before she had him exactly where she wanted him: in her bed.

Three weeks later…

Frowning, Lady Fiona dipped the nib of her quill in a bronze inkwell and added another line to the morning entry in her diary. Lord Delamar remains frustratingly out of reach. She sketched his profile in the margin with a few deft strokes. Damn the man. Thoughts of him filled her every waking hour and he even hovered in her dreams.

Since their first meeting, Edward had commandeered more space upon the pages of her diary than any of the other lovers chronicled in it, except that she had not one word to say about his sexual prowess, inclinations, or appetite.

She had no real reason to complain, since Thomas was constant in his devotion and called upon her twice a week. But compared to Lord Delamar, Thomas seemed…callow.

Edward stopped by now and then, never staying long but always unfailingly polite. Fiona was dismayed by her eagerness to see him, as she ran downstairs when she heard Henchley let him in, thrilled by the sound of his voice exchanging a few pleasantries with the butler, excited beyond measure simply by seeing him standing in the gloomy marble hall of her Mayfair house, looking warm and virile and so very male.

Surely he ought to make the first move, declare the desire that she knew she saw in his eyes, throw her down upon the nearest sofa and have his wicked way with her…but no. He seemed more interested in her opinions of the latest plays, Whitehall politics, the weather—talk. Talk, talk, talk. She was sick of it, no matter how much he might like the sound of her voice. In fact, she was ready to scream with frustration.

She would have to take the lead, she supposed. Invite him to dinner with a few others for the brilliant conversation he desired, feed him lightly and ply him with a judicious amount of wine…but too much of either and he would be of no use to her. Then, once the other guests had decamped, she would take him by the hand and drag him to her bedroom if necessary.

If only he would seize an earlier opportunity—and her beautiful arse, as he had called it—and do what they both wanted to do! She had no idea why he held back.

Perhaps it was just as well at the moment. With the extra servants hired on to ready the Mayfair mansion for the household’s summer exodus to the country, there was not a private moment to be found, let alone a private space.

Fortunately, the army of servants had already attacked the dining room, first rubbing every crystal on the chandelier until the monstrous thing positively sparkled and then polishing the long table until the fine wood glowed. The carpets had been taken up, taken outside, and whacked nearly to bits to rid them of dust. All was in readiness in that one room at least.

But what to have for dinner? Fiona twiddled her quill in her fingers. She swore under her breath, realizing that she’d dotted her morning dress with ink as a result. She rose and struggled out of it, then ran out of the library in her chemise and drawers, calling for Sukey and throwing the balled-up dress down the stairwell when the maid replied faintly from the first floor.

“Sukey! Have Eliza wash this at once! The ink might come out—perhaps not. But she must try!”

Feeling very cross, Fiona stamped up the stairs to her bedroom to find another dress, planning the courses for the dinner party as she went.

Aspic of something. Stamp. Cold roast chicken. Stamp. Salad of field greens. Stamp. Summer puddings and sorbets. Stamp, stamp, stamp.

The upper landing was blessedly free of bustling servants, and she dashed to her bedchamber before any appeared. From the next room, Fiona heard the swish of feather dusters and the heavy groan of furniture that was rarely moved. It would be draped in white canvas while the cleaning was done, giving the room a ghostly look.

The entire house seemed to be inhabited by diligent ghosts, as the servants swathed themselves in enormous aprons and moved through it. The yearly cleaning was nothing new but it made Fiona feel altogether unsettled and her unfulfilled longings for Edward Finch, Lord Delamar, only made matters worse.

Fiona was not the only one at sixes and sevens. Sukey had been in a foul mood after giving up on Summers, the footman who’d ripped her dress. Fiona got the whole story from the housekeeper, Mrs. Geffrye, a handsome and capable West Country woman who did not mince words. She’d said Summers had plenty of willing wenches eager to drop their drawers for a hard pounding and a teasing little bitch like Sukey must have seemed like too much trouble.

And so the maid had recently turned to another man, though he was not on the Gilberte staff and no one knew who he was. Certainly Sukey spent far too much time primping and preening of late—Fiona had caught her at it more than once but had not scolded her. She assumed that her maid’s new lover was someone’s valet—servants seldom dallied with anyone below their own station in a household.

At least Sukey had someone. Lady Fiona dipped her pen once more and added a final thought. But I shall have my way—milord shall dine with me on Friday next.

She opened the drawer that contained her stationery and sealing wax and took out several sheets of paper. It would be no easy task to compose an invitation that hit precisely the right lighthearted note and held a hint of seduction as well. A faint smile curved her lips. Certainly Lord Delamar was the sort of man who could read between the lines…if he wanted to.

Fiona had found out much more since their chance meeting in Hyde Park: he was a notorious rake, never wed, breathtakingly rich, and capable of pleasuring a woman all night long. None had ever succeeded in capturing his heart. All of which only intensified her desire for him.