Eliza Lloyd (4 page)

Well before dawn, while the room was still darkened, John
set aside the tricks of his profession, mounted her tenderly and slowly,
slowly
, loved her. This might be his last opportunity to demonstrate the
affection he felt. Chance had brought him here; he dared not believe there
would be another.

She might have already been awake because she dug her nails
into his shoulders and clung to him as if she were drowning. One of her legs was
wrapped around one of his. He pumped into her with an easy rhythm that would
last until he was ready. Not a moment before.

Their mouths met and parted, met again and lingered. They
nearly breathed as one. He caught her sighs and breathed them deep. The taste
of her mouth he savored and went back for seconds. The well of warmth between
her legs accepted him over and over again. And her skin he caressed and
soothed, satisfying his deep yearning to have all of her.

The finality of this night was near heartbreaking. Would he
have been better off to want and never have? Now that he had her, how would
anything ever compare?

Lucy’s sleepy gaze devoured him, as if she wished to see who
was truly behind the mask.

The gentle thrusting and the continual touch of his hand
brought Lucy to new heights. Her hands clasped his shoulders, her mouth sought
his. Her cries of joy with each new peak satisfied John, not just physically
but with a sense of well-being and fulfillment. Loving Lucy had been one of the
great delights of his imperfect life.

Now this imperfect love would be his greatest curse.

* * * * *

“Keep your money, Alice.”

“This was a paying job,” she said. Alice sat on a brocade
chair, sipping at a drink even though it was early. He doubted she had been to
bed yet.

Selfishness wasn’t a character trait that should be rewarded
and taking money for something that he had dreamt of seemed hypocritical and
tarnished his true feelings.

This was far more than a simple paid fuck. Alice knew that.

“It doesn’t seem right to accept money for something I’ve
wanted for nearly eight years.”

“All good things,” she said.

John leaned to kiss her cheek. “Next time I tell you
something in confidence, let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“Probably pine the rest of my life. There are men who were
made for duchesses and those of us who weren’t.” Climbing from her bed a few
minutes ago had taken supreme effort and inhuman strength. What would it matter
if he lay in bed beside her and allowed the sun to shine upon his features? He
could imagine the horror reflected in her gaze when she realized the truth.
He’d hopped from bed without another thought.

“The money you are turning down could do a lot for you.
Won’t you reconsider?” She pressed the leather wallet into his hand.

“No, there is no amount of money that would make a
difference. I guess I’m just one of those fools who believed love might
actually conquer all.”

“Poets are liars,” Alice said.

“Love would be easier if she actually knew I was alive.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“The Duchess of Wallingford doesn’t see past her
fingertips.”

“What does that say about you that you would love such a
shallow creature?”

“That I’m human. And a man.” He sighed. “And that I know she
is not just the veneer of the duchess. What is beneath the trappings is what
interests me.”

“Is she still sleeping?”

“Yes, and let her sleep on. She appeared most content when I
left her.” He had kissed her brow one last time as he left the room. Was he
better for knowing her physically or would this be the catalyst that would
finally drive him away? He had thought he was tortured before. Now? Now he
would have to live with the sensual memory while knowing it would be the last
time he would get to touch her.

“Lucky girl.”

“I hope she thinks so.”

“She won’t forget you,” she said, a sly smile trembling upon
her lips.

“Me? She will forget.”

That was the strange thing about his cock. When Alice had
found him and later put him into the business, he had bedded some of the
noblest of nobles and they never remembered his face afterward. The Duchess of
Wallingford would have been mortified if she had known whom she’d bedded at
Madame Dupuis’ whorehouse—a former prostitute and a paid servant? She would be
most displeased.

“Not if you don’t let her.”

“Alice, you make me think there is hope when we both know
otherwise. As my friend, you must not encourage this suggestion any more than I
can act upon it.”

“Man cannot divine what woman wants unless he asks her.”

John returned to the mansion where he worked. He glanced up
at the edifice from the back side, where the servants entered, and thanked the
powers that he had secured such a respectable and well-paying position. And
Alice. She had a way about her. And her black book gave her access to untold
favors.

Entering the house now would be its own special hell.

He would get to see and hear everything.

Torture came in many forms. He suspected he had just
increased his self-abasement a hundredfold. He doubted that he was the only
servant who had ever fallen in love with a woman quite above his station. He’d
always been in a position to declare that love but what good would it have
done? She might have laughed. He might have lost his position. Yes,
self-preservation was as keen as his need to tell her the truth.

Not in a hundred years would he have imagined that he’d have
the opportunity to bed Lucy. And the circumstances leading to that minor
miracle, while astounding to him, might seem tawdry to an aristocrat who had
never known the meaning of hunger or desperation.

Alice Dupuis had found him when he was twelve.

She had scoured him with a scrub brush and, in time, turned
him into a reasonable
facsimile
of a gentleman along with the
appropriate reference letter from one of her devoted clients. He was
faultlessly mannered when he had to be, which was most of the time. Exposure
came in times of stress—anger, sexual tension, frustration.

Alice had been a hard taskmaster when it came to his reading
and his sums.

And, of course, he had whored for her. Partly he knew he
must repay his debt to Alice. Secretly he enjoyed the strange reversal of
fortunes in that he got to fuck women who were shallow enough to bed a river
rat and think it a great delight. He enjoyed their screams though he was rarely
so moved as to release with them.

She had plenty of obscene specimens to delight her clients,
but John was what the ladies wanted. Large, but not so mythically proportioned
that he couldn’t service a woman properly.

At one time, John was Alice’s most highly paid prostitute.

He would always be grateful to her because she had known his
wish was to be someone respectable, to have a life and someday a family. He had
the funds to do so—Alice had been very generous in her payment to him and the
nobles who visited the brothel were enthusiastic in discussing their
investments.

After he obtained his position with the Duke of Wallingford,
after he had fallen in love with Lucy, John had spilled his secret to Alice, as
one does to a long-trusted friend.

It was true money couldn’t buy everything. What he had
invested was respectable but it would never buy the love of a duchess.

Nor could it erase his past.

* * * * *

Lucy pressed her hands to her face in an attempt to cool, or
maybe hide, the impassioned blush. A week ago she had indulged in such shocking
and rich pleasures that even now to think on them brought a wicked rush of
desire that coursed in hot bolts through her whole body until she thought she
would burst into flame.

She had naïvely imagined something tender and gentle. What
she received was tempestuous and life changing.

What surprised her was the pain of longing that had lodged
in her chest for a man she would never see again. Attempts to banish him from
her thoughts had failed and yet she couldn’t bring him into focus either.

These were the memories for which she had hoped. She wanted
to know physical passion and her encounter had provided it on a grand scale.

Mostly she relived those early-morning moments when he was
over her, slowly arousing her as if he cared about her every response. She’d
experienced more than physical satisfaction—each touch had been an unexpected
balm for her soul.

When she wasn’t trying to imagine who he was, she was
reliving the vivid sensation of his thorough kisses. But nothing compared to
the delight of having her body penetrated by his impressive cock. Each night as
she’d drifted off to sleep, she could practically feel his thrusts. Her body
wasn’t her own and responded to her imagination, fertile as it now was.

Of course, she did not have the kind of time she wished to
dwell on such fond and treasured memories. The whole house was in an uproar as
she and her son planned to leave London for the rest of the year, not returning
until after Christmas and hopefully, not until the season started once again.

The country was better for a young boy. Vincent needed more
practice riding, hunting and managing his estates. Lucy thought it best that
Mr. Darrow, who managed all of the Wallingford estates on behalf of the young
duke, teach Vincent all of the nuances that went with such a large
responsibility, with Lucy’s direction. Better to begin young and perfect his
skills than to stumble through and make her son’s life difficult later on.

Mr. Darrow strode by carrying several ledgers. “Your Grace,
perhaps another carriage might be needed after all.”

“Nonsense, if we cannot travel two days with all that we
need in
three
carriages, then I think I should consider whether we
mightn’t be better off leaving some of these trunks behind. Or bodies.”

“Oh no, Your Grace. I am sure that we will manage.”

“Good, because I don’t think it unreasonable that a boy with
an inclination toward mathematics is too young to begin learning how his
estates are run. Bring all the ledgers.”

“As you wish.” He bowed and returned in the direction from
whence he had come.

Lucy stepped from the library.

“Your Grace, His Grace is throwing a bit of a tantrum this
morning, insisting that you said he was not required to wear a cravat for the
journey.”

Lucy sighed. Could she not just get back to her room instead
of being waylaid by every servant in the household? She did not need Vincent’s
childish fit this morning. Not when she had planned to be well on their way by
eleven.

“Mr. Allen, please inform His Grace that I shall be along
directly to swat his bottom if I hear that he is inciting one more disruption
this morning. Better yet, why do you not discipline him? He needs instruction.”

“I am his valet, Your Grace. It would be best coming from
you.”

“Please resolve the matter, Mr. Allen, I am about to
perpetuate some great crime upon the next person who claims to have a problem.”

At the bottom of the stairs, she encountered Mr. Rhodes, the
house steward. “Your Grace, one more thing.”

“Yes, Rhodes?”

“I believe we shall include both—”

She held up her hand. “Rhodes? How long have you been the
steward in this household? Has it been ten years?”

“Not quite, Your Grace.”

“Whatever it is, I trust you to take care of it.”

She was most fortunate to have such reliable help. Thomas
had never given them or any of the house servants credit for their dedication
and hard work. When Thomas had died, she’d met with each of them and provided a
lavish bonus based on that commitment. Instead of dismissing Mr. Allen, who’d
endured years of Thomas’ chicanery, she had asked him to stay on as Vincent’s
valet rather than keep a fussing governess.

Compared to Thomas, they were saints—all impeccable and
flawless. Why couldn’t a duke be brought up to have such fine manners and mean
them? Instead of possessing a polished veneer, they were genuine to the core.

They almost made a husband superfluous.

She warmed to the sensation of want. Indulging, for her, was
a singular event. The next time she became intimate with a man, that man would
be her husband. And that fictional creature would have to be genuine quality.

Disappointment should be cast aside now. No man could live
up to her expectations in bed and she already knew husbands were, well, men.

Leaving London would be easier than leaving behind her
memories, but at least the next few days would be eventful.

Three carriages! Why wasn’t it possible to move a household
with less fuss? At fifteen minutes past eleven, the entourage was ready to
depart.

Vincent marched down the steps and strode past without
glancing her way, but he wore a neatly tied cravat. Mr. Allen stopped to
apologize. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. There is still a bit of a rebellion
brewing.”

She watched as they climbed into the last carriage, assisted
by one of the footmen.

“Mr. Darrow, would you ride with me for this leg of the
journey?” They had much to discuss regarding the future, mostly especially the
proper upbringing of a duke.

He bowed then opened his hand to assist her into her
carriage. Just as she settled, Mr. Rhodes hurried down the steps. “Lady
Aversham, this just arrived for you.” He handed the note through the carriage
window.

“Thank you. We will see you in a few days.”

“Your Grace.”

At last, they were on their way.

Mr. Darrow sat quietly in the corner, contemplating some
weighty matter as he stared out the window. Lucy flipped the note over. It was
addressed to her in an elegant scrawl. She slipped her finger under the flap
and broke the simple seal.