Eliza Lloyd (5 page)

Some friend wishing her well, no doubt.

Tess, I have thought of nothing but you.

Her vision blurred as she was robbed of breath and feeling.
The inside of the carriage heated to an inferno.

“Your Grace? Madam, are you well?”

The carriage dimmed and Lucy couldn’t stop her body from
sliding downward as all thought disappeared into oblivion.

When Lucy regained awareness, Mr. Darrow stared down at her,
his hand clutching one of hers. Not the one with the note crunched in her fist.

“Your Grace, should I stop the carriage?”

She took a deep breath. “Oh, no. I-I was overcome by a
sudden wave of heat.”

He assisted her into an upright position.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Quite. Thank you.” She pulled her hand away and placed
it to her chest. If her heart were racing the carriage horses, she would arrive
at the estate first, well ahead of the others. She giggled at the absurdity and
pressed her hand over her mouth.

“Your Grace?”

“Please, Mr. Darrow. I need to rest for a moment. I am sorry
I won’t be amiable company for the next few hours. I think the rush of season’s
end and all the excitement of leaving caught up with me at once.” A secret
missive from a one-time lover had nothing to do with it.

“Of course.”

The corner of the carriage was not far enough away. To
reread the note now might cause further histrionics, which she would not be
able to explain to anyone’s satisfaction. They were barely to Hyde Park corner.
She was not going back, not after receiving such a shocking missive.

He knew her.
He knew her?
Where she lived. Her
name.

Madame Dupuis had assured her, repeatedly, of the brothel’s
reputation. All would remain private.

John had acted on his own then.

John.

No thoughts provided a reasonable explanation or a rational
response. Hiding in the country was no solution, not that she was hiding. No,
this trip had been planned. So why did she feel as if she were now running for
her life?

It was the fact she was still taking quick shallow breaths
as if a bear were chasing her. One with a very large phallus.

What a disaster. Her first illicit affair and she was
caught. How would she endure the humiliation when it was made known? Was that
John’s intent? Bribery? The note was still crushed in her hand. Had she read it
all before she’d fainted? Had she misread the note?

She had never understood how other woman had such liaisons
and thought nothing of the embarrassment, as if they were proud of their
notoriety. Yes, she would admit she had too much pride to endure public
vilification.

Her thoughts churned.

“Your Grace? Are you sure you are well? You have not said a
word for four hours and we are coming upon the first stop.”

“A stop already?” She glanced through the window and saw the
familiar coaching inn. She hadn’t slept and felt the strong need to do so.
Another day and a half before she was on familiar territory once again—this
strange uncertainty would eat at her until she felt safe in her own home.

The coach came to a stop, lurching with the suddenness. Lucy
grabbed the leather strap before she was toppled to the floor. Mr. Darrow
jumped from the carriage and reached a hand toward her.

Fresh air and a quiet stroll would be most beneficial. The
commotion from the other carriages was a welcome distraction. Mr. Allen and
Vincent descended quickly from their perch and her son ran to her, everything
pertaining to cravat-wearing forgiven and forgotten.

“I’ll arrange for food and the necessaries,” Mr. Darrow
said, bowing before he hurried through the crowds already milling at the inn.

Lucy nodded and smiled down at her son as he proceeded to
describe every scene betwixt and between.

“Walk with me, Vincent.” She took his hand, probably
clutching it a bit too tightly, but her anxious desperation needed an outlet
and her son was the closest thing to stability at the moment. “There is a small
stream this way,” she said.

Once they arrived, Vincent ran toward the water’s edge and
for once, Lucy didn’t fuss about the dangers of falling in headfirst. How could
she when she was drowning herself?

A rounded rock provided a stable resting spot and she leaned
against it as she finally released her grip on the crumpled paper. Counting to
ten, she calmed herself before unfolding and flattening the missive.

Tess, I have thought of nothing but you. Yes, I know who
you are and have known you for many years. I have warred with my feelings for
you and whether I should reveal myself. It feels selfish even as I write it. I
would ask your forgiveness, except I have never known happier moments than when
I am with you.

Would you meet with me if I promise no further intrusion
upon your life? John.

Serenity wasn’t what she felt, but she folded the note and
tucked it away as if she hadn’t a care in the world. The threat of disclosure
had diminished to be replaced by a stranger one—the man she had bedded knew
her. She had given herself brazenly and completely to an acquaintance, a
friend, a peer? The vintner, the coachman, the—

“Your Grace, Mr. Darrow sent me. All is ready and I thought
I would take Vincent in.”

“Of course, Mr. Allen. As you wish.”

“Will you be accompanying us?”

“No. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

Vincent insisted on showing Mr. Allen a pool containing
several fish instead of returning to the inn. Lucy pushed to her feet and
walked away. Food had no appeal so she found the privy instead.

She did not reread the note. It was a futile attempt to keep
her thoughts at bay but by slow degrees, she became numb to the idea of
discovery and embarrassment. She could not change what had happened. Now she
must find a way to rectify her mistake with as little theater as possible.

Thus the arrival at Aversham Park was a relief. Within a
day, Lord and Lady Birmingham had arrived along with Lord Birmingham’s younger
brother. It seemed all of London had migrated to the country and the Duchess of
Wallingford was to greet them with open arms.

Two days later, the remaining household staff from London
arrived with Mr. Rhodes.

Fond memories and acute sexual desire did not change the
fact she felt exposed—and maybe even a little betrayed. Her days were filled
but she went through them knowing an axe hung over her head. Waiting for it to
fall was painful.

When the day came, she felt nothing but relief.

John watched her from the second floor of the house, from an
empty bedroom that overlooked the greenhouses where he had asked to meet Lucy.

She had been troubled since he had sent the original note.
He saw it in the way her eyes looked down and away as if she were ashamed. He
sensed it in the manner in which she sat as if she had a hundred thoughts
burdening her.

And it was only his stupid, selfish note.

All he had done was to reveal his true nature and his
uneducated upbringing.

No true gentleman would have approached her with such a
confession, not when she hadn’t given any hint that she might wish to pursue a
liaison with him. Wasn’t this a cardinal rule? Wasn’t this proof that his blood
was tainted with his past and whatever birthright had been passed to him by
complete strangers?

When he saw her walk through the gardens and cut across the
trimmed grass, he knew a moment of relief. He needed only to confirm that she
wished to see him.

Did she suspect? Had she concocted a reasonable explanation
for all that had transpired or even guessed as to his identity?

Or did she even notice him when she entered the duke’s room
to check on her son? He had spoken to her nearly every day for over eight
years. Could she not see past her servant to the man beneath?

Lucy had entered the greenhouse and stayed several long
minutes, expecting him, but he had a larger plan.

He might not be a Duke or a wealthy cit but he had fashioned
himself into a man worthy of respect in spite of his harsh and humiliating
beginnings. That is all he would present to her tonight.

It did not hurt that he also knew how to please a woman in
oh so many ways. If there was a place he felt confident, it was in bed with a
woman. Did that make up for his lack of title? Did it mean anything to a woman
with everything?

For Lucy, and for him, he would give them one last night
together before his world crumbled with her rejection.

During the early evening, the duchess insisted on seeing her
son before his bedtime. John stood in the room, listening to the conversation
as Vincent had to recount his day.

“Cook says it is the largest fish she’s ever seen.”

“And you caught it all by yourself?”

“Mostly by myself.”

“And how did you do with the accounting ledgers?”

“Too many numbers. Did you know we own a farm in Scotland?”

“
You do
and yes I did.”

“Why haven’t we gone? I would bet they have even bigger fish
there.” He leaned toward his mother and put his arm around her shoulder,
attempting to whisper. “Mr. Allen says I have to go to church tomorrow.
Mightn’t I go fishing with Mr. Darrow instead?”

“Not tomorrow and no fussing or not the day after either.
Now kiss me good night, Vincent, and let Mr. Allen get you ready for bed.”

“Do I have to bathe?”

“Yes.” She tapped his nose. “Sweet dreams.”

He bowed to her. “Good night, Mama.”

She smiled and brushed her fingertips over his cheek.

John assisted young Vincent from his formal wear, ensured
that the duke’s ears were clean and wrestled him into his nightshirt. His
responsibilities to a seven-year-old duke were pleasantly different than those
to a grown man. Mostly, John was required to answer questions that seemed to
flow from Vincent’s head and into his mouth faster than John could compile an
answer. Tonight was no different. As soon as his head hit the pillow though, Vincent
was asleep and John proceed to hang the clothes, arrange for tomorrow’s
attendance at church and make sure his charge was presentable and comfortable
at all times.

He heard Lucy in the next room talking to her lady’s maid.
When she was home and alone, the duchess slept promptly at nine thirty. There
would be plenty of time to wash and shave and silently make his way to her room
once the house was quiet and the night completely dark.

He would pleasure her, but mostly he would love her.

Pouring out his feeling would not be difficult, especially
when he could use his touch and his kiss and his body to express all that he
felt. Was this how a man experienced his last moments? Wanting every final
sensation to be perfect and indelible?

The halls were empty after eleven as the household settled
into sleep. Reasonable country hours were always his favorite. He entered
through the duke’s room and went to the connecting door of the duchess’s suite.

He could not have stilled the wayward beating of his heart
had he wanted to. Other than the frantic
thud, thud
, he thought he
entered her room with absolute silence. His gaze adapted quickly and he sought
the bed where she was barely visible, only the outline of her body.

This would not be an all-night affair—once, maybe twice
would he enter her. If she allowed, he would hold her afterward. He wanted to
feel her naked skin against his, the damp heat of her body pressed to his
throughout the night. If she allowed.

His cock had performed a painful dance all day—hard enough
to hammer nails one minute and the next, soft tumescence that ached to be
touched.

He parted his robe and let it slide to the floor beside her
bed. In one hand he carried a bottle of lubricating oil which he spread over
his cock. Foreplay would have to wait. He needed to be inside her, he needed to
pleasure her.

Would she see it as a gift or would he frighten her?

Where he sat, the bed was soft and quiet. Lucy moaned in her
sleep, aware of him he supposed, or just aware that something had disturbed her
slumber.

He lay behind her, his cock fitting neatly into the cleft of
her ass.

“Tess,” he whispered near her ear. “Tess.”

She woke with a start, every inch of her body tensing,
curled next to his.

She gasped. His name fell from her lips as if she had just been
dreaming of him. “John,” she said.

He pushed down the sleeve of her gown and pressed his lips
to her shoulder.

“John,” she said again. “I don’t want to know. I can’t
know,” she pled.

He heard the emotion in her voice, some mix of sadness,
relief and agony. “Don’t cry, Tess.”

Comfort was only a touch away, but he knew peace would be
much more difficult to find. When he revealed himself, how could either of them
feel anything resembling affection? She could not love him and he should not go
on loving her.

His thoughts were torture and he knew only one solution.

Lush curves met the palm of his hand as he swept upward,
bringing the gown with it. She wiggled, letting him remove the rail and as she
did so, her ass lit a fuse in his groin.

He palmed her hip and then moved her leg forward. He canted
his hips, allowing his cock to slip downward between her warm thighs. The smell
of honey lured him.

There was no refusal, no rejection.

He pressed the head of his cock into the welcoming
tightness. Oh, it was good. Two weeks might have been a lifetime. Two weeks—the
distance between heaven and hell.

John’s thoughts slowed his excitement. After all, this was
about Lucy, not him.

He undulated with slow ease. Aside from their steady
breathing, only the slick sound of wet withdrawal could be heard in the
stillness of the room.

He slid one hand under her pillow and the other he tightened
about her waist, wanting to be as close as possible. Never wanting to let her
go. Her fingers entwined with his.

Release came quietly for her as she came apart in his arms.
Moaning softly with each deep entry, she tensed. Her cunny squeezed and then
pulsed around his cock. Once those pulses diminished, he withdrew, always
mindful of where his seed landed.

Being especially careful that it did not land in the fertile
valley of a Duchess.

A child would be difficult to explain.

More difficult than an inappropriate lover.

His cock was crushed between her back and his stomach. The
warm eruption of seed coated them. He had known women who were repulsed by such
a rustic display. Lucy seemed unconcerned and quiet. He used the silky rail to
wipe them clean.

John rolled to his back. Lucy rolled to her other side,
wrapped one arm over his chest and lifted her leg over his groin, smothering
his still tumescent cock. He ran his hand through her hair and caressed her
head with the tips of his fingers. While the sexual intercourse was sweetness
and life, holding Lucy in his arms was what his dreams were made of.

“Is John your real name?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Me too.”

* * * * *

They had agreed to meet in the library at eleven, after the
family returned from early-morning services.

He’d peeled away from her burning body and welcoming bed
well before sunrise, unwilling to break the spell, unwilling to be caught in
her bed and unwilling that he should have to tell the truth and forever
determine his fate.

Lucy’s future was set in stone. She was the wife and mother
of a duke.

How did one change the fate of a woman who from birth was
destined for such a role in society?

He thought of his fate. How did a starving orphan come to
the attention of a caring abbess who provided him a stable future? Some might
think whoring was the lowest profession but how did one compare that to dying
on the streets of London when a warm bed, a warm meal and a warm body were his
each day and night?

He arrived twenty minutes early, unable to bear another
moment.

Lucy stood to the side of the desk, holding a book but
staring toward the windows. She glanced at him. “Oh, Mr. Allen. Has Vincent caused
some mischief?”

She saw him and thought of her son. It was natural, he
supposed.

He gently closed the door behind him. His gaze bore into
hers—man to woman.

Her fingers pressed against the edge of the desk for support
and she stepped back, sinking into the overlarge desk chair.

“I’m John Allen.”

“John Allen. John.”

The long pause was enough to make him squirm. He might have
been the valet of two dukes but he did not have the polish to stand boldly as
if he had done nothing untoward—he actually felt shame and guilt when he was
about to cause another person harm.

“Where do you come from?”

There were many questions that had no good answer. Each
would be a nail in the coffin of his dismissal.

“Your Grace, I’m not sure of the direction of this
conversation but might I ask your word in one regard?”

She nodded, using both her head and her eyebrows to affirm
his request. Her gaze had not left his, searching for the man behind the mask,
he suspected.

“A selfish request, to be sure. If at the end of this
conversation you determine it would be best to dismiss me, I would most humbly
and greatly appreciate a letter of reference.” Who knew what might happen
during the heat of emotion? He had imagined several outcomes, none of which
involved her throwing herself into his arms and telling him she loved him.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

John wasn’t sure where to start. He was still angry with
himself that he’d given in to Alice’s hopeful delusions that he might somehow
win over the duchess. Lucy. He would take it back if he could. There was no
future for them and since he was admitting to painful truths, he might as well
admit there never had been hope of a future. Love was a poor substitute for a
reliable job and perfect reputation.

Love would never be enough. The gap was too wide. The leap
too great.

Love would never be enough because he was the only one who
loved.

Lucy would never be able to.

She sat in front of him with a calm demeanor that only a
duchess could summon. Her fingers were clasped together while her face remained
an expressionless mask.

“Why do we not start at the beginning,” she said. “Before
the whorehouse and my reckless behavior,” she said.

“Your Grace—”

“Would it not be easier to use my name?”

“Tess?”

She smiled. He was surprised by his boldness.

“My past is as murky as yours is pristine. I fear revealing
anything to you will only make a difficult situation worse.”

“How did you arrange to be with me?”

“I’ve a long-standing acquaintance with Alice Dupuis.”

“So you knew I was visiting the whorehouse?”

“She told me.”

“She told you?”

“I revealed to her certain feelings with regard to my
employer. With her intimate knowledge of my background, she thought I would be
a suitable lover.”

She glanced down, her fingers touching her lips as if she
had nothing to say.

“Do you wish me to pack my belongings?” he asked.

“Do you think it is just that simple, John? How can I
respond? I’ve experienced two of the most wonderful nights of my life and I
find out that on those nights I was intimate with one of my servants who has a
seemingly questionable past. Do I go on? How can I make a decision when I don’t
understand how any of this could have happened to begin with?”

Her words were stern, stressed yet delivered with calm
quietness.

“Lucy, I have cared about you since the day I started
working for the duke. It would kill me to hurt you. When Alice told me about
your need, I did the one thing I knew I could do that would not only make you
happy, I could give you something very few men could.”

“I’m not an immoral woman. I’ve never had an affair before.”

“Oh God, I never thought that. Ever.” He’d thought the
Duchess of Wallingford was of the finest character. He saw it in the small
things—how she treated the servants, her determination to raise a respectable
son, her quiet dignity in bearing a marriage that seemed burdensome and
joyless.

There were also the things that appealed to him
superficially. He could not help that she excited him with her bold-colored
gowns, low-scooped necklines and the way her small waist curved into the most
delectable hips and ass. He’d attributed his reactions to his base upbringing
and his years at Alice’s whorehouse. He knew a perfect figure when he saw one.