Improper Gentlemen Page 14

  “Aye. Then people from my past could hold nothing over my head. And let me keep it.”

  Lucy was appalled—if he confessed he’d have no reason to stay here and do what she wanted. Do what she needed. “You’d be ruined.”

  “Aye, that I would. All my pretentions to fit into Society would be shown to be the foolish dreams of a gutter thief. Ah, well. It was too much to hope for that I could get away with it all forever.”

  “No, Simon! You’ve worked too hard, come too far.” She swallowed. “Never mind about the kissing. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” She looked down at her hands, so white against the yellow of her robe, and sighed. “You should know I couldn’t clap you in jail. I was wrong to try to blackmail you. I thought I needed time to get settled—and teach you a lesson, too—but I’ll be fine. Better than fine. Just give me a day to pack and I’ll be out of your hair and you can get a new mistress.”

  Simon sat down on the bed, shifting her into him. He put his arm around her. “Those are the most words you’ve said to me in two days.”

  “I said quite a lot to you in my head.”

  He brushed her cheek with a fingertip. “I’ll bet. You never were a shy one.”

  “But I was. I was bold only with you, and look where that got me.”

  The stubble of his cheek tickled her forehead. “I’m sorry you felt you had no choice but to become Ferguson’s mistress.”

  “I—” She couldn’t say anything. She’d promised Percy.

  She needed to talk to Percy—explain to him that Sir Simon Keith was her Simon, come back as if from the dead. Percy was a romantic—surely he’d release her from her promise, or possibly even explain things to Simon himself. He didn’t have to go into every excruciating detail—and he owed her something, since she’d resorted to thieving for him.

  “But it’s all water under the bridge, Luce. We can’t change the past now, can we? We wouldn’t be the people we are today without it.”

  This philosophical Simon was a stranger to her, but the comfort of being in his arms was familiar. She snuggled in closer, grateful that he’d shed the layers of clothing a gentleman—even if he was a pretend gentleman—wore.

  “I’d like to kiss you anyway, blackmail or no,” he whispered. “Will you let me, Luce? Will you be my mistress tonight?”

  Why not? She would leave tomorrow—today, now, from the hands of the little china clock at her bedside. One night with Simon might not make up for thirteen years without, but it was the best she could do.

  “All right.” She’d save being sorry for later.

  She couldn’t miss the flash of smug triumph on his face. Damn. Lucy hadn’t put up much of a fight. She had folded from her blackmail scheme at the first sign that he was willing to throw his life away and confess to his sins, and had agreed to sleep with him despite the harm to her heart.

  But Simon would never have been so stupid as to tell the king or anyone else—more likely he would have stuffed Lucy bound and gagged in a closet like he did to poor Lady Murray when she came home to discover him rifling through her jewel box. Lady Murray had testified that the young man had been remarkably gentle and courteous as he had done so—nevertheless, it was considered kidnapping, even if Simon had seated her on a padded chair in her own closet, with her gouty foot up on a footstool.

  Simon fumbled with the ribbons of her peignoir.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  His fingers stopped tugging. “Pardon?”

  “A lady is entitled to change her mind.” Lucy wiggled out of Simon’s arms. She was immediately chilled.

  “I dinna understand.”

  There was no smugness on his face now, just a few wrinkles on his brow and a petulant lip. He was the picture of adorable confusion, but she vowed not to succumb to that puppy-dog look.

  “I misspoke. I don’t want to be your mistress. Or any man’s mistress.”

  “You’re coming a bit late to that conclusion, aren’t you, Luce?”

  Lucy clutched her hands into fists before she slapped him. But now that she had two fists good and ready, why not? She punched him on his stubbled chin. Not hard. But hard enough.

  “Oy! What’s that for, now? I’m not laying a hand on you, you daft wench.”

  She scrambled off the bed. “You’re right, Simon. I am daft. To think I almost—well, never mind. I’ll thank you to leave now. I’ll be out first thing in the morning. Percy wants all the dresses, so I won’t have much to pack.”

  Simon rubbed his chin, looking wounded, as if such a hulking man could really be injured by anything smaller than a large-bore cannon. Then he shook his head, a dark curl flopping over his left eyebrow. “Nay. I’ll not leave. We have an agreement. In writing.”

  Lucy swallowed back a shriek. It would do no good to work herself up anymore—she was already feeling an uncomfortable pulse at her neck. “Very well. Sleep with your agreement. I’m going to go sleep on the sofa in the upstairs parlor. Good night.”

  She made it halfway through the door before she was trapped in Simon’s arms again.

  “Let me go!”

  His breath was warm on her cheek. “Never.”

  She could feel the pounding of his heart against her chest. “You let me go before. Why do you want me now when I don’t want you?”

  He looked down at her, his blue eyes feral. “Don’t you, lass?”

  He was insufferable.

  He was right.

  What was it about this thoughtless brute that made her lose her wits? She was practically elderly now—she should know better. She did know better.

  One night with Simon might lead to two—or more—and then she really would be losing her pasted-over virtue. He’d soon tire of her.

  He’d marry.

  And then where would she be?

  “Please let me go.”

  “I canna. Ye fit perfect, Luce. Can ye nae feel it?”

  Oh, she felt it. She felt everything. His erection pressed into her belly, his fingers stroking her back and playing with her unbound hair, his lips against her temple. He sounded now like the boy she had loved, who had sweet-talked her until she’d gorged and sickened on his honeyed words. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “Och, Luce, dinna ye cry.” He brushed the tears away, then kissed their traces. Lifting her mouth to his, she tasted her salt and his mint. She allowed him to delve into a deeper kiss, for how could she not? She could stand in the doorway forever kissing him, as long as he held her up.

  But it seemed Simon had other ideas. He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her back to the bed, where he laid her down as if she were a fragile egg. But that was his last gentle maneuver, for his hands tore at her clothing and his mouth feasted on her newly exposed skin. He nipped her throat and worked his way down her chest, thumbing her nipples to diamond-hard peaks. Somehow he made her feel full and womanly, cupping one breast in his large warm hand as he suckled and swirled at the other. Lucy felt a tug to her womb as his tongue worked his new magic.

  For it was new—her Simon had not the expertise that Sir Simon possessed, nor had he had the luxury of making love to her in a soft feather bed all those years ago. The combination of his skill and her comfort—and discomfort, too, for how could she combat the scorching heat that washed over her?—made her sink deeper into the mattress in confusion, torn between purely receiving and reaching out to him.

  Lucy ached in places that had been neglected too long, most especially her heart, which threaded and jumped as if being squeezed. She might die any minute, but please not before he finished with her. Before they finished with each other.

  Her body was waking, each brush of his fingers and lips sparking against her skin. It was no longer enough to lie passively as he swept her up in sin. She needed to feel his skin, too. Somehow she emerged from her dazed languor to pull up Simon’s shirt. Lucy wanted to touch his chest as he was touching hers, but with a growl he captured her hand and thrust it lower. His cock wa
s enormous, stiff, straining to be relieved of the constraint of fabric. She obliged, fingers trembling at his falls.

  His cock was hot and velvety in her hand. It, like the rest of him, seemed to have grown from what she recalled. But she couldn’t see for herself, as Simon’s shaggy dark head obstructed her vision. So she went on sensation alone, thumbing the raised vein from root to tip. It jerked in response and Simon’s tongue twinned with it in a desperate thrust around her nipple. Lucy fitted her hand around his cock and drew it up, then down in the dimly-remembered dance they’d perfected in their snatched moments. She had not lost the knack—Simon expressed satisfyingly anguished sounds as she glided slowly around his member. His hand abandoned a breast and sought her center, replicating what he’d done in the theatre, using a thumb instead of a tongue to press against her pubic bone. A few short, hard strokes and she was crumbling again, fragmenting, shattering, breaking apart and grateful for every scattered shard.

  Her breathless cries didn’t stop him. Simon had said something about too many orgasms. She had lost count already and she was as good with numbers as he was good with his hands. As Simon continued the onslaught, Lucy quite forgot to touch him, so witless was she.

  But he soon remedied that, easing his fingers away. Before Lucy could come down from her heights to miss him, he settled himself over her and inched inside her.

  She was tight. It was slow going, but he was patient, his shadowed face a study in concentration. He was too beautiful to look at, so she turned her head. His arms corded at her sides, muscled and entirely masculine, his hands splayed near her shoulders. His blackened fingernails fascinated her—he was so clean everywhere else. The nails were clipped short and buffed—by a MacTavish, no doubt, if Simon sat still long enough. He seemed like a tightly-coiled spring, bursting with energy and industry. It was only at the opera he’d been physically quiet, mesmerized by that outrageous woman who played Orpheus. Lucy supposed after Percy she should be used to people switching genders, but she was still not entirely comfortable with the idea. The thought of it all would send her strict aunt into a state of permanent vapors.

  Lucy chided herself for thinking of her aunt at a time like this, when Simon was doing his damnedest to connect himself to her. But perhaps she should distract herself—not think about how perfect he felt as he entered her and withdrew, how hard and hot he was, how—oh! that twisty thing he still did that touched her just where she needed most to be touched—how liquid and loose she felt as she lay under him, like a pond that still rippled from a rock being tossed in.

  But Lucy felt the ocean coming, crashing waves and lunar pull, and thoughts of aunts and opera dissolved in the storm that was Simon, his face in exquisite agony—she had to look up now—his blue eyes beseeching. There was perfect understanding between them. No barrier. No hesitation. No regret.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Yes and yes and yes. He swept down to kiss her when he came, an uncontrolled kiss and clash of teeth and tongue that took her along with him. Her hips rose to meet the last deep thrust and she wrapped her long legs around him, drawing him in and keeping him safe.

  They shuddered together, damp, disheveled, exultant. Simon still kissed her, moving his lips from hers to her nose, her eyelids, her forehead. She felt like a child blessed at church.

  Lucy had wondered all those years ago what this would be like—to love Simon in a proper bed, to not be afraid of discovery, to allow him to spill within her. They had been remarkably careful as youngsters, not wanting to bring another poor baby into the world. If she fell pregnant after tonight, she expected Simon would see to it that she and the child were provided for.

  A child would be a miracle—she’d not allowed herself to think along those lines for years, watching her youth vanish along with her reputation.

  Simon’s baby. Lucy envisioned a dark-haired busy boy whose pockets would be filled with clockworks and coils of wire.

  Och, she was a sentimental fool, dreaming of a future that was not to be. This was just one night—it meant nothing. Would lead to nothing, and shouldn’t. What would she do with a child, bringing it up alone? Simon thought she was a whore, would probably take the child from her. Even if she told him the truth, he was not apt to believe her. What woman who lived on Jane Street for six years could be innocent?

  Lucy shut her eyes, smoothing a cheek on Simon’s shoulder, the scent of his skin as familiar to her as her own reflection. Some things never changed. She’d fallen victim to him again but she couldn’t blame him. Lucy had been hungry for a man’s touch for too long. The fact that Simon seemed to be the only man who made her heart stutter was not his fault.

  She should say something to him as he held her tight, but she didn’t trust herself to speak. He was equally reticent, the only sound in the room the steady hiss and hum of burning coals in the fireplace. They lay entwined until Lucy’s heart slowed and the sweat chilled her skin.

  Simon noticed her shiver and hugged her. “Are you cold, Luce?”

  She nodded. He reached for the edge of the blanket and wrapped it around them, but it was still not enough to warm the ice within. She would have to leave tomorrow—today. Where would she go? She hadn’t a friend left in the world except Percy.

  Percy. Perhaps he’d take her on his staff. She could be his secret lady’s maid. A hopeless chortle erupted.

  “What’s so funny, Luce? Dinna tell me you find this pickle funny.”

  Lucy pulled away. “This pickle?”

  “Aye. I’ll not be fighting you tooth and nail every time I take you to bed. We need to set some ground rules. I’m that fond of my chin.”

  Lucy was too. Right now it was dusted with the beginnings of his dark beard and he looked like a delicious pirate. “Just because—” Lucy swallowed. “This was a one-off, Simon. I still plan to leave.”

  His lips quirked. “This meant nothing to you? You needn’t lie to me, Luce. I know women. I know you. You were every bit as engaged as I.”

  “Are you expecting me to sing your praises? You’ll have a long wait. I’ve had better.”

  Lie, lie, lie. It was the only thing that would free her.

  Simon didn’t seem in the least perturbed. He stroked her flushed cheek with a fingertip. “Perhaps you can teach me a trick or two from your repertoire. I’m always interested in learning new things, especially if they add to my pleasure. If I could teach myself to read, I don’t doubt you could teach me to fuck you with greater finesse.”

  Finesse. He had been reading the dictionary. The look on his face told her he didn’t think it was possible for him to improve his amatory skill, and he was right, damn him.

  “You are revolting.” She wriggled in his arms but he wouldn’t let her go.

  “I hear the courtesans on Jane Street are unsurpassed in the sexual arts. So, what’s your first lesson? I’m an eager pupil.”

  She resolutely shut her eyes. “I’m tired, Simon. I want to go to sleep.”

  “All right.”

  Lucy waited for him to let her go, but she was still clamped in his arms. She poked his chest. “Go home, Simon.”

  “Nay. I’m perfectly comfortable right where I am.”

  “Well, I am not! I can’t sleep with you here, all over me. I can’t breathe.”

  “You seem to have enough breath to yell at me. Hush now.” He kissed the top of her head.

  Unbelievable! She writhed a bit, but it was clear Simon would not give way. Lucy would just have to hope he forgot to hold her once he fell asleep.

  But it was dawn before he disentangled himself from her, and that was only so he could stoke the fire and kiss her body awake in warmth.

  Chapter 11

  There was much an important man like Sir Simon Keith had on his plate this day, but at the moment he could not recall a single appointment or obligation. In fact, he really never wanted to leave the bed again to do anything but make love to Lucy, now that the chill had been driven from the room. The fire roared merrily, the October sun streamed in
between the chintz curtains, and his mistress lay dazed and dazzled in a patch of light. Her hair was the color of the fine copper wire he used in his electrical experiments, a lovely rose-gold. He wrapped a strand around his finger, almost feeling its own current to his heart.

  They’d shared a connection years ago, when she was coltish and shy but the most beautiful girl he knew. Lucy was beautiful still—in her own particular, out-of-the-ordinary way. Or would be if she weren’t scowling at him, her bronzy eyebrows beetling. Had she already forgotten what he’d done to her this morning? Twice.

  At some point he’d have to devote a portion of his brain to rescuing Lucy from this life of debauchery and make her his wife. For there was not a question in his mind after last night and this morning that he wanted to marry her. The idea of her sleeping—and not sleeping—beside him filled him with intense, obstinate desire.

  Simon didn’t care how many men she’d slept with. He’d been her first, by God, and he would be her last. If having Lucy meant giving up his tenuous hold on London Society, well then, so what? He’d still have his money and his ideas. He could work from anywhere. Wouldn’t it be restful if he spent more time at his Cotswold estate? The fresh air would put roses in Lucy’s cheeks, and the country was a better place to raise children anyhow.

  Simon’s blurry vision of domestic bliss was interrupted by a sharp elbow to his ribs. “Get off me.”

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “What’s the magic word?”

  “Now,” Lucy ground out.

  He glanced at the china clock. She had a point. If he stayed here much longer his secretary and the MacTavish boys would not forgive him.

  He nuzzled her long white neck. “I’ll leave after breakfast.”

  Lucy whuffed her disapproval through flaring nostrils. “Surely it’s too late for breakfast.”

  “That may be, but I’m hungry nonetheless and my staff will have food warming for us. Shall we eat here or go downstairs?”