Where Destiny Plays, page 20
“What is it that interests you, Lord Petersham, if not politics?”
Ah, casual conversation. “I own a railway company.” It was the easiest way to put it.
“How very modern.”
“And you? I’m sure you find something entertaining other than dancing.”
“I’m fascinated by archaeology.”
That made him take his eyes off Lavinia. “Like Greek ruins?”
“Yes, or Roman or Egyptian or Persian.”
Geoff’s son was immersed in that sort of thing. “Have you traveled much?”
“You mean on your railway?”
Clever girl. He smiled. “Ah, no. I meant to study ruins.”
She blushed. It was quite endearing. “No. I read books and visit museums.”
She should really meet William. “Miss Smythe, one day I would like to introduce you to a young man I know. His father is a partner of mine in the railway business. The young man is also fascinated by archaeology.”
“Thank you, Lord Petersham. I would like that very much.”
If he had to politely disentangle himself from each one of Mother’s hoped-for prospects, then so be it. At least he had a potential happy ending for Miss Smythe. He smiled before stealing a glance toward Lavinia. She still chatted with Mother, Lady Banbury, and the handsome man.
The dance ended and he escorted Miss Smythe back to Lady Banbury. Probably a bit too briskly.
“Beatrice, you look so stunning on the dance floor,” the handsome man effused.
Beatrice blushed. “Thank you, Papa.”
Papa? Good God. The man was his contemporary. Surely Mother could see that.
“Lord Petersham,” Lavinia began, “may I introduce to you my especial good friend, the Earl of Ryburgh?” She turned to the handsome earl. “Felix, may I introduce the Earl of Petersham.”
Felix? She addressed him by his Christian name?
“Petersham.” Ryburgh nodded. “You were quite fine on the dance floor as well. Thank you for indulging my daughter.”
“My pleasure, Ryburgh.”
“Beatrice,” Lady Banbury said, “we must find your next partner.”
“And I’m off as well,” Ryburgh said jovially. “A cigar awaits me somewhere I’m sure.” He quirked a brow at Arthur. “Join me, Petersham?”
Tempting, but he hoped to get Lavinia alone. “Another time perhaps.”
The earl bowed his exit and the countess and her charge bid their adieux. Lavinia was about to join them when Mother requested she stay.
“Lady Foxley-Graham, please inform my son what a wonderful girl Miss Smythe is.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “I think you just did, Mother.”
“Oh, but she is, Lady Richmond, she is. Accomplished in all the feminine arts and at so young an age.”
Lavinia was cruel. He wanted to be cruel as well but really should simply change the topic of conversation.
“I doubt very much she wants to be married to a man her father’s age.”
Mother sighed. “Arthur, I merely thought you would like Miss Smythe because of her blonde curls. Don’t you think she looks like Henrietta?”
Horror sliced through his heart. No one could replace Henny. No one. “The blonde hair is the only resemblance, Mother.”
Lavinia caught his eye, offering an expression of condolence. “My lord, I would be grateful for an escort to the terrace. I’m feeling a bit lightheaded in the stuffiness of the ballroom.” She whipped out her fan.
He offered a weak smile for her efforts. Mother most likely had yet another child lined up on his dance card.
“Arthur,” Mother said, “why don’t you go along. I can fend for myself.”
“Are you sure? Let me at least find you a comfortable seat.”
Once Mother was deposited on a chair against the wall next to an exotic plant and a chatty matron, he offered his arm to Lavinia.
“Thank you,” he said under his breath.
They walked along the fringes of the dance floor, nodding to casual acquaintances, briefly greeting others. The Earl of Thuxton approached, holding a glass of champagne carelessly, his bearing at odds with his meticulously groomed gray hair and mustache. He nodded to Arthur before turning his raw gaze to Lavinia.
“Lady Foxley-Graham, how divine to see you.” He kissed her hand far too intimately.
“Lord Thuxton, the pleasure is mine.” She offered him a devastating smile.
“Petersham.” The greeting was polite, his attention straying only momentarily to Arthur.
“Thuxton,” Arthur said, trying to maintain a veneer of civility. “How is it that you know Lady Foxley-Graham?”
“Politics.” It was said curtly, never taking his eyes off Lavinia.
“Lord Thuxton and I met during debate over the amendments to the Married Women’s Property Act back in ‘74.”
Arthur quirked a brow in Thuxton’s direction. “Women’s rights, eh? I wouldn’t have guessed that as one of your causes.” Thuxton was a notorious womanizer. His striking good looks and famed bachelor status assured his success with the fairer sex.
“A confident and free woman is the best kind.” He glanced at Arthur. “Of course you already know that.”
“And how do you two know each other?” Lavinia asked.
“Thuxton is a major investor in Harwell Phillips & Company.” Arthur turned to Thuxton. “Lady Foxley-Graham is a long-time friend of Joseph’s new son-in-law. We’re to be godparents to their first child.”
“My heartfelt congratulations! Children are such a blessing.” He lifted his champagne to his lips. “Especially when they are not one’s own.”
Lavinia snorted with amusement. “Edgar, you are terrible!”
Edgar?
Thuxton winked then perused the crowd. “Ah, I see my next conquest. Or dance partner if you prefer.” He fondled Lavinia’s hand too intimately once again. “I’ll leave you to pursue the waltz as you wish.” His mouth curled suggestively. “She’s a good dance partner, isn’t she, Petersham?”
The man clearly had had too much champagne. “Lady Foxley-Graham excels in most everything she does.”
Thuxton nodded and made his exit.
Arthur seethed. The earl had been too familiar. “Thuxton? Really?” he said under his breath. “He’s as old as my father.”
“He’s only in his sixties, Arthur. My husband would have been in his eighties by now. And it was years ago. No worries, my lord. It’s well over.”
Arthur wrapped her arm around his once again and clamped his other hand on top to secure her. “Are we going to keep meeting your lovers at these events?”
Her steps faltered. “I beg your pardon?”
“Thuxton, Ryburgh, St. Albans. I’m not so certain Joseph never tried to get you into bed.”
She stopped and turned to him. “As you well know,” she said under her breath. “I have a very long history with and great affection for Nicholas. I’m sure you have similar relationships.”
Arthur grunted.
“I never slept with Lord Ryburgh. And while he may be handsome, the man is nothing but faithful to his wife and children. He would never betray his family. His reputation for honor and fidelity is something you should be aware of before you join Lords.”
Arthur grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing footman and gulped a swig.
“As far as Joseph Phillips is concerned, if he finds me attractive and has said as much to you then I am flattered. And though I do admit he is appealing, he has a new arrangement with his wife that precludes such entanglements.” Lavinia snatched the champagne from Arthur and downed the remainder before placing the glass on the returning footman’s tray. “If you are feeling frustrated, my lord, I am not to blame. I cannot help it if my former lovers move in polite society and not the demi-monde.”
He glared at her. “That was cutting.”
“It was meant to be. I haven’t slept with every man I know, my lord. It is cutting that you assume so.” She glared back, her upper lip twitching, then looked away at the crowded dance floor.
She was right. Frustration was driving his bad behavior. “Christ, Lavinia, I apologize,” he said softly. “I’m consumed by jealousy. I have no right to be.”
“And I was jealous watching you and Miss Smythe. You looked too comfortable.”
He was about to object but her expression had softened. “I feel comfortable in your arms, my lady. Shall we have a waltz before repairing to the terrace?”
“I would be delighted,” she said, suppressing a grin.
And then she was in his arms and they were moving perfectly together. Too perfectly. Like long-time lovers. Or an old married couple.
He leaned in so close her perfume flared his nostrils. “Your neck, your shoulders, your bosom are so beautifully pale.” His hand at her waist held her more tightly. “But I prefer to see your ivory skin suffused with the blush of desire or the afterglow of passion.”
Her gaze flicked to his eyes then retreated to his shoulder. Her cheeks grew pink above her suppressed smile.
He whirled her gently, pressing his hips against her briefly. “And if I told you my cock was so hard I could take you right here in front of everyone, would more than just your cheeks flush in anticipation?”
She gasped.
“Would you like a walk in the fresh air, Lady Foxley-Graham? You look a tad over-exhilarated.”
“Thank you, my lord, that would be ideal.”
They walked calmly, he with the intention of not drawing too much attention to his erection.
Once out on the terrace she inhaled deeply. “It is refreshing to breathe something other than perfume and perspiration, is it not?”
He chuckled. “I thought you liked these sorts of events.” He pulled off his gloves and crammed them into his pocket.
“Oh, but I do.”
She led him to the ornate wrought iron balustrade. He propped himself against the railing and faced her, inching his palm down his thigh until he felt the heat of her hand at her side. He slid the pads of his fingers along the delicate kidskin of her glove to the tiny pearl buttons at her wrist.
“You can’t do much better than Miss Smythe, my lord.”
He threw her a sultry look. “Yes, I can.” He unfastened and tugged off her glove then tickled his fingers on the back of her hand.
She glanced away but did not fight off his touch. “Regardless,” she said with a slight tremor, “the Earl of Ryburgh will be a valuable associate and can introduce you to worthy members of Lords.”
“Now you sound like my mother.”
She met his gaze. “I thought, rather, I was sounding like a wife.”
He flushed. He grasped her hand, the action concealed by the dark and the drapery of her skirts. “I think of you every single night, Lavinia.” His erection nudged against his trousers.
“Arthur, don’t.” Her plea was barely audible.
He gently traced tiny circles with the pad of his thumb in the dip of her palm. Her expression melted from confident independence to uncontrolled arousal. She closed her eyes, her breathing slowing to the state of one in complete relaxation…or one who just had a successful romp in bed.
He stopped. She gave him a sated look and pulled her hand away. “I think I shall sleep very well tonight, my lord. That was most satisfying.”
Good God. The woman was amazing.
“However, I fear you were not equally affected.” She grabbed her glove then left him, descending the flagstone stairs to the garden below, tossing him a backward glance. He followed, reining in his enthusiasm.
She walked at a brisk pace, at first along a lamp-lit path, then slipping between two trimmed and shaped boxwoods to the shadows beyond. Soon they were before the high garden wall. He discerned a recessed doorway—to the mews or the neighbor’s—and pulled her inside, wrapping his arms around her.
She shoved at his chest and he let go.
She unbuttoned his trousers, his drawers, and slid her hand inside, grabbing his swelling prick. With one caress he was iron-hard.
She pumped his shaft, gripping more forcefully on the upward stroke, loosening on the downward, as if it were her cunt wrapped around him. He flattened his hands against the cold, damp stone of the doorway, taking the edge off her torment. She swirled her thumb around the tip, spreading the wetness, then teased the foreskin cowled in excitement. She was languid, savoring his agitation. As her lips curved in satisfaction she increased her momentum, driving him forward to ecstasy.
There was only so much he could take before he had to be inside her.
He pushed off the wall to take her, take control. She squeezed his cock, painfully so, and propelled him back against the unyielding jamb. He relented and she resumed frigging him at an even pace, taking him to the place before oblivion once again. He sucked in air between his teeth, trying to steel himself against the inevitable.
“I, too, think of you every night, my lord, and wake every morning in frustration.” She increased the rhythm of her tugs. “Something akin to what you must be feeling at this moment.”
God, he needed to spend.
“I, too, want to feel that surge of desire turn to passion in your arms.” She fisted determinedly. “My heart, I fear, cannot suffer another break.” She slowed at the sound of his quickening breaths. “As long as the Miss Smythes of the world are clamoring for your hand in marriage, I need to stop loving you.” She clutched at his cock, briskly bringing on the torturous climb to the peak once again.
He closed his eyes, damming the confusion of sensual fulfillment and emotional agony that threatened to break forth. He didn’t care about the Miss Smythes of the world, he didn’t.
“Lavinia,” he pleaded, his voice gravelly with need.
She took him to the edge, held him there, her breaths agitated as if she were being fucked as fast as her hand worked.
His stomach tensed, he gasped for air. At any moment, he would stumble over the precipice and begin the glorious slide to paradise.
She took her hand away.
He stared at her panting, unsatisfied, disbelieving.
“I’ll leave you now, Arthur.” Her voice quavered. “I feel renewed vigor for joining the fray of the ballroom.” She turned and walked away.
He collapsed against the cold stone, grabbing his hair and pulling at the roots, letting loose the emotion, finding relief in her admission that she loved him.
He should feel satisfied by that, but all he could think about was finishing himself off in the doorway of Viscount Roxton’s garden.
* * * * *
Julius gazed at the landscape before him, its resplendence dreamlike.
The moon was not quite full but its light shone on the seashore like the sun on a cloudy day. The dark sky glittered with stars. Perfect for a tryst.
It was daring, it was public. They had left the cottage to walk the mile to the rocky beach, leaving her husband. The old man would be practically comatose from the laudanum. They would have all night and part of the dawn to call their own.
He carried on his back a peculiar bedroll, knowing her comfort would ease seduction, and the leather straps would promote his carnal amusement. As they walked, their hands and arms casually brushed, he sometimes catching her fingers, her giggles the melody to the rhythm of his heart pounding with love and lust.
She was so amenable. She would let him do anything.
“Do you recall the little book of verse from the bookstore today?”
“Yes,” she said. “Andromeda. I read some of it while you were attending my husband this afternoon. Rather middling. A bit gruesome.”
He chuckled. “Do you know the story?”
“The princess Andromeda is chained to the rocks for her mother’s hubristic boast of her beauty. The hero Perseus saved her from being ravaged by a sea monster.”
“And did you see the frontispiece?”
“Of the girl chained to the rock?”
“Yes.”
She walked in silence for a spell then laughed softly. “Will you be the gallant Perseus or the ravishing sea monster?”
“A little of both.”
She grabbed his hand and swung their arms to match their gait. “And shall I be garbed in a filmy gown as befits a princess?”
“No. Your beauty will be exposed to Poseidon.”
She stopped and faced him. “Now you’re Poseidon?”
He smiled and kissed her mouth, reveling in her luxuriant yielding. “I’ve mixed my metaphors. I apologize. I’m not a poet.”
She gazed lovingly at him through lowered lashes. “No,” she agreed. “You’re a lover.” She wrapped her hands behind his neck. “My lover.”
The words ignited the lust smoldering in his loins. “We’re almost there.”
They continued on their path, she skipping at his side now, excited for her unknown defilement. He stopped at a low outcropping and looked down at the beach below, spying what he wanted immediately.
“There.” He pointed to a rock, its shape perfect for what he had in mind.
Her excitement did not waver as she clambered down the embankment, allowing his assistance, then skittered to the beach. As she took off her shoes and stockings, he unfurled the bedroll and lay it on the rock, the dark-gray color perfectly mimicking the stone, the web of leather straps holding the restraints hidden on the underside. As she stood on the shore, wriggling her toes in the cold, damp sand, staring out at the inconstant sea, clutching her cloak around her, he hammered four spikes into the rock, one at each corner of the bedroll, and secured the ties to keep the restraints rigid and in place.
He went to her, slipping the cloak from her shoulders, urging her arms crossed for warmth over her bosom to her sides. He began to undress her but she stilled his hand.
“You have your own clothes to attend to, Jules.”
And so he did. He stripped bare, the sea-sprayed air dampening and chilling his skin, his cock unaffected as he watched her divest herself of her attire. She had worn loose clothing, her corset forgotten in her bedroom, and was nude before him in minutes, her unbraided hair cascading down her back.
