Where Destiny Plays, page 23
She returned to the front row of the gallery. Best to have something to talk about when she saw Arthur later that night. Of course she would let him do all the talking. He’d be excited and happy and enthralled about the experience. One always was after witnessing democracy in action for the first time.
She leaned forward and rested her chin on her palms. Below the men were arguing about duties on wine and beer and she wasn’t quite following the debate. The air—or lack thereof—and naughty thoughts of Arthur were making her drowsy.
“Lady Foxley-Graham?”
She stood and turned around, astonished at the familiar voice.
“Mr. Phillips. Whatever are you doing here?”
Only then did she realize that she and Joseph Phillips were very much alone.
He stood near the wood wainscoting by the closed door, his brawny shoulders and thick arms a very odd sight in a room only ever occupied by women. He stared at her with an expression so suggestive, his energy so sexually charged, it bordered on indecent.
She hadn’t realized until that moment how carnally attracted to the man she was. No wonder Sophia put up with her husband’s many affairs. The man was truly hers and to have this level of sexually charged physicality in the bedroom when they were together would forgive all other sins.
Lavinia flushed from fear of her own desires being exposed.
“Did the debate in the House of Lords not please you, Mr. Phillips?”
“I never did bother to attend the debates of that esteemed body.”
It hadn’t been that long since he escorted her to the door—had he been waiting outside all that time? “Oh?”
He walked through the small space made seemingly smaller by his masculine bulk, looping around the gallery seats facing the grille until he was at the end of the aisle where she stood. His presence was not threatening. No…if anything, it was arousing. He was an incredibly handsome man who exuded a charisma that led one toward unexpected thoughts.
“I learn my politics from reports of machinations behind closed doors, my lady. One need not attend debates except to learn formalities. Oftentimes real governance happens in conversations one-on-one with a brandy in hand.”
“Very astute, Mr. Phillips.” She took a few steps backward.
He grinned and took two steps toward her. “It’s the accent. It always puts people off. They think me coarse and crude. Of course I am.” He stepped closer.
She moved farther away, throwing a glance at the closed door. “What are you doing in the Ladies’ Gallery, Mr. Phillips?”
He countered her move with another long step. “Looking for you, Viscountess.”
She moved again to find the wall against her back, the Silence is Requested sign above her left shoulder. She spread her hands against the smooth wood paneling, her fingers dipping into the recessed curves of the ogee molding.
He met her gaze with a leer. A shiver of arousal prickled her nipples. She had nowhere to run. She averted her gaze to the carpet beyond him.
He chuckled and closed the space between them. He placed his ungloved hands against the wall on either side of her head, the metallic tap of his wedding ring resounding in the stillness. He leaned in, flagrantly sniffing the fragrance she had dabbed on her neck.
Her mind buzzed with self-conversation about what it was he was doing. Should she really be allowing him, a married man whose wife just gave birth to his son, to be so close to her, a widow notorious for her conquests? Could he be intimidating her, the former lover of his wife’s most recent paramour? Or perhaps warning her from being too intimate with his daughter’s husband? Or playing with the heart of his brother-in-law lover?
Was he simply going to seduce her? In a public space? The idea, while alarming, was not altogether unwelcome.
Lavinia swallowed against the increasing thrum of her heart.
He moved his face over hers as if inspecting her. “What I hope to ascertain, my lady, is what it is about you that enamors him.” His lips hovered above hers. “And are you worth it?”
* * * * *
Shit. Joseph now understood Arthur’s profound attraction to Lady Foxley-Graham. She was sex personified.
It had been a long time since Joseph had attempted a seduction but Lavinia was making the act familiar once again. Her cool confidence, unafraid of what he might do, what he might think, made the doing and thinking much easier, as if a challenge to let him do his worst. She was a woman unafraid of his control and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to control her.
She remained still, trapped between his hands, the heat of their bodies mingling in the sultry space in a pocket of charged air. He moved forward until his body touched hers.
“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Phillips.”
Her perfume was so delicately applied a man had to be this close to her to breathe it in, yet when he did, the allure of the scent shot straight to his crotch. His lips floated over the pulse point in her neck, the heat of her taunting his tongue to reach out to cool her desire.
And when he did so, the breath hitched in her throat and released in a quiet sigh.
God, she was good. Yet she was doing nothing but standing there. He tenderly pressed his lips where his tongue had been.
The sigh became a moan. She relaxed against the wall.
He dared place his hands at her waist. She said nothing. He slid up to her ribs. She did not move. He crept up further, to cup her breasts, his thumbs stroking the fabric covering her nipples.
“I wanted to know what it was about you that has my brother-in-law so enthralled. What was it about you that attracted.”
“And what are you finding out?” She tilted her head to give him more access to her neck.
“I’ve seen your half-naked body in your lover’s bed. I know of your willingness to submit to unusual carnal pleasures. You wear your desire on your sleeve, madam, but you only give that arm to some men. Men with the same measure of self-assurance and the same appetite for passion as you. Some very lucky men indeed.” He trailed soft kisses to her shoulder. “Arthur is a very lucky man.”
Only then did she flinch in his arms.
Joseph stopped his seduction, dropping his hands, stepping back.
“Joseph, what is this really about?”
“As I said I wanted to see if you were worth it.”
“Worth what?”
“Worth making a family sacrifice for.”
“Like what Arthur is doing?”
“Yes. Like what Arthur is doing.” And like what he was planning to do. “Arthur cannot stop thinking about you. He’s let up a little on talking about you only because he probably feels his friends are tired of hearing his lovesick laments.”
“Joseph, there can be nothing between Arthur and me. He’ll come to understand this presently and do his required duty for the marquessate.” Her tone was desolate.
“Do you want him?”
She bit her knuckles and looked away, her face twisted in emotion.
He pulled her into his arms. “Don’t cry.” He held her, swaying gently, calming her.
“I hate feeling this way.” Her quiet voice trembled. “I hate loving so much it hurts.”
He fished out his handkerchief and she took it, flashing a glance at the door to the gallery as she gently wiped her eyes.
“There’s a handsomely paid guard outside, my lady. Cry as much as you need.”
She blinked up at him. “A guard?”
“I had something else in mind other than offering you a handkerchief.”
Her blush was disarmingly arousing. Perhaps his seduction should continue.
But then she cupped his cheek with her bare hand and touched her lips to his.
Every nerve in his body flared with desire. This. He wanted this. To taste her, to wrap his arms around her and pull her against him, to arc over her in an act of possession. She submitted to his demands with a subtle play of her own.
He broke away. “You’re too willing, my lady, for someone who is supposed to be in love with another man.”
She tugged on his lapels. “I, too, am curious to know what it is about you Arthur finds so attractive.”
A chill seared his flesh. “Ah.” He searched her face for any sign of disgust but found none. “So you know about us. Did he tell you?”
“No. Arthur does not know I know. As, I am sure, he does not know you are here with me now.”
“Then how?”
“I witnessed a moment at the masquerade. Another in the hallway at the Richmonds’ house. And there was a trace of jealousy in your voice in Arthur’s bedroom at Atherley Keep.”
“Very observant.” He had been jealous and remained more than a little protective. “You’re the first threat to his heart since Henrietta.”
She laughed softly as she toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat. “And he is the first threat to mine in as many years.” She slid a finger down the row of buttons to land right above his fly. “I’m certain what you really mean is I am the first threat to your relationship since Lady Henrietta.”
His prick swelled against his drawers. To have what Arthur wanted was far more arousing than expected. “You are remarkable, my lady.” He smoothed his palm over the curve of her bosom, to the nip at her waist, along the flare at her hips. Again, she did not flinch. “I presume with you, he takes the lead.” He continued his advance and ruched up her skirts. “Not so with me. When we two are together, it is I who am in control.”
He tucked her skirts between her back and the wall then searched for the split in her combination underwear, the delicate fabric elusive under his thick fingers.
“Silk. How elegant.” He tangled in the hair of her mons. “Shall I tell you how Arthur sucks my cock?”
Her eyes widened as she let out an almost imperceptible sigh.
He slid a finger to briefly taunt her clit. “How he gets down on his knees before me?” He probed farther. She was dripping wet.
“How he pleasures me with enthusiasm?”
He crushed his forearm against her chest, pinning her to the paneling as he teased the excited nubbin with the length of his middle finger. She squirmed but quickly relented, holding his gaze, her brow furrowed in lubricious acquiescence.
Beyond the grille, the low hum of male voices drifted into the gallery, a reminder that their privacy was tenuous.
“How I grab him by the hair—” He shoved a finger into her cunt. “Bend him over the bed—” A second finger he pressed against the tighter hole just beyond. “And fuck him in the arse?”
She gasped audibly.
There was a lull in the debate below.
Joseph clamped his hand on her gaping mouth.
“Is that what he does to you, my lady?”
Was it? The idea shot fresh arousal to his cock. He could fuck her right then and there. Or he could watch her descend into orgiastic oblivion while he maintained his composure.
The latter was preferable.
He worked his fingers against her clit, inside her clenching cunt, keeping her pinned against the wall with his hip, keeping her silent with his palm. She closed her eyes, perhaps imagining it was Arthur who was assailing her with pleasures she had never known.
“Does he fuck you furiously for his own enjoyment? Or does he take it slow for yours?”
He reached into her depths to tickle the sensitive spot women of her sort found gratifying. She opened her eyes to offer an appreciative gaze.
He smiled. She was almost there. He ground his palm against her.
“Does he spend inside you or jet hot spunk on your tits?”
She came for him, gripping his fingers, her cry silenced by his hand, squeezing her eyes shut, her utter abandon and enjoyment of the act profoundly erotic. It would be the height of happiness for Arthur to relish such sensual abandon, to wake up alongside such a beauty every morning, to know he was loved in return.
And Joseph wanted to make Arthur happy.
He released his hold on her. She shook down her skirts, abashed, then gave him his handkerchief. He wiped his hand.
“And am I worth it, Mr. Phillips?”
He pecked her cheek. “You both are.”
* * * * *
Ever since he had seen the beauty in blue and white—his golden Aphrodite—William had been most enthusiastic to attend Society’s events with his parents. Papa had spent the greater part of the day at his office wrapped up in legal documents for a very important client, some lord who knew the queen, he’d heard the servants say, so when Papa returned home, he had suggested he and William do something frivolous.
“How about a ball?” William had suggested.
Papa had beamed at that. “Any ball in particular?”
“Whatever one Lady Banbury is attending.”
Papa’s surprise seemed to turn to understanding. And then he grinned. “I’ll find out from your mother.”
And a few hours later, they were at Lord and Lady Raeburn’s house on the fringes of the dance floor, William keeping his eye out for his goddess.
Papa hung behind, chatting with Uncle Arthur.
“How was Parliament today? Absolutely riveting?”
“Discussions on Armenia and Ireland I can’t imagine my father being interested in.” Uncle Arthur snorted. “I suppose that’s why he didn’t bother showing up.”
“I’m sure he’s not quite up to such activity with his recent illness.”
“Nothing of the sort. Apparently he was having tea with the queen.”
William’s ears perked up.
Papa emitted a quiet chuckle. “Then I’m not sure which one of you had the better afternoon.”
Which sounded as if Papa might have once taken tea with the queen.
Such a fantastical notion was quickly laid to rest when out of the corner of his eye William saw her. Or he thought he did. He focused on the spot in the crowd but she had moved and then he wasn’t quite sure which blonde head was hers.
“Mr. Peel,” came a familiar voice at his side. “Are you engaged for the next dance?”
It was Miss Hardcastle. She was very pretty but a little too old for him so he wasn’t quite sure why she was interested.
“Lord Petersham, a pleasure to see you.” Her emphasis of the word “pleasure” oozed with an embarrassing implication.
Which obviously was why she was there. Uncle Arthur was supposed to find a wife. Well that’s what Mama had said anyway.
“Miss Hardcastle,” came Uncle Arthur’s voice.
He couldn’t keep ignoring the company behind him. Maybe he could accept a dance with Miss Hardcastle, thereby garnering a better view of the crowd. She knew what his goddess looked like. Perhaps she would be willing to help?
“Good evening, Miss Hardcastle,” he said. “What a lovely dress.” That was just something to say really. He hadn’t had time to inspect the garment.
If only he could take back the words. The bodice of her dress was cut rather low. Too low. And from his high vantage point, there was much to see. He hoped to God no one looked at his crotch. He tore his gaze away.
Luckily he did. For approaching them was his goddess accompanied by Lady Banbury and Lavinia.
He tried not to blush when he saw Lavinia but did so anyway once his Aphrodite laid eyes on him and smiled.
His collar grew very tight. And hot. A little trickle of sweat slithered down his back.
Introductions were said all around. Her name was Miss Beatrice Smythe. It was a perfect name.
He took a moment to consider her costume before complimenting her. Everything was shiny satin pink and frothy frilly white. Her bodice was not cut too low but it did have the appearance that she was wearing a rather pretty corset on top of her gown. Her skirts were a riot of lace and bows.
“Miss Smythe, you look lovely tonight. I dare say you compete with Lady Foxley-Graham for the evening’s prize in fashion.”
Miss Smythe blushed pinker than her bodice. Lady Banbury squeaked an oath. Lavinia whipped out her fan to hide a smile. Miss Hardcastle giggled.
“Thank you, Mr. Peel.”
Oh God. She said his name.
Uncle Arthur turned to him. “Miss Smythe is interested in archaeology, William. Isn’t that what you hope to study at Cambridge?”
It was too perfect. “Truly, Miss Smythe?”
Lord and Lady Richmond’s weighty appearance at Uncle Arthur’s side hampered any further conversation. The marchioness effused polite greetings all around but especially to his goddess.
“Miss Smythe, I’m sure your dance card is full this evening.”
Miss Smythe offered a shy smile. “I do believe my next dance is free, Lady Richmond.” Did she cast a glance his way?
He should ask her.
Except Lady Richmond asked first. “Arthur, are you engaged for the next dance?”
Uncle Arthur? And Miss Smythe? He looked at each. Neither one seemed particularly thrilled with the idea.
“I believe Lord Petersham’s next dance was promised to Lady Foxley-Graham,” Lady Banbury said.
“You also promised to tell me about your evening at the House of Lords,” Lavinia added softly. She was gazing at Uncle Arthur with an expression he had been privy to in her bedroom.
And seconds later, Lavinia and Uncle Arthur were arm-in-arm, walking to the dance floor, chatting and smiling.
“They look happy together,” William blurted to no one.
Papa cleared his throat.
“They do, don’t they,” Lord Richmond said. He nudged William. “Ask her.”
Her? Miss Hardcastle? She was busy chatting with Lady Richmond…so, no. His collar grew hot again. Of course not. His goddess. The ball. “Miss Smythe, would you like to dance?”
Apparently she said yes because suddenly his goddess—his Beatrice—was in his arms and they were in the midst of other couples, swirling on the dance floor, his feet directed by something other than his brain.
