Carnal Deceptions (9 page)

“Perhaps my nephew is right. Would you be up to the task?” Lady Stadwell asked.

Tess’s cheeks grew hot with shame. Would she really be willing to sacrifice her virtue to avenge her father’s death?
Yes
, she thought with conviction. Her hatred for

Sloan was without end, and now there was the additional incentive of proving something to Lord Marcliffe. “Absolutely,” she replied.

“Then we will have her taught. Mrs. Midwinter will give her lessons,” Lady Stadwell said matter-of-factly.

“No, I will not have it. Aunt, this girl has been lying to you since she arrived. How can we trust her now?”

Tess could feel the warmth of him as he stood behind her chair.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tallon. I trust her completely. She only did what she had to, to protect herself. You need to put aside your own desires and help us with this plan.”

“My own desires? What are you going on about? This fixation with Sloan is not allowing you to think rationally.”

Lady Stadwell waved away his objections. “It is quite settled.”

*

From the instant Tess joined Lydia Midwinter and Lady Stadwell in the parlor, she knew that going forward her life would be completely altered. If Miss Midwinter proved successful, the country-bred girl would disappear to be replaced by a temptress.

Lydia Midwinter, dressed in a dark gray silk that would have been prim had it not plunged dramatically, fiddled with an eyeglass strung on a chain around her neck. She daintily brushed cake crumbs from her fingers before raising the glass to her eye and scrutinizing Tess.

“Turn around.” Lydia Midwinter sketched a circle in the air. Embarrassed, Tess pirouetted. “An innocent lamb,” she stated flatly. The quizzing glass dropped, nestling again between her breasts. “As I feared I will have to start from the beginning. I've never corrupted a virgin before. I expect it shall be taxing, and I will require sustenance.”

Without asking what she required, Lady Stadwell ordered wine and cigars be brought. For Lydia, it seemed, sustenance did not equate with food.

Tess wondered as she watched Lady Stadwell leave the parlor how two women from completely opposing worlds had formed an alliance. The question must have found expression on her countenance because Lydia answered.

“Lady Stadwell and I met at a most unfortunate event. A funeral. You see, we adored the same man. And much to our surprise, we found that we actually liked each other.”

Lydia picked up a cigar and rolled it between her fingers. She swept it beneath her nostrils, inhaling deeply. “Where should we start?”

Though it seemed probable that Lydia was musing to herself, Tess offered an idea. “Perhaps with kissing?” She hoped to begin with something tame.

Lydia dismissed the suggestion with a wave of the cigar. “For some men—too many—kissing is merely a way to judge a woman’s talent with her mouth. Lord Marcliffe happens to be such a man.”

Tess was disheartened, but not surprised. No doubt Lord Marcliffe would be a demanding lover who would not care to spend time on anything so frivolous as kissing. What a waste of such inviting lips.

“Sometimes words can be misleading. I always think images help to clarify.” From her reticule Lydia pulled an oversized fan, a bottle of an opaque black emulsion, foolscap and a small sponge. With a flick of her wrist the fan blossomed. The slats were made of ebony and clicked against the dark wood of the table as she set the fan down. Squinting through the eyeglass, Lydia Midwinter inspected the fan and with a nod, fed paper beneath it.

Curious, Tess leaned over and stared as well, but saw nothing except an intricate cutout pattern that reminded her of lace. The tip of Lydia’s tongue showed between her lips as she concentrated on wetting the sponge with the paint-like substance and spreading a thin coat atop one of the slats.

With a triumphant smile, she pushed the stenciled image in front of Tess. It took a moment for the lines to form into an image Tess could recognize and when they did, she gasped. The fan was indeed unique. Carved with exquisite precision into the slats were acts of sinful escapades. The women presented were completely nude, but the men, naked and erect, wore tricornes or wigs. The device seemed to be a relic of a bawdier era.

“Don’t worry, little lamb, I shall explain all. For now just enjoy the pictures.”

Tess resisted the urge to pick up the paint-stained fan and flap air against her reddened cheeks.

Lydia took another carved slat and created a new lewd print. She pushed the foolscap across the table. In this tableau, the woman seemed to wince in pain, and Tess thought it no surprise considering the woman was being speared by massive erections. Depicted on her hands and knees, the woman’s mouth was filled with one man’s shaft while another man impaled her rear end.

Lydia ran her fingers around the lace of her décolletage and admired the print. “Quite the delicious challenge she faces.”

Tess wondered if the expression on her face was as stunned as she felt. “Is this the usual way of it?”

“There are all sorts of ways. And some that still need to be invented.” A wicked smile curled Lydia’s lips.

Tess dared another question. “Is it true only men get pleasure from these acts?” “While it is true that some men are rutting pigs, thinking only of their own desires, a

good man makes sure everyone is satisfied.”

After many hours of detailing the various sexual positions and how to respond to each and every touch and, more importantly, to each and every thrust, Lydia finally offered a reprieve. “Let us walk the grounds. I’d like to clear my lungs of London soot.”

Hurriedly, before she could change her mind, Tess strode to the french doors and threw them open. The refreshing breeze helped to cool her overheated skin and sensibilities.

How freeing it was not to be encased in all that black. And how glorious it would be to tend the garden and feel the spring sun penetrating the thin muslin of her dress.

In the distance, Tess noticed the stable boy, Jem, chopping away at the hedges. A trail of massacred branches lay scattered a distance along the perimeter of the yard. Who had decided it wise to put a pair of clippers in the groomsman’s hands? Likely the temporary master of the estate, Tess thought with annoyance. As they neared the boxwoods, Tess realized the rightness of Lord Marcliffe’s decision. The groomsman was actually talented at sculpting the unruly plants.

Walking across the overgrown lawn dislodged a curl from Tess’s chignon. She reached up to tuck it back into her bun and managed only to set more coils free. She’d worn the wig so long she’d forgotten how to dress her hair.

Lord Marcliffe sat on the bench, his Hessians propped on the gazebo railing. His muscular thighs bulged in the snug breeches. Her pulse quickened. What would it be like to have a man that size enact some of the scenes she’d studied? Which type of lover would he be? A selfish one, or one who gave pleasure? Tess could imagine him either way.

Lydia headed straight for the lounging lord. Apparently, it wasn’t fresh air Lydia craved, it was an audience with the man who seemed to hold sway over every decision made in the house.

Lydia loudly praised the rather sorry-looking roses, and Lord Marcliffe turned at the sound, as he was meant to. He shot to his feet and snatched his coat from the back of the gazebo bench.

“Please do not don that stifling coat on our account, my lord,” Lydia said.

He ignored her suggestion and jerked it on. The smile he offered was only for Lydia. He fished another cheroot from his pocket and offered it to her. Clearly, he was aware of her smoking habit.

Lydia gave a demure nod. He used the glowing tip of his cheroot to light hers. They both puffed on their cheroots. Their expressions remained passive, and their voices were barely audible, yet they seemed to be arguing.

Feeling as though she were eavesdropping, Tess took a couple steps away into the shadow of the ash tree. She could sense Lord Marcliffe’s anger by his stiff posture.

With his handsome profile to her he managed, somehow, to have eyes in the side of his head. “Very wise not to mar that ivory perfection, Miss Calloway. Leave that to Sloan.”

“I am not standing here to avoid freckles. I simply prefer not to be intimidated. I see how you’ve bullied poor Jem. He should be the one tending the horses. But instead he’s gouging holes in the garden. You must control every situation.” Tess was not about to encourage Lord Marcliffe’s arrogance and admit that Jem was doing a good job.

Lydia gave Tess a quelling look. “Do not bait him so, my dear. You serve at his pleasure.”

“Exactly,” he agreed.

After his smug response, Tess half expected to see his mischievous dimple make an appearance, but his expression remained sulky. She decided to ignore him and began working the pins from her hair. The weight of the lopsided bun was starting to make her scalp ache.

“I see your aunt’s assessment was correct. Lord Marcliffe, you seem quite opposed to the plan,” Lydia said.

Lord Marcliffe glanced pointedly at Tess and she shifted deeper into the shadow of the tree. “It’s not the plan so much as the lure.”

“But the lure is so very alluring.” Lydia laughed at her wordplay. “As I see you’ve noticed. Such stunning hair color,” she offered. “Dainty waist.” She drew a curve in the air. “Ample breasts.”

Lord Marcliffe shrugged. “They could be larger.”

“I’ve never known a man to prefer them smaller,” Lydia said with a smirk.

Tess had to bite her tongue. She wanted to scream at both of them for treating her like an object that needed to be perfected so it could perform properly. But she couldn’t completely dismiss his assessment. Were her breasts truly too small?

She swept her curls from her shoulders and almost sighed at the sensual feel of her hair gliding over her skin, a sensation her disguise had denied her. Discreetly, she squeezed her arms against her sides, plumping her breasts and creating a deeper cleavage. She supposed she must take Lord Marcliffe’s word for it because she had no notion what a man considered ideal. She glanced up from her inspection to find him staring at her, or more specifically, at her breasts. And he was certainly not viewing them with disinterest. His dark blue eyes glinted with a wolfish gleam. When he lifted his gaze, she frowned at him.

Unrepentant, he continued to study her openly. “Besides she’s a virgin.” The last was a question masquerading as a statement. His chest heaved with a visible intake of breath, which he did not immediately expel as though he were waiting for Lydia to confirm the state of her chastity. Why, she wondered, did he feel he had a personal stake in her virginity?

She could hold her peace no longer. “How is that any of your bloody concern?”

“I’m certain she is a virgin.” Lydia addressed Lord Marcliffe as though Tess hadn’t spoken. “But these arts can be taught, which is exactly why your dear aunt has called me here.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Miss Calloway is not thinking with her head, just her heart.” “You should have more faith, my lord. I assure you that many secrets have been

spilled in bedchambers. And to that end, I would like to contribute something to the

seductive trap being devised. A bed of the most ingenious design, inset with scrolled ironwork that most would assume was merely ornamental. With a bit of silken rope a woman can present herself in the most startling ways.” Lydia sighed dreamily. “Imagine binding wrists and ankles to the headboard.”

“A man like Sloan doesn’t stop with a bit of rope,” Lord Marcliffe responded. “Look at her hiding under the tree. Do you think her a match for a man like that?”

Tess stepped forward. “Tell me the worst about Sloan so I’ll know what I’m facing.”

Lydia gave her a sympathetic smile. “You will find Sloan as smooth as cream, but he can sour upon further acquaintance. It is best not to cross him. I recall the widow Treadingham refusing him. Treadingham served in your brigade, did he not, Lord Marcliffe?”

Lord Marcliffe did not respond, but Tess could not help noticing that his lips were set in a grim line.

“Sloan found a way to pollute her wine with crushed rhinoceros horn or something equally vile. But to be serious, the powders he uses are of a black nature. One in particular made from a beetle certainly brought the widow to her knees, so to speak.” Lydia cupped her gloved hand over her lips, but a hoarse laugh escaped her. “When the women left the men alone to their cigars and port, the widow did not budge. And once surrounded by masculinity, she proceeded to lift her gown and petticoats above her hips and brace herself against the table, offering herself to all the men present.”

“Poor thing.” Tess pressed her chill fingertips against her fevered cheeks.

Lydia said, “Do not feel too much pity for the widow, dear. Sloan does not always distinguish between friend and foe. He has been known to ply his mistresses with those very same elixirs until they are as compliant as slaves.”

Tess’s knees buckled and she sat hard on the gazebo bench. “Do you recall that wicked dinner party, Lord Marcliffe?”

Lydia’s hint was far from subtle. Tess wished she could cover her ears with her hands and blot out her words. She did not wish to hear that Lord Marcliffe had taken part in the debauchery. He did not utter a word in his defense. He tossed his cheroot to the ground and snuffed it out with the heel of his boot.

“Do not blush so on Lord Marcliffe’s behalf, dear. The earl was not present at the table that night. The gossip reached my ears, but was quickly doused. There were tales of an angel, a fellow army comrade who came to the aid of the poor widow’s reputation.” Lydia hinted unnecessarily with a sly wink.

And doesn’t he look every bit the hero
, Tess thought as an opportune breeze stirred his shiny black hair. She preferred to forget that only moments ago she’d imagined him taking part in the widow’s downfall.

“There were threats of duels if the outlandish tale were ever whispered of again,” Lydia continued.

“And yet you speak of it,” he said with arctic calm.

For once Lydia looked cowed. “Only this once. To let the girl know with whom she is dealing.”