Her Immortal Love (10 page)

She looked over at Saffron, who was vigorously shaking her head and mouthing the word “No” as if she’d read Lydia’s thoughts.

“Mother, I—”

A car pulled up to the front of the house. Lydia’s heart sped up and she hurried over to the window. Saffron joined her.

Tristan got out of his car.

“Mother, I....I have to go. I’ll call you later...tomorrow.”

“But, Lydia—”

She thumbed off the phone. Tristan walked toward the house. He wore a dark blue double-breasted cutaway coat. Underneath it was a white regency-style shirt, complete with high collar and neck cloth. Fawn-colored breeches hugged his long legs along with a pair of black, knee-length boots. He also carried a cane.

“Is that him?” Saffron whispered. “He’s ab-so-fuckin-lutely gorgeous.” She frowned. “Damn, he
is
young.”

Lydia winced. Saffron had been dating younger men for years. It didn’t bode well if even she thought Tristan was too young.

“You two going to a costume ball or something?”

Lydia shook her head. She was as puzzled by Tristan's attire as Saffron was. The doorbell rang. Her hands were damp from nervousness so she quickly smoothed them down her skirt. She looked over at Saffron who made an impatient shooing motion.

Lydia went over to the door and opened it. “Hi, Tristan.”

He smiled widely, his deep dimples flashing. “Hello, Lydia.” He looked her up and down. “You look fantastic.”

“Thank you.” Her body warmed at the frank lust in his eyes. She opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”

He stepped inside. “I'm sorry I'm late, sweet. But I had to—”

He stopped when he saw Saffron.

Lydia stepped between them. “Saffron, this is Tristan Drake. Tristan, Saffron Kidde.”

Saffron extended her hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Lydia’s told me so much about you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” Taking her hand in his, he bowed and kissed the back of it.

Saffron blushed then giggled. Never in all the years Lydia had known Saffron had she ever seen the woman blush. Much less giggle.

“So you two are going on a carriage ride,” Saffron said.

Tristan nodded and looked over at Lydia. “It is my lady’s desire to do so.”

Saffron tilted her head, a blatantly seductive look on her face. “And do you make it a habit of always fulfilling a woman's desires?”

He smiled. “I do. You might call it my life’s passion.”

Lydia looked hard at Saffron. Her friend was a natural flirt, so Lydia wasn’t surprised by her actions. But she couldn't help feeling a little anxious. She’d never be able to compete with Saffron when it came to being sexually confident.

She looked over at Tristan. Lust was flaming in his dark blue eyes.

But it was her he was looking at.

“So what's with the Mr. Darcy getup?” Saffron asked.

Leave it to Saff to be as subtle as a Mack truck.

“I wanted to give Lydia as authentic an experience as possible.”

“I wish I’d known,” Lydia said. “I would have dressed to match you.”

He smiled. “But then it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”

“He’s got you there,” Saffron said. She turned back to Tristan. “I love surprises.”

Lydia couldn’t have said whether she did or not. She’d rarely been surprised in her life. Actually, the only time she’d been truly surprised was the day she had driven Douglas’s BMW because her Volvo had been in the shop and she’d found a pair of red lace panties on the passenger side floor.

Lydia had never worn or even owned a pair of red lace panties.

“Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks,” Tristan said, breaking Lydia out of her thoughts of that horrible day when she’d come across the first major clue that Douglas was cheating on her.

“Is that from a play?” she asked.

Tristan shook his head. “Samuel Johnson. From his
Idler
essays.”

Saffron looked over at Lydia and pointedly raised her eyebrows. Lydia brushed off her friend’s questioning look. She couldn’t help it if the men Saffron dated considered monster truck rallies the height of culture.

“Well, I’d best let you two get going. Don’t forget this.” Saffron picked up a lace shawl from off the couch, along with Lydia’s favorite beaded purse. She handed the purse to Lydia, but Tristan took the shawl from her and put it around Lydia’s shoulders.

“Thank you.” She leaned over and gave Saffron a quick kiss on the cheek. “And thank you for everything. I owe you.”

Once they were outside, Saffron went over to where she had parked her car. “Call me later.”

“I will.”

“And I want details, hon. Lots of details.”

Lydia laughed and waved goodbye. Tristan opened the passenger door of his car. She got in, mindful of how high her skirt rode up her thighs. She noted, however, that as he moved to close the door his gaze lingered on her legs.

Once he was in the car, he placed the cane between the seats.

“That’s a nice cane,” she said.

He eased the car into traffic. “No well-dressed Regency gentlemen would be seen without one.”

Lydia looked closer at the cane. The handle was made of ivory but it was very old ivory. The surface was carved with tiny figures.

“What are those carvings?”

“Monkeys.”

“Monkeys?”

“It’s a Japanese monkey cane. The handle depicts the three wise monkeys of Japanese folklore. Mizaru who sees no evil, Kikazaru who hears no evil and Iwazaru who speaks no evil.”

Lydia was familiar with the saying. There were figurines of the three monkeys at the new age store.

“There’s also a fourth monkey.” Tristan remarked.

“A fourth?”

“Shizaru, who’s shown with his arms crossed.”

“And what does he symbolize.”

“Do no evil.” He glanced over at her, his dark blue eyes sober. “That’s the most important, don’t you think? Not to do evil.”

“I suppose so.”

He frowned. “You suppose so?”

“What if you had to do a wrong in order to prevent an even greater evil?”

Tristan was silent for a moment, as if he were mulling over her question. Then he suddenly smiled. “A philosophical enigma and one that you and I will have to debate at some later time.” His glance slid down to her legs. “But not tonight.”

Debate at some later time? Did that mean he intended on seeing more of her?

She glanced over his regency style clothing. “Are you supposed to be someone in particular?”

He signaled a left turn then drove down a street that led to a park that fronted the lake. “I can be whoever you want me to be.”

Lydia recalled Saffron’s comment about his attire. “How about Mr. Darcy from
Pride and Prejudice
?”

“He’s not real, Lydia.”

Driving down a narrow lane, he pulled over and stopped in front of a small stable. He turned off the car and looked over at her.

“Well, what about a historical figure?” Lydia browsed through her memories of the regency novels she’d read.

“The Earl of Kedington.”

“Who?”

Tristan smiled dryly. “The Earl of Kedington. He played a wicked hand of
ecarte
, drank far too much claret, and was an expert duelist. He had to be because his favorite pastime was dallying with women, both in and out of society, single or, as he preferred, married. He especially liked the recently widowed. The richer the better. He’d pretend to comfort them on their loss, insincere articulations of condolences oozing from his lips. Once he’d managed to undermine any guilt or defenses they had, he’d fuck them, all the while professing his undying love. When he grew bored, he left them but always a bit less wealthy.”

“He sounds like a scoundrel. And he was real? Was he famous?”

“Real? Yes. Famous?” Tristan shrugged. “But he did manage to touch quite a few lives and not for the better. He was a man who should have heeded the advice of the fourth wise monkey.”

“To do no evil?”

“Yes. To do no evil.”

“Is there more?”

“You called him a scoundrel. He was more of a villain.”

“In what way?”

“He was once described—and mind you by a very close friend—as possessing not one saving grace among his surfeit of iniquitous vices.”

Lydia smiled at Tristan’s choice of words, but her smile quickly dimmed. His somber eyes were looking through her as if she were nothing but a glass pane.

“Tristan,” she began hesitantly.

His gaze focused back on her. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “The Earl excelled at the art of indulging in every sin and depravity he could imagine. And he could imagine much.”

“You sound as if you admire him.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes. “Admire him? Good God, no. More like pitied.”

“Pitied? Why?”

Tristan released a heavy sigh. “He’d grown so tired of living that all he felt was emptiness. But instead of seeking some sort of meaning to his existence, he chose to fill that emptiness with the blackest of deeds.”

“How do you know so much about him? You said he wasn’t famous.”

“He wasn’t.” He got out of the car then went over to open her door.

A man came out of the stable. He was short and looked to be in his late sixties. He wore a top hat along with a black jacket and matching pants.

“Good evening, sir,” he said.

“Hello, Patrick. May I present Ms. Lydia March.”

Patrick touched the brim of his hat. “Evening. Everything’s ready, sir. If you’ll follow me.”

He led them over to a horse and a carriage. But it was not the kind of open carriage Lydia had seen people riding in downtown. This one was closed and looked like something out of a regency novel.

Patrick went over and opened the door. Taking hold of his hand, she climbed inside.

“You know the route?” Tristan said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll let you know when we're ready to return.”

“Very good, sir.”

Tristan climbed in through the other door and sat next to Lydia. It was dark inside although there was a window in front, framed by dark curtains. The interior was cozy enough that Tristan’s body pressed against hers. The carriage shook and through the small window she saw Patrick climb up to the driver’s seat. Tristan rapped the top of the carriage with his cane. Patrick snapped the reins. The carriage rocked as it moved, but not as much as she had thought it would.

“Do you like it?” Tristan asked.

“Oh, yes, very much so.” Her gaze traveled over his clothes. “You went through all this trouble for me.” Tears threatened to prickle her eyes. She quickly blinked them away. She didn’t want to ruin her eyeliner. “It’s…”

He smiled and leaned closer. He smelled wonderful. “It’s what?”

“It’s just that I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Of course you haven’t. It’s your fantasy.” He took her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Don’t worry. We’re only going to do what you want. Nothing more.”

She’d already been intimate with him. Why did she suddenly feel so shy? Was it because they weren’t really alone?

“Do you want me to close the curtain?” he said as if sensing her unease.

Outside the window the sun had set, but the sky was still a soft violet. The dark surface of the lake glimmered under the orange lights of the lampposts.

“No, I’m fine.”

Tristan lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers. She moved her hands about his waist and up his broad back. He pulled her into his arms, deepening their kiss.

It had only been a week since she last kissed him, but it felt like a month. She pressed her lips to his, desire moving through her blood like a warm river.

Breaking their kiss, Tristan stroked her cheek. “I had planned on indulging in some witty repartee appropriate to the era.”

He lowered his hands and began unbuttoning her blouse. “But I’ve thought of nothing but this night. I want you. Lydia. I want you now.”

He opened her blouse and cupped her bra, brushing his thumbs across her nipples. Lydia’s breath quickened, her breasts swelling under his touch. She too had thought about this night while at work, at home, in her bed. Thought about what it would be like. Wondered if it was going to truly happen. Afraid that it would not. But it was happening, and she was here with him in a carriage just as he’d promised.

He pushed down her bra. Her naked nipples quickly hardened in the cool, night air. Grasping both her breasts, he pushed them together, lowered his head and pulled the tight nubs into his mouth, moistly licking.

Lydia gripped his arms, her cunt throbbing in time with the mad beating of her heart and the steady lapping of his tongue over her nipples.

“Suck them,” she whispered. “Please.”

Tristan complied, drawing her nipples deep into his mouth, his tongue working around them both.

She moaned, pressing her breasts against his lips. “Oh, God, that feels so good.” She twisted her hips, her pussy aching to be filled, taken, fucked.

“Fuck me, Tristan. Please, please fuck me.”

He lifted his head from her wet breasts. “You don’t use that word often, do you?”

She blushed. “No, not really.”

She’d certainly never used that word when she and Douglas had sex. Actually, he had preferred while he was fucking her that she didn’t make any sounds at all. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

“Use whatever words you like with me, sweet. It’s your fantasy. Now lift up and sit on my lap.”

Lydia did so, although at one point, as she was maneuvering herself off the seat she banged her knee against the carriage door. “Ow!”

Tristan gently rubbed her knee. “Poor darling. Are you all right?”

She nodded and finished adjusting herself onto Tristan’s lap.

“Much better,” he said, smiling warmly at her. He quickly undid the front of his breeches and pulled out his cock. Lydia licked her lips at the sight of it. He shoved her skirt up around her hips. His eyes widened. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”

The stockings Lydia wore only came up to the upper part of her thighs. She had on a pair of garters, attached to a thin piece of fabric wrapped about her wasit.

It had, of course, been Saffron’s idea.

“Makes things easier, don’t you think?” she said, smiling impishly.