Leslie Lafoy (28 page)

“Wouldn’t you like for me to take it off?”

“Later,” he allowed, removing the French letter from the packet.

“Could I at least raise the hems for you?”

Covering himself, he laughed and answered, “You can do anything for me you damn well please.”

“Really?”

He froze as she bounded off the bed and onto her feet. “Where are you going?” God, he wasn’t in the mood to chase her around the room. Maybe next time. But not this one. “Simone,” he said, trying not to sound desperate. “What—”

“I’ve been so busy lately,” she said, planting her hands on his chest and slowly pushing him back, “what with attending funerals and playing chaperone for your sister and all,” she went on as he glanced back over his shoulder, “that I haven’t had a chance to ride. I’ve missed it terribly.”

Ah, no chasing at all. He dropped down on the chair and put his hands on her hips. “Have you now?”

“Yes,” she replied with a sigh and a little pout. Gathering her skirts in her hands and lifting them, she added, “I think I may have forgotten how to do it. Do you think you could help me remember?”

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised, grinning and releasing her hips to slide his hands under the skirts and up the outsides of her legs until her hips were once again under his palms. “It may take several attempts, though.”

“Practice does make perfect,” she offered, her voice a sultry whisper as she stepped across his lap. “And I’m certainly willing if you are.”

“Will—” Dear God. Nothing had ever felt this good. There had to be laws against it. He dragged a breath into his lungs, forced his jaw up and his eyes open. To gaze into sparkling ebony eyes. Oh, he couldn’t surrender to her control. Not without putting up a fight. Even if he really didn’t want to win.

He cleared his throat softly and cocked a brow. “You sit the saddle very well, Madam Rider.”

“It does feel good.” She rotated her hips ever so slowly. “And it’s a lovely fit,” she added as he swallowed down a groan of absolute appreciation and agreement.

If he didn’t do something to slow this down … Releasing her hips, he brought his hands from under her dress and to the buttons on her bodice. “Proper attire is an important part of riding, you know.”

“Oh?”

“And you are entirely too attired for it,” he went on, efficiently working the buttons open. “I’m assuming, of course, that you want to fully enjoy your gallop.”

“Oh, I do.”

Breathy. And he could feel the little tremors rocking through her. Willing his mind apart from sensation, he pushed the sides of her bodice aside and skimmed the palms of his hands lightly over the dark, hard peaks of her breasts. “You are so incredibly beautiful.”

He watched her eyes drift closed and her breathing catch. He palmed over her breasts again, slower, harder.

“Tristan.”

“What?” he whispered back.

“The reins are slipping.”

“I know. I can feel you quivering.” He caught a swollen peak between his thumb and forefinger and gently rolled. “You’re so close to bolting. So…” He leaned forward and dragged his tongue over the other peak. “Very…”

Her fingers threaded through his hair and he obeyed the request, drawing her fully into his mouth and suckling. She whimpered and bucked and drove him over the edge and into the deep bliss of utter, soul-deep satisfaction.

*   *   *

Tristan opened his eyes and grinned. How the hell they’d gotten on the bed … He decided that it really didn’t matter and rolled onto his side.

“That was the best ride I’ve ever had,” Simone said dreamily, reaching up to brush the back of her hand along his jaw. “I’m going to sell all my horses, move you into the stable, and go riding three or four times a day.”

“Don’t you think that might raise a few eyebrows?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted, her eyes sparkling and her smile widening. “I suppose I won’t have much choice but to ride five or six times a day. I wouldn’t want anyone to think you’d come up lame.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Was there any more perfect lover in the world? he wondered, gazing down at her. Beautiful and spirited. And so honest in her wanting, so unstinted in her giving. If he lived to be a hundred, he was never going to find another woman like her. Ever.

“You’re looking at me as though I might evaporate at any moment.”

“I’m committing you to memory,” he admitted before he realized how close he was to making a declaration he might mean at the moment but would likely regret at sunrise. He smiled and added an artful evasion. “So that I can draw your portrait later.”

“With my dress unbuttoned.”

It wasn’t the body, the overt sexuality, that made Simone a work of art. “And the wanton happiness shimmering in your eyes. The wicked satisfaction radiating in your smile.”

“Will you let me see it when it’s done?”

“If you want.”

She trailed the tip of her finger down the center of his chest. “Do you draw portraits of all your lovers?” she asked, not meeting his gaze.

“Just the ones I never want to forget.”

“Would it be too prying to ask how many are in your portfolio?”

“I don’t have a portfolio. But, if you’d like, I’ll buy one to keep yours in. Although I’d much rather frame it and hang it on the wall.”

Her gaze snapped up and she leaned back, putting space between them. “You wouldn’t.”

Even as he started to assure her that he was only teasing, she looked around his darkened room. Why her concern stabbed at his heart … “There aren’t any other pictures, Simone.”

“Please don’t hang the one of me out where anyone might see it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep it a very private picture.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, the tension easing out of her body. She smiled up at him and trailed her finger over his lips. “Have you sufficiently memorized this moment?”

“Why?”

She trailed her finger down over his chin, down his throat, over his chest. “I was thinking,” she drawled, following the thin line of hair lower, “that I might provide you with another inspiration or two before I have to go home.”

“An artist without inspiration is a very sad thing,” he allowed, hardening at her touch. “Might I help you out of that dress?”

*   *   *

If she could have thought of an excuse to stay, she’d have used it. There was something about walking away that just felt so terribly final. Even though it wasn’t, of course. Tristan hadn’t wanted to let her slide out of his arms and had made her promise she’d come back to him again before he’d been willing to let her go. And yet … She shook her head, called herself silly, and took her knife off the night table where Tristan had tossed it earlier.

She was tying it around her calf when he rolled off the other side of the bed. She looked over her shoulder just as he pulled on his shirt. “Why are you getting dressed?”

“So that I can see you home,” he answered, picking his trousers up off the floor. “I’d prefer not to wander the streets naked.”

She stood and picked up her dress, saying, “I managed to get here safely without an escort, didn’t I?”

“Part of me sincerely hopes so. The other part is incredibly thankful nothing happened to you along the way.”

Stepping into her dress, she drew it up over her hips. “Tristan,” she began, putting her arms into the sleeves, “I appreciate the thought and the concern, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself in the streets. I may be the daughter of a duke now, but I haven’t forgotten how to scrap and scurry.”

He dropped down on the chair and rammed his foot into a boot. “You shouldn’t have to face the choice at all.”

“All right, Lord Gallant, I’ll be blunt about it,” she countered, buttoning up. “If I go by myself and happen to meet Haywood at the gate, I can spin any story for him that I want. If you’re with me, our goose is cooked. There won’t be a second forgiveness.”

He pulled on the other boot, saying, “It’s not Haywood or your brother-in-law that concerns me.”

“Lucinda.”

He stood and smiled thinly. “You win the prize, darling.”

Simone snorted and continued to work her way up the line of buttons. “She’s too busy worrying about Miss Yoo-hoo to even think about me.”

“Miss Yoo-hoo?”

“Sarah Sheraton,” she clarified, shoving her feet into her mules.

“Oh,” he drawled, coming across the carpet toward her. “Did I see a flash of green in those ebony eyes of yours, darling?”

Her heart was pounding so ridiculously fast. She smoothed the front of her skirt and managed to sound breezily unconcerned as she answered, “Let’s change the subject.”

“Let’s not.” He tipped her chin up until her gaze met his. “In the first place, I have no feelings for her at all. You have no reason to be jealous of her. In the second, Noland has removed her from London and tucked her well out of harm’s way. Where, precisely, I don’t know and don’t want to know.”

She didn’t want him to think that she cared one way or the other, but she had to know. “And her claims about a baby?”

He shrugged ever so slightly. “Apparently she is expecting. She told us that it’s the child of a married man. Her fiancé broke off the engagement when he discovered the affair, and her family disowned her when they learned of the pregnancy.”

“You don’t feel sorry for her?”

“No, Simone, I don’t,” he said softly, gently. “She made her choices and righting the disaster isn’t my responsibility. Keeping her safe from Lucinda … Yes, I’ll own that one. But nothing else.”

The thought that he might someday talk to another woman about her in the same way … Her heart aching, she turned away, saying, “I promise that I’ll never be a burden for you to bear.”

“That’s not—”

“Which is why I’ll get myself home without an escort,” she went on, heading for his bedroom door.

“We’re not going to argue about this.”

She knew what he meant, but she pretended otherwise on the slim hope that bluff might work. “I’m so glad you’re willing to be reasonable,” she replied, turning the doorknob. “Good night, Tristan. Sweet dreams.”

She managed to get the door open all of a few millimeters before his hand landed flat on the inside edge and slammed it closed. So much for bluff. She looked up at him and arched a brow. “What are you doing? I have to go or I’ll be caught.”

“Darling, you either accept my company all the way to your brother-in-law’s or don’t leave here. It’s as simple as that.”

“You’re being imperial.”

He shrugged and nodded. “You might try being helpless and dependent for a little while. Just to humor me.” He grinned and leaned close to whisper, “And to keep that portrait of you hidden away.”

“Oh, that’s low, Tristan.”

“Better low than losing you.”

“I ever see that picture anywhere but this bedroom, Tristan Townsend, you’re a dead man.”

Laughing, he opened the door. And then stayed her, taking one more long, deep kiss before they stepped out into the real world of another day.

Chapter 16

Simone closed the carriage door behind herself and leaned in the window. “Enjoy the lecture, Fiona. And thank you for the ride.”

“If it’s raining later, I’ll stop by and give you a ride home.” Her green eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you might even introduce me to Lord Lockwood.”

Simone laughed. “As I’ve said repeatedly, I don’t think he’s going to be here today.”

“Oh, who knows? He could be every bit as chipper as you are this morning.”

Grinning, shaking her head at her sister’s persistence, Simone stepped back, waved good-bye, and turned toward the house. Yes, she was chipper, she had to admit as she skipped up the steps and knocked on the door. A mystery, since she couldn’t have had more than a few hours of sleep at best last night. Thank goodness the feeling of wanting to cry had finally passed. It had taken long enough, though. The invitation from Emmy to call had apparently been just what she needed.

“Good morning, Lady Simone,” the butler said, letting her into Lady Lockwood’s home.

“Good morning, Baston. I’ll await Lady Emmaline’s whim in the parlor as usual.”

“Very good, madam,” he said with a short bow. “I’ll inform her of your arrival.”

And as usual, Simone stopped just across the parlor threshold to survey the room. The white and gilt chairs had disappeared first. A table and cut-crystal lamp in the corner had been the next to go. This morning the huge sideboard and all the folderol that had sat atop it were gone.

Simone cocked a brow and shook her head. Not that she’d ever be accused of being a domestic fashion maven, but even she knew that the purging had gone too far. The removal of the smaller pieces had made the space feel bigger and considerably less cluttered. All in all, a positive change. But without the sideboard, with the one wall absolutely bare, the whole room felt as if it might at any moment tilt in the direction of the remaining furniture.

It was silly and she knew it, but she wandered over to stand where the sideboard had been so that when the floor shifted, she’d be the last of the things to slide out into the foyer. Better to land atop the settee than under it.

Her brow inching higher, she surveyed the room from the new vantage point. It wasn’t just the sideboard and little carvings and decanters from it that were gone. There had been a pair of large ornately carved, gold-leafed-framed pictures hanging on the walls on either side of the fireplace. They were gone this morning, where they’d hung marked by large rectangles of considerably whiter plaster.

Two possible explanations for the changes presented themselves. The first was that Lady Lockwood was redecorating the house on a massive scale. The second was that the allowance Tristan gave her wasn’t sufficient to cover her taste in fine jewelry and she was selling off the furniture to pay for her baubles.

“Good morning, Simone. I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long.”

She shrugged, thinking that it hadn’t been long at all. “Emmy, where is all the furniture going?”

Emmaline looked around the room and then shook her head. “I have no idea. It’s here when I leave the house, and when I come back, it’s gone. Where Mother’s moving it to I haven’t the foggiest notion. There are parts of this house I haven’t seen in years. I hope you don’t mind posing for me this morning.”