The Accidental Mistress (16 page)

"Stay loose and easy," he said, his mouth far too close to her ear. "Remain calm, yet always in control. Thunder and Lightning will read any hesitation or tension you are feeling and respond accordingly. To move them forward, flick the ribbons like so." Retaining his clasp, he matched his words to his actions, adding a low clicking sound with his tongue. The horses immediately eased into a quiet walk.

"Light pressure is all you need to signal direction. Softly, like this … ," he said, gently demonstrating the movement. "And a bit more for a turn, but we'll save that for later. Straight ahead is best for this first time out."

Keeping his hands curled over her own, he guided her forward, flicking the reins again to subtly increase their speed. "And this," he said, after a couple more yards, "is how to bring them to a halt." Pulling back with effortless control, he eased the team to a perfect stop. "Everything clear?"

Willing her heart to quit hammering, she nodded, his instructions little more than a blur in her head.

"Good," he said. "Then, why don't you have a go on your own."

"All right." She arched her spine, quite pointedly inserting new inches between them. "I believe I should attempt this on my own.
All
on my own."

Grinning, he released her hands and withdrew his arm, then leaned back against the seat. A glance at his face reminded her of an expression she had once seen on Mouser's face right after he'd finished playing with a particularly lively mouse.
Well, I may be dressed in gray this morning,
she mused,
but I am no mouse.
Though at the moment, the marquis did bear a striking resemblance to a cat—a large, golden cat who took great pleasure in stalking his prey.

Drawing a deep breath, she forced such thoughts aside, then stared in consternation at the reins, struggling to recall what he'd shown her. Thunder chose that moment to shake his dark, equine head and snuffle softly through his nostrils, plainly aware of the change of drivers. Lightning followed suit, repeating the other horse's gestures, the pair of them apparently exchanging some sort of private communication.

"They're just testing you, wanting to know who you are," Ethan murmured. "Flick the ribbons like I showed you and let them know you are in charge."

Tossing him a sideways glance, she did as he instructed, moving the reins up and down in a light jingle.

Neither horse moved.

"A little harder than that," he encouraged with a barely concealed laugh.

Her lips thinned.
Harder, hmm?
Putting some strength behind her actions, she gave the reins a firm snap. This time the team lurched forward, sending the curricle into a jolting roll that slid both her and the marquis across the seat. But even as he reached out to help her, she eluded his hands, repositioning her hold more solidly on the reins. Arm muscles straining, she fought to control the more than one thousand pounds of horseflesh under her command, doing her utmost to guide the animals and the carriage in a straight line along the path. At her side, Ethan leaned back again in the seat, apparently willing to let her proceed for the time being.

The grass and trees flashed past at what seemed far too quick a pace, wheels whirring as the horse's hooves clop-clopped on the pavers. Her breath soughed in and out between her parted lips, her tongue growing dry, while the inside of her gloves dampened with perspiration. She waited for the marquis to attempt another intercession, but he remained relaxed and quiet.

And that is when a sudden realization dawned upon her. "I am doing it," she blurted. "I am driving!"

"Yes," he agreed with a smile in his voice. "You most certainly are."

Ahead of her, the path angled into a pair of easy curves. Holding steady, she guided the team around the first one and then the next, taking each as if she had been driving for years. A laugh burst from her throat, along with a simple, exuberant joy. Shooting Ethan a look, she met his gaze and read in his amber irises an enjoyment that mirrored her own. Dappled sunlight moved over his features, playing across his face and through his hair in a way that turned each short, thick lock a vibrant, gleaming gold.

Her pulse skipped like a stone. Turning her eyes forward, she fought the sensation, assuring herself it was a result of the moment and had nothing whatsoever to do with the man at her side.

Liar.

Suddenly another coach appeared, moving toward them at a brisk speed. Tugging at the reins, she pulled up too quickly and at too sharp an angle as she tried to maneuver out of the way. With a hard jolt, the right wheel bumped off the path and onto the grass, the team stopping as the other carriage rushed past.

"Had enough for one day?" the marquis inquired in a gentle voice.

Gathering a breath, she shook her head. "No."

He smiled, and helpless to stop herself, she smiled back.

A moment later, her arm muscles twinged hard, letting her know she might have spoken too soon. "Well, perhaps I could do with a tiny break." She cast a glance around. "Heavens, it seems I've pitched us into the boughs!"

"Not to worry. We'll be out in a thrice. You drove splendidly, by the way, for a first outing. Better than most."

"Most women, you mean."

"No, most people of either sex."

Warmth grew in her chest at his words of approbation.

"Would you care to steer us out?" he offered.

She mulled over the question for an instant, then handed him the reins. "Thank you, my lord, but for now, I shall leave such matters in your capable hands."

His gaze skimmed her face. "Ah, if only I could convince you to leave
everything
in my hands, we would have a fine time indeed."

"Enough of that, my lord," she admonished. "Or should I say
cousin
?"

A chuckle burst from his lips. "Distant cousin, remember? So, when shall we have our next lesson? Will the same time tomorrow morning suit?"

Tomorrow!

Even though she knew she should refuse, temptation beckoned. After all, how else was she supposed to learn to drive? "Yes, all right," she agreed. "Tomorrow morning it is."

His eyes alive with pleasure, he gave a soft click of his tongue, deftly righted the curricle, and set the team on its way.

On a fine, sunny June morning nearly two weeks later, Ethan stood bare-chested in front of his dressing-stand mirror. Wielding the well-sharpened edge of a straight razor, he scraped a last row of soap-covered whiskers off his left cheek, then set down the blade and splashed his face clean in a basin of warm water. As he straightened, a freshly laundered towel appeared within his line of sight. Taking it, he patted dry his smooth-shaven cheeks.

"Thank you, Welk," he said, passing the thick cloth back to his valet.

Crossing to the opposite side of his expansive dressing room, he donned the white shirt his valet had set out for him. Buttoning the garment, he tucked it into his dark-brown trousers, then added a dun-colored waistcoat before taking a position in front of the full-length mirror to tie his cravat. As plebeian as some aristocrats might find the habit, he preferred to dress himself rather than stand like a mannequin while his valet did all the work. Since the time he'd quit wearing short coats, he'd stopped needing help with anything other than the occasional tight-fitting coat or to remove his boots.

He'd just finished tightening a last knot when Welk reappeared in the doorway.

"Your pardon, my lord," the older man said, "but his Grace, the Duke of Wyvern, is here to see you."

"Show him up, of course."

"I'm up already," Tony called from the adjoining sitting room, having obviously overheard his and Welk's muted conversation.

The duke had ears as keen as a cat's, as Ethan had learned when they'd met all those many years ago as boys at Harrow. And very little escaped his notice, despite his often lazy-lidded gaze and outwardly relaxed fa�ade.

Wyvern's blue eyes appeared keen and bright this morning, Ethan noticed as he strode out of his dressing room. "Hello, Tony. What brings you by so early?"

The duke planted a set of knuckles at his waist. "There's a prime stallion up for auction at Tattersall's this morning. I'm considering putting in a bid and was wondering if you'd care to accompany me."

That was another thing he well knew about Tony—that he was a bruising rider with an excellent eye for horseflesh. When an interesting animal came to his notice, he never hesitated to acquire the beast for his stables, which were generally regarded as among the finest in the country.

"Breakfast?" Ethan asked, crossing to a square mahogany table set beneath one of the room's three sun-filled windows. A footman was busy arranging plates of food on the linen-covered surface, the appetizing aroma of eggs, ham, and toast making Ethan's stomach rumble with hunger.

Taking a seat, he poured himself a cup of strong black tea, then a second for his friend. "There's plenty, if you'd like. Cook always makes more than I can possibly eat. Shall I have another plate brought up?"

"No, the tea will do fine, thank you." Tony slipped into a chair on the opposite side. "So, what about the sale? Are you in or out?"

"Out, I'm afraid." Ethan cut a piece of ham and chewed, the smoky flavor bursting pleasantly on his tongue before he swallowed. "I am already otherwise engaged."

Wyvern arched a dark brow. "Really? You seem to be 'already otherwise engaged' a great deal lately. This assignation wouldn't happen to involve a certain redheaded widow, would it?"

Ethan ate a forkful of scrambled eggs, then bit off the crunchy corner of a buttered toast wedge. "Our meeting is not an assignation, it is a driving lesson."

"Oh, is
that
what they're calling such arrangements these days?" the duke asked in a teasing voice.

A scowl creased Ethan's forehead. "She is not my mistress, if that is what you are insinuating."
At least she isn't my mistress yet,
he mused. Of course he had plans to rectify the situation in the near future—the very near future.

Still, for reasons even he couldn't fully fathom, he had remained true to his word about keeping his and Lily's driving lessons strictly platonic. He might flirt and tease her, but beyond that he'd made no further overt advances. Of course, he'd seen her at a few balls, sharing a dance or a few minutes of light conversation over glasses of wine and punch. But in spite of his continued desire for her, he'd instigated no more meetings in midnight-dark gardens, and made no further serious attempts at seduction.

Truly, he could not account for his actions, leaving him to wonder if his reserve might stem from some strange sense of honor, a need to be finished with his promise regarding the lessons before his conscience would let him resume his quest to coax her into his bed. Whatever the cause, he wanted her with a desperation that was nothing short of painful. More than once, he'd awakened after a night of wild, concupiscent dreams about her to find his bedclothes twisted around his body, his skin damp, his male member aching and stiff as a pikestaff.

But his self-imposed need for restraint was about to end, perhaps as soon as today, since later this morning he would be giving Lily Smythe her final lesson.

Quick and exceptionally skilled, she had surprised him with her innate dexterity and aptitude. In tribute to her success, she would be driving them to Richmond Park, where he planned to celebrate with a picnic he was having specially prepared.

After that,
he mused,
who knows what might occur.

Nevertheless, he had no intention of sharing his expectations with Tony—longtime friend or not. He ate another bite of ham. "Tell me about this horse, then."

* * * * *

Lily held the reins steady and gave the horses their heads, letting the team increase their speed to an easy canter as they traveled along the turnpike toward Richmond. Beside her in the open curricle sat the marquis, his long, powerful body arranged in a lazy, all-male sprawl that would have drawn her full attention had she not been so solidly focused on her driving.

Late-morning sunshine filtered down from a nearly cloudless, azure-tinted sky, balmy air rushing past to tease her skin and tug at the carefully pinned strands of hair tucked beneath her short-brimmed bonnet. Her pale lavender gown matched her mood—buoyant excitement coupled with a sense of trepidation over an unknown future.

Today was her last official lesson in curricle driving. Or so Lord Vessey had informed her two days ago, when he'd suggested this outing as a dual final test and celebration of her success. He claimed she was as proficient as his tutelage could make her, and that she had no further need of him—only the inner confidence that continued practice would bring.

When they returned to London, he promised to aid her in purchasing her own equipage and team so she could drive around the city whenever and wherever she wished. The idea left her jittery but energized, longing for the freedom and power such a circumstance would bring.

To her consternation, she knew she would miss the marquis's daily company once this last lesson ended. Over the past two weeks she had come to enjoy his conversation and companionship, had come to anticipate their morning outings with an eagerness she ought to have found disquieting. She shouldn't wish for his company, she realized, but over the past several days she had made an alarming discovery: she liked Ethan Andarton. Yet she knew instinctively that he wasn't the sort of man with whom she could ever be friends, at least not strictly friends. He was far too bold, too masculine, too overtly sexual to ever be seen in anything but elemental terms.

Not that I want him as a lover,
she hastened to assure herself,
because I do not. I don't want any lover.
Still, when it came to Lord Vessey, a woman would have to be made of granite to be immune to his appeal. Lily doubted any woman under the age of eighty could withstand the lure of his charm. He was practically a walking aphrodisiac!

Considering his behavior toward her of late, though, she wondered if his interest in her had waned. After that very first lesson, when he'd had her in his arms under the guise of teaching her, he'd made no further amorous attempts. He hadn't even tried to kiss her, behaving instead like a perfect gentleman—like a platonic cousin, exactly as he had promised.