The Accidental Mistress (29 page)

As they walked, Lily fought to restore her composure, peeking upward through her eyelashes to find Ethan calmly eating his sugared almonds as though he hadn't just been whispering lustful suggestions in her ear. Her equanimity, and her pulse rate, had finally calmed by the time she and Ethan stopped to watch one of the animal acts.

A trio of small dogs wearing orange-and-red-checkered harlequin hats and tiny matching capes danced on their hind feet, spinning slowly as they barked and jumped to the enthusiastic commands of their owner. She and Ethan laughed and clapped along with the crowd, delighted by their antics. Next came a quartet of cats, each of whom could walk across a tightrope and leap through suspended rings of fire. Cheers rang out when the act concluded, Ethan tossing several coins into the performer's cap.

Afterward, she and Ethan wandered the grounds, stopping to buy warm beef pasties and cups of cool cider. Once their meal was finished, they took seats on one of the wooden benches set up in front of the acting troupe's tent, and settled in to watch an exaggerated yet lively comedic farce that made some rather pointed jests at the church and government, including a few at the Prince Regent himself. Ethan, she noticed, took no offense, laughing at a number of the jokes, which she had to confess were very amusing.

The tableau was nearing its end when a sudden flash of light caught her eye, the glint like that of metal reflecting off the sun. Glancing over, she noticed a man standing in front of a nearby vendor's cart, his back turned toward her. Thick-necked and stocky, he had the build of a bull, his ill-trimmed black hair crushed under a beaver hat, the cut of his clothing marking him as a member of the gentry.

A shiver chased under her skin, something about him seeming familiar. He reminded her of … Edgar Faylor.

Abruptly, her mouth grew dry, her heart pounding so hard she could hear the quick beats echoing between her ears. Surely it was not him. Surely the man she saw was not Faylor, but another who shared no more than a faint resemblance to the crude brute her stepfather had once wanted her to marry.

Shrinking down in her seat, she huddled closer to Ethan, closing her eyes as she tried to take comfort from his reassuring warmth and strength, her body suddenly gone cold.

He is not Faylor,
she assured herself.
The real Faylor is hundreds of miles away in Cornwall, not here at this impromptu fair on the outskirts of London. It is not him. Oh God, please let it not be him.

Long seconds passed before she could gather the courage to look again. Slowly, careful to keep as much of her face shielded by her bonnet brim as possible, she finally forced herself to look. And saw only the vendor's cart.

The thick-set man was gone.

Hurriedly she glanced through the nearby crowd, searching for him, but there was no one even remotely similar. Whoever he was, it was as though the man had vanished.

Perhaps I only imagined the man looked like the squire,
she thought. Regardless, at least he had not turned, had not seen her. She was still safe.

Turning back, her gaze collided with Ethan's, his eyes filled with concern. "Lily, what is wrong? Your cheeks are pale as powder."

"I am f-fine. I—"

She wanted to tell him, but she could not. To reveal her concern over Edgar Faylor would be to reveal everything—all her secrets, all her lies. How would Ethan react if he knew the truth?

He clasped her hands, chaffing them. "Your fingers are like ice. You aren't coming down ill, are you?"

Knowing she needed some explanation for her behavior, she seized on the excuse. "I am sorry, but I think perhaps I am. I believe I would like to go home now."

"Of course. We'll leave immediately. Are you all right to walk?"

Goodness,
she thought, realizing he would carry her if she wished. Her heart turned over in her breast, warmth bursting at his kindness, his caring. Another emotion shifted inside her as well, one she knew she dare not acknowledge.

"I can walk," she murmured. "Let us go, Ethan. Take me home."

* * * * *

Lily's "illness" did not last long—a warm bath, a light meal, and a night spent wrapped inside the protective comfort of Ethan's embrace doing a great deal to drive away the worst of her fears.

By breakfast the following morning, she had convinced herself she must have been mistaken about the man's identity. He had resembled Faylor, true, but nothing more than that. There must be any number of stocky, dark-haired, bull-necked men in England, she argued to herself; Faylor was but one. She had jumped to conclusions, she decided, and let her anxiety overrule her good sense. The man at the fair had been no more than a stranger, and she would do well to put the incident out of her mind.

For the remainder of the day she did exactly that, allowing Ethan, who was still concerned that she might be coming down with a cold, to cosset her. At his suggestion, she agreed to stay at home and relax on the sofa for the day. When she refused to take a midday nap, he produced a deck of cards and the pair of them indulged in a lively game of piquet. She won, though she suspected Ethan might have let her take a few extra points here and there.

He stayed to share an early dinner of roast chicken, buttered parsnips, and tender, golden-orange carrots. Cook fixed a toothsome apple cobbler for dessert, which was served with an utterly decadent brandied whipped cream.

Afterward, they retired to her sitting room, where they settled together into a wide, cozy chair in front of the fireplace. Having already chosen a book, Ethan read to her, his deep, melodious voice lulling her into a state of drowsy relaxation.

She was drifting, her eyes half-closed, when he set the book aside and carried her to bed. He stripped her, then himself, toasty as a stove as he climbed in next to her, and tucked them both inside the sheets.

Her eyes opened hours later to find the bedchamber swathed in darkness, a last few embers glowing red in the fireplace. She turned and snuggled closer against Ethan, adoring the sensation of his naked flesh sliding against her own. Breathing in his clean, musky scent, she rubbed her cheek against his chest, then laid her lips on the spot, kissing his shoulder before moving upward to drop lazy kisses against his collarbone, neck, and the whisker-rough skin of his cheek.

He came awake moments later, his palm sliding reflexively over her bare back. "Hmm," he murmured, "are you feeling all right? Why are you awake?"

"I don't know. I just awakened. As to the other, I'm feeling lovely."
More than lovely,
she thought, brushing her mouth over his jaw. She sensed the passion rise in him, as it had already risen inside her.

Threading his fingers into her hair, he cupped her head and captured her mouth in a claiming that was warm and slow and tantalizingly delicious. A hum of pleasure sighed from her lips, followed by a whimper when he drew slightly away.

"No headache?" he asked, massaging her scalp where his hand still cradled her head.

"None," she said, her answer as light as a whisper.

"No sniffles?"

She smiled and waggled her head from side to side. "Not even a sniff."

"Well then, if you are recovered …"

Reaching down, he caught her hips in his strong palms and gently lifted her on top of him. Without preliminaries, he parted her legs so they fell naturally around his waist; then, with a supple glide, he slid inside her.

She bit her lip at the splendid fullness, her body growing instantly wet and ready for his possession. But he kept their lovemaking unhurried, taking her with a tenderness that was a rapture in itself. She didn't even know her peak was near until the climax came upon her, joy exploding, then spreading outward—hot and sweet as honey, her limbs turning waxen and weak.

On a quavering sigh, she held him close, rocking with him until he found his own ease. His gasp of pleasure made her smile, his obvious exultation a balm to her ears. Lying bonelessly against him, she knew there was no place she would rather be than inside his arms. No other man with whom she wanted to be. Not now. Not ever.

Love burst inside her heart—a love she should not feel, a love she did not want, and yet could no longer deny. Closing her eyes, she burrowed against him, tucking her face into the warm, resilient curve of his neck.

"What is it?" he murmured after a long moment.

Words tumbled into her mouth but stuck there, her tongue unable, or perhaps unwilling, to say aloud what she had only just discovered.

I love you,
she thought.
And I do not know what to do.

Shaking her head, she remained silent, kissing his neck and cheek before once again lying still.

"Sleep," he said, running his hand over her hair in long, soothing strokes.

Giving in to his command, she did exactly that.

* * * * *

Ethan strode into Andarton House the following afternoon, planning to meet with his secretary and deal with several matters of business. Once all essential items were resolved, he intended to go upstairs to his rooms and change into suitable evening attire, since he and Lily would be attending the opera tonight.

Lily had been unusually quiet over breakfast this morning, enough so that he had suggested they cancel and remain at home again. But her smile and reassurances had soon persuaded him otherwise.

"I will not hear of missing tonight's performance," she'd said, sending him an even brighter smile than her first.

Still, he wondered at her mercurial mood. Something untoward had happened at the fair, though he couldn't for the life of him imagine what that something might be considering she had never left his side.

At first, he'd assumed she was coming down ill. Later, though, he began to wonder if her reaction might stem from some other cause. A few times yesterday he'd gently tried to probe for answers, but she'd brushed his efforts aside. Deciding she needed rest more than a confrontation, he let the matter drop. Perhaps she was only a bit under the weather as he had originally assumed, and he was just imagining trouble where none actually existed.

Now, after greeting White, his butler, he handed his hat and greatcoat to the other man, then started across the marble foyer toward the hallway that led to his office. He'd only taken a few steps when the older man spoke, stopping him in his tracks.

"My lord," White called. "If I might have an additional word, I thought I should mention that the dowager marchioness is in residence."

Ethan swung around. "My mother is here? How long ago did she arrive?"

"Two evenings since, my lord. We had expected you yesterday, which is why I sent no note."

As Ethan recalled, he had mentioned stopping by the house yesterday, but when Lily came down ill he had changed his mind.

"Not to worry, White. Where is she now?"

"
She
is in the drawing room," replied a quiet, well-modulated feminine voice from the second-story hallway.

Turning, Ethan tipped back his head and looked up, meeting his mother's blue-eyed gaze where she stood on the landing above. "Hello, Mama."

She smiled down. "Hello, dear. I thought I heard you and came to investigate. It would seem I was right. I have been enjoying a cup of tea in the family drawing room. Why do you not come upstairs and join me?"

Ethan paused for a moment, then, deciding he could spare a few minutes, crossed to the stairs. If he watched his time, he should be able to visit with his mother, meet with his secretary, change his attire, and still not be late for his evening with Lily.

"More tea, if you would be so good, White," she called down to the butler. "And a few of those crumpets and the lemon curd his lordship prefers."

"Right away, my lady." The butler bowed, then departed to carry out her request.

When Ethan reached the landing, his mother threw open her arms for an embrace. "Come and give me a kiss."

Crossing to her, he bent and pressed his lips against one lavender-scented cheek, noticing in passing that she had a few more strands of white in her sophisticated blond coiffure and a new set of creases at the edge of her mouth. Still, despite having passed middle age a few years before, the dowager marchioness remained a very attractive woman—slender and elegant, her eyes as shrewd and intelligent as ever.

"You should have let me know you were coming to Town, Mama," he said, as they strolled down the hallway and into the drawing room. "I would have taken care to be here to greet you."

"And I would have written had I known you might not be at home when I arrived." Her words were pleasant, but he had no difficulty catching the underlying censure.

Taking a seat opposite him, she reached for a cup and poured his tea. A moment later, a light tap came at the door. "Ah, here are the crumpets now," she declared.

After the maid set down a laden silver tray and closed the door behind her, his mother prepared a plate for him. "As we were saying," she continued, passing him the offering, "I was surprised to find you not in residence. Have you perhaps been traveling, after all? Grown tired of the city, since you missed coming to Andarley this summer?"

Deciding not to play games, he set his untouched plate aside. "No, I am not at all tired of the city and have not been traveling, as I am sure you already know."

She lifted her gaze to meet his own. "Yes. To be perfectly candid, I have been hearing rumors, even as far as the wilds of Suffolk."

He refrained from mentioning that Suffolk was hardly anyone's idea of a wilderness. "Oh?" he drawled. "And what are they saying?"

Her pale brows narrowed on her forehead. "That you are living with a widow here in the city, some redheaded creature who has apparently beguiled you."

His jaw tightened, his voice turning hard. "Lily is not a 'creature,' and you will never refer to her as such again."

His mother laid a hand against her chest as if he had wounded her. "Is that her name? Lily? I had clung to a tiny shred of hope that the rumors were false, but I see you make no effort to deny them. Though it pains me to say this, Ethan, you are a fair way to making a disgrace of yourself."