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She felt the shudder run through him, and she tasted as much as heard the groan against her mouth. He slid his hands down her back, down over her bottom, and pulled her hard against him. Even through all the layers of her dress she felt his arousal, and the sensation sent a stream of heat rushing upward and outward from the place. Yet along with the heat, she felt triumph, too—over him and his too-easy control of her. But stronger than any other feeling was the wanting.
She hated it.
She wanted it.
She wanted to be free of wanting him and thinking about him and the craving to touch him, because these thoughts and wishes were too strong, and they made her feel helpless and lost.
She wanted at the same time to let herself drown in the longing, to be drunk with it, to go freely, recklessly, where it took her.
Yet somewhere on a far horizon of her consciousness, she was aware as well of business, of where they were, and of the shop, filled with ladies and the splendid opportunity to dress them for the Vauxhall event.
She broke the kiss and pushed herself away from him, even though she wanted to scream at having to stop, and even though, for one appalling instant, she wished all the ladies and their accursed clothes to perdition.
“There,” she said breathlessly. “Now I’m done.”
He didn’t let go immediately, and he was breathing hard, too.
Good.
If he was going to make a wreck of her, she was going to make him at least slightly discomposed.
“You wicked girl,” he said. His voice was very low, very deep.
“I told you I learn quickly and well,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “This grows more interesting by the minute.”
“And speaking of minutes,” she said as nonchalantly as her wit and will would let her, “I ought not to keep Lady Gladys waiting any longer. Good day, my lord.”
His eyes, whose color had deepened to the dark green of a forest, seemed to bore into her soul. Not that, being half DeLucey and half Noirot, she was at all certain she owned a soul.
Then he shrugged and laughed. “Very well, madame, have it your way. For now. Au revoir.”
And out he went.
Very gently and carefully she closed the door behind him.
She sagged back against it. She took six slow, deep breaths before she opened it again and went out into the corridor and into the showroom to collect Lady Gladys.
Chapter Eight
Simpson, Vauxhall’s Corinthian column!
To speak thy praise would take a volume,
Or rather, were each dingy leaf
On Vauxhall’s trees a real folio,
I fear me all would prove too brief
Of thy deserts to give an olio.
—Fraser’s Magazine for Town and Country, 1833
Royal Gardens, Vauxhall
Evening of Monday 20 July
Lisburne wanted to strangle her.
He’d come within a gnat’s eyelash of tripping over his own feet as he left Leonie on Saturday. Then, even after a glass or three of wine at White’s, and extensive perusal of every single newspaper in the club, he’d found it difficult to settle down. To anything.
He’d spent Sunday driving from one park to another, expecting to see her, and he’d seen everybody else instead.
He’d remembered her telling him she liked to spend Sundays with her niece. He knew of only one niece, daughter of the sister who’d married Clevedon. Lisburne knew the duke well. They’d been at school together. They’d spent time together on the Continent. He might have called at Clevedon House with no excuse but to visit a friend.
Lisburne almost did it. He was powerfully tempted. But at the last moment, his pride balked, and he told himself not to be a nitwit.
He’d made a small error of judgment, not entirely his fault.
He’d never thought he and Swanton would remain in London for more than a week or two. But no, it turned out the stay would drag on for who knew how long. Then Lisburne had met Leonie Noirot, and he’d imagined a brief affair with a sophisticated, interesting young woman would compensate for the boring bits.
He’d got the “sophisticated” and “interesting” parts right.
He was not bored, certainly.
But she was turning out to be difficult, in ways he didn’t fully understand—though he suspected that her genius for making herself a walking distraction had something to do with it.
Only look at her!
Lisburne stood to one side of the theater’s stage, behind the curtains. She stood before him, dressed in what he’d initially taken for maidenly white. The dress was not so maidenly, it turned out. For one thing, it wasn’t pure white, for it boasted, among numerous other adornments, pink and green embroidered something-or-others. Neither was it so very virginal, given the depth of the bodice’s neckline.
She’d thrown a pale blue flimsy nothing of a shawl—what the ladies called a mantilla—over her shoulders. This, too, only invited a man to examine her velvety skin more closely. Lace adorned her neckline and wrists and the flounces of her skirt, and pale yellow ribbons and bows fluttered over the frothy creation, the bows dancing on the skirt’s flounces and on her sleeves, which weren’t enormous single puffs but multiple smaller ones.
A fine topaz brooch drew attention to the center of the low, lacy neckline, a topaz necklace circled her smooth neck, and matching topaz earrings dangled below the deep red curls clustered at her ears. Higher up, sprigs of flowers sprouted from the elaborately braided topknots springing from her head.
He looked her up and down not once but three full times. It ought not to require so much willpower to not sweep her up into his arms and carry her away to someplace very private, where he could disorder her at his leisure.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” he said.
“The ladies will be breathlessly awaiting Lord Swanton,” she said. “Obtaining their full attention demands special exertions.”
“You look delicious,” he said. “Like a delicate French cake.”
Though numerous lamps lit the theater, they stood in shifting light and shadow, and he couldn’t tell if he’d made her blush in that way she had of barely blushing.
She fanned herself. “Handsomely said, my lord. If only all the other gentlemen will feel the same, and if only the sensation will compel them to empty their purses, I’ll consider my ensemble a triumph.”
“You’ve sold every last ticket,” he said. “The seats are all taken and we’ve still some minutes to starting time.”
“We were lucky in the weather,” she said. “And in your organizing abilities—or those of your secretary, if you refuse to take credit. You made sure everybody knew we’d start exactly on time, and you know the young ladies won’t want to miss a word, even though they’ll have to listen to me before they get their poetry.”
“You’re not nervous about having to face them first,” he said. “If you are, you make an excellent pretense of being fully at ease.”
“I’m used to dealing with ladies,” she said. “And when it comes to money, I know precisely what I’m about. Most important, I believe in the Milliners’ Society with all my heart.”
Swanton joined them then. Unlike Miss Noirot, he suffered his usual pre-performance nerves. Or maybe they were simply everyday poetic nerves.
“Swanton hates taking the stage,” Lisburne told Madame. “He’ll be all right once he starts, but beforehand he tends to become agitated.”
“I never meant to be performing,” Swanton said. “I’d supposed, if I happened to be fortunate, people might read my work to each other if not silently to themselves. Sometimes I feel like a curst Punch and Judy show.”
“Poetry needs to be heard,” she said. “That’s what I was taught.”
“It seems not all of mine will be heard tonight,?
? Swanton said. “One’s gone missing.”
