His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(17)
“Her hair will be a fright before we arrive.”
Though Emmaline would have brought a comb and spare hair ribbons. She was so unassuming, so unconcerned with impressing anybody but her husband, that her preparedness for any situation was easy to overlook. She would not have missed an opportunity to share a stolen kiss with a man she fancied though. The countess was as determined as she was quiet.
“Didn’t you ever long to have somebody muss your hair, Emmie? Long for somebody to tempt you from the path of propriety?”
“Yes. That’s why I married Rosecroft.”
The horses slowed to a walk.
“Yes? He mussed your hair, so you gave him your hand?”
“More or less, but if you’d asked me prior to my marriage, I’d have said the view when one strays is so often disappointing.”
Emmaline had been immured in rural Yorkshire prior to her marriage.
“Then one isn’t straying properly.”
“You’ve done a deal of straying, Lily, to offer that opinion? Perhaps conducted a survey on the topic?” her ladyship asked as the coach rocked to a halt.
“I have been a pattern card of probity.” As far as anybody knows.
The groom opened the door, and Bronwyn peered inside. Though she wasn’t related to Rosecroft, she bore a resemblance to him: swooping brows, snapping eyes, and an air of brisk command, though she was barely of age for the school room.
“We’re here,” she said. “I drove almost all the way, and John Coachman says I’m ready to put the Four-In-Hand Club to shame.”
“Do you suppose you’d hurt their feelings?” the countess asked as the footman handed her down.
“I might hurt their horses’ feelings, if I won all the races,” Bronwyn replied. “I’d be sure to win by only inches.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” Lily said, climbing out and taking the girl’s hand. “Miss Daisy hasn’t a pony, so you must not boast of your skill at the ribbons or in the saddle. You wouldn’t want to provoke her to envy.”
Though a little childish jealousy might be a relief from grief and homesickness.
Bronwyn took Emmaline’s hand and tugged both ladies toward the door. “I will be kind to the less fortunate. Her Grace says all ladies are kind to the less fortunate. Miss Daisy hasn’t got a papa or a mama or a pony, and I don’t know what could be less fortunate than that.”
She hasn’t a cat either, though she does command the devotion of at least one earl.
Grampion met them in his library, apparently his favorite place to receive callers. When introductions had been made all around, and Emmaline had ushered the little girls into the garden, Lily was once again left alone with the earl.
Emmaline was something of a strategist too, thank the heavenly powers.
“You’re smiling,” Lily said, though it was the most subdued version of Grampion’s smile she’d seen. “Does that mean you’re recalling a moment shared with me and the Apollo Belvedere?”
The smile became more complicated. “And if I am?”
Lily had done little else besides recall that moment and regret that she’d not made more of it, despite all common sense to the contrary. She drew Grampion away from the French doors, went up on her toes, and kissed him.
*
Hessian had slept badly. The incident with Lady Humplewit had tempted him to pack up Daisy, his belongings, and his correspondence, and head north at a brisk gallop. Cumberland was breathtaking in any season, but Cumbrian summers were beyond description.
Two thoughts had stopped him from fleeing London, the first being duty.
Always duty. In this case, the duty to notify Worth of his departure meant enduring lectures such as only a happily married younger brother could deliver on the subjects of connubial bliss and the joys of fatherhood.
The second factor discouraging Hessian from tucking tail and decamping for parts north was now kissing him witless.
Lily Ferguson was a puzzle. She marched about, exuding pragmatism and self-possession when, in fact, she was full of passion and contradictions. In the silence of the library, her kiss shouted her desire for him. She melded her body to his—all the best curves in all the best places—and fisted her fingers in his hair.
As if he’d be able to resist her overtures? The last person with whom Hessian had attempted more than a fleeting encounter had been Daisy’s mama, and that had been friendly, a little awkward, and ultimately bewildering.
Lily Ferguson was not bewildered. She was a woman intent on plundering Hess’s self-restraint. She was making excellent progress toward her goal too.
Lily knew what she was about—almost. Her kisses were bold, her grip on Hessian bolder, and yet, he tasted a hint of rage in her ardor. Her kiss communicated desire, but also the loneliness and self-doubt that went with years of not being desired by anybody. Years of making up the numbers, being invited for the sake of courtesy, and being danced with out of politeness.
Hessian well knew the tribulations endured on the margins of polite society, and Lily deserved so much more. He gathered her close, reveling in the abundance of womanliness in his arms. The particular rustle of fabric when she pressed nearer and her soft sigh when she was unapologetically embraced told him she wanted to be not only desired, but also cherished.
Hessian longed to give her that and more. He started with a soft swipe of his tongue, and Lily startled, then settled in to investigate, reciprocate, and explore.