Chapter 5
B
y God, she had bollocks. To think he’d keep a roof over her head without her getting under him. Or above him—he wasn’t particular at this point. He shifted so she wouldn’t see his cockstand. That kiss had been nothing like the hurried assaults they’d made on each other when they were kids.
Simon doubted seriously she meant to turn him in—the warrants out for his arrest must be tattered scraps by now. Surely the authorities had more to worry about than a skinny seventeen-year-old boy who stole to feed himself and his old gran over a dozen years ago.
He’d worked back then, too—anything he could get his hands on. Mended bridles at stables, hauled barrels of ale, ran errands for the local moneylender. One such ‘errand’ had been his undoing. He’d kept a little extra from the toff he’d had to persuade—not much, but enough to make his employer turn him in to the corrupt magistrate. And it hadn’t helped when he’d had to tie a sweet little old lady to a chair on his last job.
Simon became expendable. His bad judgment meant he was running from both the law and his boss, even if the sweet little old lady hadn’t pressed charges. He’d only been back to Scotland once—to find Lucy Dalhousie—for all the good it did him. England was his home now.
He was a new man—it was a new age with a new king, a time filled with the promise of industry, machinery, investment, invention. He had a different name, a different appearance. No one would connect the knighted, rich Sir Simon Keith with the impoverished boy he used to be.
Lucy had changed too. Oh, physically she still looked the same, all pale and slender, with her mermaid hair and bee-stung lips. Like a princess from a fairytale book or a medieval madonna. She used to be putty in his hands, a fact that had once thrilled his youthful pride. It seemed she had grown a backbone.
And she was a whore.
A badly dressed whore, in an old rumpled robe and ugly woolen stockings, with a smudge of soot on her nose. Percy Ferguson had truly fallen on bad times if this is how his mistress comported herself.
Simon imagined her in a copper bathtub, her hair unbound and floating on the surface of the water, her pink nipples hard peaks. He’d scrub the soot off and clean everywhere else personally and not mind a bit if she splashed him again.
Three months. Simon supposed he owed her that. It wasn’t so long. But long enough for him to get her where he wanted her again.
And to get her out of his system.
He couldn’t go on carrying a torch for a Jane Street courtesan.
“All right,” he said. He wouldn’t try to get her into his bed, but she’d said nothing about fucking anywhere else. It would be just like old times. He grinned.
She looked taken aback, her well-kissed lips wide open in surprise.
“I can’t have you looking like that when we meet with my investors next week,” Simon said, sweeping his eyes from her snarled hair and her wooly toes. “I hope Ferguson bought you some better clothes.”
“I have an elegant wardrobe,” she said haughtily. Damn but her chin kept lifting. Soon it would hit the ceiling.
“Good. I have an image to project. My mistress must be above reproach. And I’ll need new furniture immediately. Good china. Silver. See to it and put it on my account. I’ll write a letter of authorization for you.” He went to the little desk in the corner, hoped the spindly chair wouldn’t break under his weight, and began scratching away.
Again, she gawked at him. “You trust me to buy your furnishings?”
“Why not? You used to have aspirations to be a lady. Even when you had no money, you were nicely turned out.”
He watched as the blush stole over her cheeks at his praise. But it was true. Lucy always had good taste. She’d chosen him, hadn’t she?
“I’ll get my secretary to secure a household staff. A butler, a cook, a footman and two maids should be sufficient for a property this size. Maybe a kitchen boy.”
“That’s more than we had before.” He heard an odd gurgle behind him. “Wait a minute! Simon, you’re writing!”
He raised a brow. “I told you I was a changed man, Luce. I read too, but not the nonsense you keep in your parlor. Romances—pah!” he said in disgust.
“Someone deserves a happy ending! There’s little enough of that in the real world.”
Finishing his letter, he signed his name with an embellishment below, much better than the ‘X’ of the past. He scattered sand on the paper and pushed it toward her.
“This should give you entrée into the best shops. And I want the best, Luce. Doona be mingy.”
“I’ll be a total spendthrift. I shall enjoy spending
your
money for a change.”
She’d given him all her savings the last night he came to her, full of fear and promises. “I told you I’d pay you back those seventeen shillings, and I will.”
“With interest, if you please.”
“What a canny businesswoman you are. It’s a pity I cannot employ you in my railroad scheme.”
“I wouldn’t work for you for all the tea in China.”
“I prefer Indian, by the way. Please inform the cook. I’ll give you a list of my favorites so that when I visit, I’ll have what I want.”
Her blushes had disappeared. “W-when you visit?”
“Did you think to be here all alone for the next three months, Luce?”
“I thought—you said you’d have parties for your business associates.”
“Aye, that I will. But a man in my position is expected to have a mistress. I’ve got to keep up appearances. Visit this house regularly.”
“Just like p-powerful men,” she muttered. “They’re all the same, leaving their wives and children behind, living a lie.”
“I’ve no wife or children. Not yet. And you’ll be happy to hear, I’m an honest dealer now. No shortcuts.” He pulled another sheet of paper from her short stack. “I suppose we should put our agreement in writing. I can get my solicitor to do up something more formal, but this is between us.”
Lucy folded her arms. She must be tired standing in the wet patch, as far away as she could get from him and still be in the room. “Write down I will have absolutely no sexual congress with you.”
Simon bit the end of the pen. “Hm. Would that include kissing? I canna see the harm in kissing, and it will be expected by our guests that you show me some affection.”
“I won’t have you shoving your tongue down my throat!”
“I believe that was
your
tongue down
my
throat earlier.”
She looked like she wanted to throw something. Simon hoped she wouldn’t remember the pitcher by her feet.
“If I’m to spend all this money on your food and lodging for the next three months, plus pay you off at the end of it, we need to make compromises,” he said reasonably. “I hardly think a little peck is going to pass for the lust I’m supposed to feel for my Jane Street mistress. Your breed is notorious, you know.”
“I am not—” She snapped her lips shut.
“Yes, I know. You won’t actually be my mistress. But we’ve got to make it look good. Real. I want to be the envy of every man I know.”
“Then you’d better get yourself another woman. I’m hardly a great beauty.”
Simon gazed across the room. His heart still skipped when he looked at her, even if she tried to scorch him with her scorn and looked like a washerwoman at present. “You’ll do. For now. Perhaps I’ll have better luck with my next mistress—find a wee biddable girl who’ll look at me and thank her lucky stars.”
Lucy snorted. He turned to the paper, wrote down a few brief, vague phrases and summoned her to the desk. “Here. Sign this. I’ll let Lord Ferguson know I’m taking the house—and you—over.”
She glided across the floor, stopping short of coming too close. She took the agreement from his outstretched hand and frowned. “Well, you may write, but I canna read it.”
“Aye, that’s why I keep a secretary. But this is too intimate an affair for him, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose.” She snatched the pen from the desk and wrote her name. The document was worthless—neither one of them were who they said they were, but Simon was sure he didn’t need a piece of paper to get where he wanted to be—inside his maddening, manipulative new mistress.
Chapter 6
W
ithin two hours of Simon—
her
Simon!—taking his leave, the Jane Street house was invaded by a very superior Scots butler, a French maid, a French cook and a Cockney potboy fresh from Sir Simon’s own townhouse. The footman and extra maid would not arrive until tomorrow, MacTavish told her in his soft burr; they had the day off. He had taken one look around Percy’s house, clucked disapprovingly, and set everyone to work.
Lucy was grateful she had bathed and dressed to receive this swarm of people. Simon must have many more servants at home if he could spare all these for her. She had gotten used to having the house to herself these past months, with Percy and Yates occasionally coming up for air and a game of three-handed euchre. She was fairly certain she now had more servants than any other courtesan on the street, but nowhere for them to sit or sleep.
Folding Simon’s letter in her reticule and taking the French maid Yvonne with her, Lucy went shopping and followed Simon’s instructions, spending an enormous amount of his money. She noted she had become Miss Dalhousie again, if she deciphered Simon’s bold chicken-scratching correctly, and she was apparently his cousin—his “cows” could not possibly be correct. It was apparent the shopkeepers could understand the intent of the letter even if they could not read the whole of it—it was amazing what the three words “Sir Simon Keith” did to light the gleam of avarice in their eyes. They fell over themselves to promise immediate delivery of bedding and paintings and furniture. Lucy didn’t dither—she knew what she liked, and since she’d been instructed not to be mingy, she took that to heart.
By evening MacTavish had hung pictures back on the walls to cover the bare spots and Yvonne had put fresh linen on new beds in the attic. The French chef had taken over Yates’s old room after producing a fabulous meal which still resonated on Lucy’s palate. Lucy had tested every piece of new furniture downstairs, and now sat before her mirror, eyes half-closed as Yvonne brushed through her hair. It was lovely to feel the touch of someone, even if it was just her new maid.
Yvonne spoke very little English and Lucy spoke very little French, but they seemed to understand each other perfectly well. But when Simon turned up reflected in the mirror, standing at the doorway looking like the richest, most delicious dessert, Yvonne missed Lucy’s panicked look and excused herself.
“I did not expect you this evening, Sir Simon,” Lucy said, prim, as her heart beat erratically. She was grateful she was wearing a thick flannel nightgown buttoned up to her chin, none of Percy’s sheer confections. Simon didn’t need to see the pulse at her throat or her pointed nipples. She resolutely refused to face him, continuing to brush her hair without Yvonne’s assistance, tangling it only a little.
“You’ve done remarkably well for one afternoon, Luce. The downstairs looks a treat.” His image came closer to the dressing table until he was right behind her, bringing with him a clicking noise. Curious, Lucy looked into the mirror. In one hand he had a set of small roller bearings, which he fitted on his fingertips as if they were rings. He seemed unaware of the nervous movement of his fingers, but watching him made Lucy dizzy. What would those fingers do next?
She tugged the brush through a knot. “I’m not done yet. The tradesmen’s bills will be outrageous.”
“As long as everything is in place for next Tuesday night. I’ve sent dinner invitations to my investors.”
“You mean your marks,” Lucy said, her lip curling quite contemptuously.
“Not at all. I told you I’ve gone straight. Your old protector Percy will be there as well. I hope that willna be too awkward for you.”
Lucy wanted to give Percy a piece of her mind, but doing so in public would not be possible. “I’m sure I can behave myself. It’s a wonder
you
doona feel uncomfortable with another man’s leavings.”
“Ferguson assured me you had a simple business arrangement. No one’s feelings were engaged now, were they?”
“I’ve lived here six years. Percy and I began and parted as friends.”
Simon lifted a slashing dark brow. “How quaint.”
“Don’t you believe men and women can be friends, Simon?”
“Don’t be daft. Of course they canna. Men have a responsibility to the wider world and a woman’s place is in the domestic sphere. They have nothing in common but the bedcovers.”
Lucy picked up the abandoned hairbrush and ripped it through her hair again. “How ridiculous! You are a caveman!”
“I’m not saying men and women cannot converse intelligently together. I’m quite looking forward to our talks again—you always had something to say and I could only shut you up with a kiss. But a true friendship between a man and woman—impossible. Sex always gets in the way.”
She remembered those kisses, damn it. And the most recent one.
Lucy couldn’t very well tell him about Percy’s lack of interest in her. But perhaps Simon was right—Percy was more like an addled big brother to her than a friend. Friends didn’t sell one along with one’s house.
“Well, doona worry. I don’t intend to make friends with
you
.”
“Aye, t’would be difficult. A man is not apt to harbor much affection for his blackmailer.”
Lucy chewed a lip. She was regretting this arrangement already, but she needed time to get things settled for herself. No matter what Percy said, she was not putting all their clothes in storage. Some of them would fetch quite a bit, give her some seed money to escape Simon’s clutches.
Nay, he was firmly in hers. ’T’was time the boot was on the other foot.
“Here. Let me.”
Startled, Lucy watched as Simon took the brush from her hand and smoothed through her waves. His touch was not as light as Yvonne’s. She imagined sparks of fire flicking through her hair as he swept from scalp to end. Sitting stiffly so as not to betray her reaction, she waited for him to finish.
But he did not. The brush came up again and again, massaging her head and flowing through her hair down her back so she could feel the soft boar bristles through the strands. Her eye flicked to the mirror where she could see Simon’s look of concentration—he had wound the end of her hair now around his hand and held it, bringing it closer to his nose. He
sniffed
.
Lucy jerked away, but he didn’t let go. “I am not a fellow dog, sir!”
“That’s Sir Simon to you,” he said, cheeky as ever. “I think we should get into the habit of you giving me the proper deference. It will be expected Tuesday.”
“It’s not Tuesday yet.”
“Aye. Which is a good thing, for you’ve much to learn before then.”
Lucy clamped down her tongue before she stuck it out at him. “I’m sure you’ll find my deportment unexceptionable in company. Percy has already given me instructions on anything that might be suitable for moving about in Society.” She’d had years of tea-pouring and frivolous conversations as Percy made her the bosom-bow he’d always wanted.
“Ah.” Simon dropped her hair. “I’ve asked around. It seems Lord Ferguson kept his mistress very much to himself. Many had heard of you, but not a soul I talked to has ever seen the fabled Lucy Dellamar.”
“Percy preferred quiet evenings at home. But you are mistaken. We often attended the musicales at Vauxhall Gardens.” Of course they had both been masked, Percy wearing the most elaborate of their dresses. Yates trotted behind until he was called into the Dark Walk for a naughty thumb-at-the-nose to the ton while Lucy played scout.
“You like music, do you?”
Lucy did, so she nodded.
“Excellent. We’ll go to the opera tomorrow.”
She choked. “The opera? You? You are not serious!”
Simon slapped the hairbrush firmly back on her dressing table. “As you said, Luce, it’s been thirteen years. We no longer know everything there is to know about each other. I’ve discovered I have quite an affinity for opera, Gluck in particular. There is a performance of his
Orfeo ed Euridice
tomorrow evening.”
An affinity for opera
? The boy she knew did not even know the word ‘affinity.’ “Really?” she asked, doubtful.
“Aye. The poor sod Orpheus mourning his wife reminded me of myself when I found out you were dead. I suppose your aunt did me a favor, then, making me susceptible to the arts.”
Susceptible
? Simon must have been sleeping with a dictionary all these years.
But with women too, most likely opera dancers. Why couldn’t he find one of them to torture?
Nay, she was in a pickle of her own making. It was she who’d set the three-month rule. But three months of opera might broaden her horizons.
“Very well,” she said, rising. “Do you have anything in particular you’d like me to wear for my public debut as your mistress?”
“Let’s see what you have.” Simon picked up a branch of candles and followed her into her dressing room, where a long row of cupboards held Percy’s finery. Putting the candles down on a chest, Simon went through the clothes methodically in the dim light, shaking his head as he plucked up each one with his blackened fingernails. Lucy was glad to see there was at least one trace of the boy she knew in this immaculate stranger.
“None of this lot will do. Expect a box tomorrow afternoon.”
“What do you mean? These things are perfectly acceptable! You needn’t buy me new clothes, Simon.”
“I should think you’d be glad to squeeze more coin out of me, Luce. Isn’t that what mistresses do?”
“I’m not really your mistress.”
Simon sighed. “Do you do nothing but argue?”
Lucy knew she was being difficult, but having Simon loom in her little dressing room made her uncomfortable for too many reasons she was unwilling to examine.
“I’m very tired, Simon.
Sir
Simon. It’s been a long, harrowing day.”
“You must want to get rid of me to dip into your drink.”
“I don’t drink!” Lucy said hotly, and then paused. How on earth did Simon know she had buried her troubles in a bottle last night? And drank every last drop, too.
“But before I leave you, I’ll need to take some measurements to give to Madame Bernette tomorrow morning.”
“Pardon?”
“Measurements, Luce. For the modiste. You’re not the average woman.” He looked down at her. “I see you come up to the knot of my neckcloth, so that helps, but what about the rest of you? Your arms and such. Here.”
He snatched Lucy’s arm and held it aloft, studying it as if it were the lost tablet of the Ten Commandments. He dropped it gently and took her shoulders in his warm hands, counting the inches between the span. And then—
Surely it was unnecessary for him to brush across her breasts like that to get to her waist. His thumbs seemed to take an eternity at her nipples as he patted his way down her body. Then they settled at her hips for a few seconds, while the rest of his fingers pressed against her bottom with intent, drawing her close to him.
“Simon!” she warned.
“Um,” he said, his blue eyes dancing downward between them.
He could not see her huge feet from this angle, so what had attracted his attention so? Lucy followed his glance and saw the shadow of her pubic hair through her nightgown. All this time, she might have been naked in front of him!
When she looked up, her brown eyes met his blue ones. They were dark, flinty, the eyes of a man who measured, took what he wanted and asked permission later.
It seemed he wanted a kiss. Another one. All right, she could do it. She closed her eyes and waited.
And then felt him set her back.
His mouth was a grim line. “I willna have you looking like a martyr when I kiss you, Luce.”
“I—I wasn’t thinking of you kissing me! I’ve got an eyelash in my eye.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The, uh, left.”
He cupped her cheek and examined her furiously blinking eye. “Hold still. You’re like a damn butterfly.”
Lucy felt his breath on her face. She wished she could be repulsed, but it was spearminty again, clean. Gently he pulled down the skin at the corner of her eye and stared.
She rolled her eyes away. His were too bright, too knowing, and he still had the longest black eyelashes of anyone she’d ever seen.
“It’s fair dark in here. I canna see a thing.”
“Mayhap I am mistaken,” she said.
“Mayhap ye are.”
Her Scottish Simon was back, his brogue rough on his tongue. She lifted her face to his, her own tongue licking her lips in nervousness.
He calmed her with the quietest of kisses, a mere warm whisper, one hand still on her cheek and the other splayed flat on her back. She wanted him to push her hard against him, but there was still a maddening space between them.