No Mistress of Mine

Chapter 20

He’d gotten her out of bed, he knew, and the realization made Denys catch his breath. To him, this was the time of day when she had always looked loveliest, when her dark red hair was loose and tumbled around her shoulders, when her face was bereft of powder and rouge, and he could see the golden freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks. He swallowed hard, fighting the impulse to shove the cart aside, lift her into his arms, and carry her into the bedroom.

But he won that battle by reminding himself that he was playing for stakes far higher than just a tumble in the sheets. Forcing desire aside, he bowed. “Good morning, Miss Valentine.”

Using her fists, she rubbed her eyes again, making him smile, for the gesture was reminiscent of a little girl waking from a dream. “Why are you dressed like a Savoy footman?”

“Oh, this.” He smoothed the waistcoat of his uniform. “Like it?”

Clearly confounded, she closed her eyes and shook her head, and when she looked at him again, her sleepy haze had dissipated, and she was frowning. “Denys, you can’t be up here outside my rooms.”

“Lola, isn’t it a bit silly to tell me I can’t do what I have already done?”

She leaned forward, sticking her head out into the corridor. “Someone might see you.”

“So what?”

She pulled back. “Someone might recognize you.”

“In this costume? I doubt it. Why do you think I’m wearing it? And if you want your coffee, which I know you do since you’ve just risen from bed, and you adore coffee first thing, you’d best let me in before it grows cold.”

She bit her lip, considering. “If I don’t, I’ve no doubt you’re prepared to just keep standing out here, hovering in the corridor and knocking on my door until I let you in,” she muttered after a moment.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked around with an innocent air, whistling.

Heaving a sigh, she pulled the door wide and stepped back. “Oh, very well,” she said crossly. “You’d better come in. I never can seem to say no to you.”

He met her eyes. “That’s what I’m hoping.”

He heard her soft gasp, but when she spoke, he was reminded that he’d only accomplished the first step of his plan, and there were still many more steps to take.

“You went to a great deal of trouble,” she said, shutting the door and following him as he wheeled the cart into the sitting room of her suite and steered it toward a card table and chairs at the far end of the room. “Where did you obtain a Savoy livery?”

“From a Savoy footman, of course. I found one just coming off duty and bribed him to loan me his livery, take me through the kitchens, and bring me up in the service lift.”

“You’re crazy,” she declared, shaking her head. “Just plain crazy.”

“The footman didn’t think so.” Denys chuckled. “He wasn’t the least bit surprised by my suggestion. Without blinking, he told me the rate for this service is a guinea. Evidently, gentlemen in hotel livery are sneaking in and out of ladies’ rooms all over London nowadays. So many, in fact, that hotel footmen have established a price. It even includes a letter of character, in case the fellow is caught and given the sack. The maids have a similar system at work. Quite enterprising, really, when one thinks about it.”

He poured coffee for her, stirred in milk and sugar, and held it out to her across the table. “Coffee?”

She took it, but she didn’t move to drink it. Instead, she lifted her gaze above the cup to meet his. “I heard you were in Kent. When did you return to London?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Have you . . .” She paused and took a deep breath. “Have you seen your father?”

He frowned, looking puzzled. “No, why?”

She didn’t answer that. “Why did you come back from Kent?” she asked instead.

“Lola.” He smiled at her tenderly. “Do you really need to ask?”

“Last night,” she whispered. “You were there.”

“Of course I was there. Lola,” he added, his voice softly chiding, “you didn’t really think I’d miss your opening night, did you?”

Her hand shook, and he heard the cup rattle in its saucer. “What . . .” She paused, passed her tongue over her lips. “What did you think? Tell me the truth.”

“I thought you were remarkable.”

There it was, that radiant smile he loved. “Really?”

“Really. And if you don’t believe me . . .” He paused and bent down beside the cart, reaching beneath the hem of the tablecloth to retrieve the morning papers he’d placed on the bottom shelf. Straightening, he held up the stack. “Perhaps you might care to hear a few other opinions?”

He dropped the sheaf of newspapers on the table and picked up the one on top, already folded back to the proper page. “According to Talk of the Town, you are ‘the most stunning and welcome surprise to appear on the London stage in years.’ ”

He set it aside, and picked up the next one. “The Times says, ‘Miss Valentine shines the moment she walks out on stage, rather like the sun peeking out unexpectedly between clouds on an overcast day.’ ”

“The Times said that?” She stared at him, understandably disbelieving. “The Times?”

“Yes, The Times. Congratulations,” he added, grinning at her over the top of the sheet. “I think you are the only person in theater who has ever inspired the staid and stuffy London Times to wax poetic. And you’ve done it twice.”

“Maybe, but the first time wasn’t very pleasant poetry,” she reminded. “Let me see.”

She set down her coffee, pulled the paper from his hand, and scanned the page. “I don’t believe it,” she said, laughing as she read the review. “Praise from The Times. Who’d have thought it?”

“In honor of the occasion,” he said, once again bending down beside the cart, “I’ve brought champagne.”

He pulled out two champagne flutes and the pail containing an opened bottle of Laurent-Perrier reposing in ice chips.

“This is . . .” She stopped and pressed a hand to her mouth, letting the paper fall from her fingers. It landed, splayed out like a lopsided army tent, on the floor. She looked down, staring at it for a moment, then she looked at him, and to his utter astonishment, he saw tears in her eyes.

“Lola?” He came around to her side of the table, rather alarmed. “For love of God, why are you crying?”

“This is so different,” she choked. “The last time you and I had breakfast and read reviews, it was so awful.”

“Which makes this all the sweeter.” He took her by the arms and pressed a kiss to her freckled nose. “Doesn’t it?”

She turned her face away and shrugged as if trying to dislodge his hands, but it was, he noted with relief, a rather halfhearted attempt, and he began to think he might have just taken another step forward. Slowly, he slid his arms around her waist. “So much sweeter,” he murmured, and kissed her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth.

She stiffened, and for a moment, he thought she might pull away, but then, her arms came up around his neck, her mouth opened beneath his, and she gave a soft moan of surrender. This was his opening, and he took it.

Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss. His hands came up to cup her cheeks, and his fingers tangled in her hair, and when she pressed her body closer, tasting him with her tongue, the desire he’d been holding back flared up, and he worked to contain it at once. Pulling back, he gentled the kiss, suckling her lower lip, tasting her in small nibbles.

Given that their most recent lovemaking had occurred in a growler, he was determined that this time things would be much more romantic, and that meant taking his time.

Lola, however, seemed to have other ideas.

She grasped his wrists and guided his hands to her breasts. She wore no corset beneath her gown, and her breasts were full and lush in his hands, the nipples already turgid.

Lust surged in him, and he groaned, opening his palms, torturing himself for a moment before he once again pulled back.

She protested with a moan, her fingers tightening around his wrists to keep his hands on her, but he resisted, pulling his hands out of her grip. “Our lovemaking in the growler was far too rushed,” he said firmly. “Today, I’m taking my time.”

He fingered the top button of her gown, kissing her nose as he slipped it free. With the next button, he kissed her forehead, and with the third, her chin. By the time the gown was open to her waist, her breathing was quick and shallow, and so was his.

But he held on to his control, determined to wait until he’d made her lose hers. Once again, he pulled back, relishing her moan of protest.

She was wearing an odd sort of chemise under her gown, one that buttoned to her chin, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. “You’ve taken to wearing a nightgown under your dresses?” he teased. “Is this a new fashion I’m unaware of?”

“My maid’s out,” she murmured in a breathy whisper, and kissed him. “And there was this very insistent footman knocking at my door. I’m not sure . . .” She paused and kissed him again. “I’m not sure the Savoy would approve of such brass on the part of their waiters.”

“Desperate times,” he said against her mouth, his control slipping, “require desperate measures.”

“Are you?” she asked, nipping at his lips. “Are you desperate?”

Denys knew her attempt to take control of this seduction could not be allowed, or things would be over long before he’d accomplished what he intended to do.

To regain the upper hand, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, bent down, and hooked his other arm beneath her knees, then he lifted her into his arms.

“Denys,” she protested, laughing as he carried her toward the bedroom. “What about breakfast? What about the champagne?”

“There is authentic room service in this hotel.” Once inside her room, he kicked the door shut behind him. “We’ll have ice and food sent up later. Now,” he added as he set her on her feet at the foot of the bed, “where was I?”

“I believe you were undressing me.” Her words were blasé, but her tone was breathless, and he knew he was again in charge, but once he had unfastened the buttons down to her waist, his control was again tested.

“My God,” he breathed as he slid her tea gown and nightdress off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing her breasts. “You are even more beautiful than I remember.”

He let go of the garments, allowing them to catch at her hips, but when he cupped her breasts, she stopped him. “I can’t,” she said, pulling back, and he felt a jolt of panic.

He took a deep, steadying breath. “Can’t what?”

“I just can’t make love to you while you’re dressed in a Savoy footman’s livery.” She fingered a button of the distinctive gold-and-black-striped waistcoat. “I live here right now, and I see footmen wearing this all the time. It’s just too . . . strange.”

He laughed, relieved as hell she wasn’t calling a halt. “Are you telling me to get undressed?”

“Don’t worry.” She looked up, laughing, too. “I’ll help you.”

He let her remove the black jacket, striped waistcoat, and gold necktie of his footman’s livery. His collar studs, collar, and cuff links followed. He even allowed her to slip his braces off his shoulders and remove his shirt. But when she began to unbutton his trousers, he stopped her.

“That’s far enough,” he chided. “I am undressing you, remember?” He ignored her protests, plucked her hands away, then cupped her breasts in his hands.

He caressed and shaped them, savoring their lush fullness. When he caressed her hardened nipples with his thumbs, she tilted her head back with a moan, arching into his hands, and when he pinched them lightly in his fingers, she gave a soft cry, and her knees buckled beneath her.

He caught her with one arm, wrapping it around her waist, laughing softly as he resumed caressing her. “You always did like that.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“I remember what else you like.” He let her go, and sank to his knees in front of her, pulling her tea gown and nightdress down as he went, baring her entire body to his gaze—her small waist and generous hips, the gentle swell of her stomach, the triangle of auburn curls at the apex of her thighs, and down her slim, gorgeous legs. Taking a profound, shaky breath, he tilted his head back up. Looking into her eyes, he grasped her hips in his hands, pulled her closer, and pressed a hot, wet, kiss to her stomach.

She moaned low, arching into the kiss, her hands reaching back on either side of her hips to grasp the brass footboard. He moved lower, kissing her navel, and then lower still, pressing his lips to soft red curls.

She let out a soft wail, as his tongue raked over her, tasting her. Then he paused, lifting his head to look into her face. “Remember the first time we did this?” he asked.

She nodded, and her legs parted a little, but he ignored the hint. “You’d never done it.” He laughed a little, his palm gliding over her hip. “It shocked you, I think.”

“Well, of course it did.” Her fingers raked through his hair, pulling him closer, and he relented. He kissed the crease of her sex, stroked it with his tongue. He savored her softness, her taste, the sounds she made. He relished her pleasure as it built and built, and when she was trembling all over, when her body was moving in frantic little jerks and he knew the moment was right, he flicked his tongue over her clitoris, and when she made that soft, sweet wail of feminine ecstasy he remembered so well, he took more pleasure in her climax than he had ever taken in his own.

He kissed her there one more time, and rose to his feet. She let go of the bed at once and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his chest, panting, her breathing ragged and hot against his skin.

He smoothed her hair, and when she pressed a kiss to his chest, his heart twisted, reminding him of all that was in the balance right now, and yet, his body was so tightly leashed, he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, and he kissed her. “I want you,” he said, and let her go, bending to yank off his shoes and socks. “Do you want me?”

He looked at her again, watched her eyes widen, and he knew she remembered their first time together as vividly as he. How, after months of being held at arm’s length, he’d finally gotten her to admit her desire was as great as his.

“You have to say it,” he reminded her, smiling faintly as he unbuttoned his trousers. “Remember?”

He watched her as he shoved down his trousers and linen and pulled them off. Her lips parted, but as he looked on, she didn’t speak.

“Well?” he prompted, tossing garments aside, standing naked in front of her.

She shoved a lock of hair back from her face and shrugged, trying not to smile. “Well, what?”

He grasped her at the waist, and she gave a shriek of laughter as he lifted her and plunked her bum down on the brass footboard. He pushed, sending her falling backward, and she was laughing before she even hit the mattress, but he was on the bed beside her before she could scramble away. “Want me?” he asked again, capturing her, rolling over her, pinning her with his body.

She was still laughing, but she pressed her lips together, trying to stifle it.

He wasn’t deterred. “Very well. I can wait,” he murmured, and nuzzled her neck. “You know I am a very patient . . .” He paused to kiss her throat. “Very persistent fellow.”

He slid his arms beneath hers, resting his weight on his elbows, settling himself, and though his cock was hard as stone between her thighs and he was shaking inside from the effort of holding back, he strove to pretend he was shipshape and Bristol fashion. “Do you want me?”

He flexed his hips, sliding his cock against her, a long, slow, teasing slide.

“Denys,” she gasped, and her hips rolled against his, but he held out, not entering her.

“You have to say it.” When she didn’t speak, he slid his body down a bit, eased his hand between them, and touched her. “Admit it. You want me.”

“Oh,” she moaned, and he relished the sound.

“Not laughing now, are you?” he murmured, stroking her.

“Stop teasing.”

“I think you’re the one teasing,” he said, the tip of his finger sliding up and down, in and out of her.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she gasped, shivering with the wicked excitement of this game.

“Yes, you do. Say it, Lola, say it.”

“All right, yes, I want you,” she gasped, jerking her hips, trying to urge him on. “I want you.”

He pulled his hand back a bit, until only the tip of his finger touched her. Gently, he caressed her, circling her clitoris with the tip of his finger, then drawing back. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Yes, yes. Come inside me. Now, Denys, now. I want you so much, I can’t bear it.”

He shook his head, holding back, for even her desire was not enough. To get what he really wanted, he had to bring her to the very edge. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled back so that he could look into her face. “I love you,” he said, sliding the tip of his finger inside her. “Do you love me?”

She didn’t answer, and he pulled back, causing her to moan in protest. Her hips lifted as she tried to follow his hand, but he didn’t let her have that scrap of satisfaction. “Do you love me?”

She was panting, desperate, her eyes closed. She nodded.

“Not good enough. You have to say it.” He teased again, caressing, pulling back. “Do you love me?”

She was whimpering now, desperate, mewling sounds of need, but he did not relent. “Do you, Lola? Love me?”

“Yes,” she cried on a sob. “I love you, Denys. I’ve always loved you.”

That was everything he needed to hear. He kissed her hard, withdrew his hand, and entered her fully. “Love you,” he told her, thrusting deep. “Now, and always.”

She cried out, clenching tight around him, pushing with her hips, urging him on, but he wasn’t about to let her set the pace. He fought to hold back, making each thrust just a bit deeper than the one before, building the pleasure, until at last, she came.

He was right behind her, climaxing in a white-hot rush of pleasure so intense, it seemed as if his entire body were on fire. The shudders rocked him, again and again, until at last, they subsided, and he stilled, his body easing down on hers, his breathing hard, mingling with hers in the hush of afternoon.

At last, he lifted his head. “There now,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her mouth, “was that so hard?”

He eased back, curling his arms beneath her, his weight on his elbows, but when he looked at her, his throat went dry, and his heart hurt, because she had never looked more beautiful than she did right now.

In the crack of sunlight that filtered between the closed drapes, her skin was flushed a delicate pink, the locks of her hair were like tongues of fire against the white sheets, and on her lips was the drowsy hint of a smile.

“So, now that we’ve both admitted the truth,” he murmured, pushing a tendril of hair back from her cheek, “what shall we do about it?”