Seductive Silence (Mistress in the Making Book 1) Page 6

  Better to disguise the bruise and scars than to scare her away before ever opening his mouth. Her being the woman he suffered through this ordeal to meet.

  “My lord, delighted you deigned to join us,” the butler said with a haughty air that indicated he took his position very seriously. “Dinner is being held on your account, so if you would…”

  The man set off at a marching pace before the first syllable of Daniel’s “Lead on,” made it past his lips.

  No out-of-the-way narrow nook for Penry’s lovely light-skirt, Daniel saw, the home he was escorted through being as genteel and grand as anything one would expect to find in Mayfair. Only they weren’t in Mayfair, the upper echelon of abodes, but a neighborhood or three away.

  “Here we are, my lord.”

  Nodding his thanks to the impertinent fellow, Daniel paused before entering the formal dining room, keeping out of sight of most its occupants. Though the space was absurdly large, a slightly low ceiling coupled with the crowd inhabiting it gave the room an intimate, almost cozy air. Elaborate candelabra spaced evenly over the table’s surface ensured adequate light—a sort of subdued, shadowed light that invited one to lean their head toward their closest companion for a romantic tête-à-tête.

  He cast his gaze back the way they’d just come and unease threatened to crawl through him. Penry certainly hadn’t spared any expense outfitting his mistress, had he?

  Daniel hadn’t yet seen the lodgings he’d secured for his potential paramour, wanting a fresh start in fresh surroundings with a—hopefully—fresh woman. He’d had his man of affairs take care of it and hadn’t bothered to inspect the townhouse himself. Hadn’t his man assured him it was just the thing?

  The nip of unease promised to metamorphize into an onslaught, fixing him—and his neck muscles in place.

  ’Tis nothing, he assured himself. Only a willing wren of a widow in need of protection and your pipe in need of her attention. Three fortifying breaths later, he braved crossing the threshold.

  Excellent.

  Everyone was seated. Just as he’d hoped. Less chance of getting tangled in the trap of idle chatter before supper if people were hungrily anticipating it.

  Silently acknowledging the greetings he received from the group at large, Daniel smiled and nodded at several acquaintances as he made his way around the giant oval table to this evening’s hostess to make his apologies. He wouldn’t put it past Penry to have purchased the huge slab for the occasion—and for the occasion of plowing into his mistress on top of it after everyone went home.

  Penry sometimes talked a little too freely about his lusty interludes with the serene brunette. Ready for his own lusty interlude, he scanned the women present, more than a little curious as to the identity of the well-hyped Widow Hurwell.

  Penry had teased him with enough hints of subtle beauty and true refinement to pique his interest. But it was hearing of her strained circumstances that had ultimately tipped the scales and caused his carriage wheels to roll this way tonight. No money meant no options, and Daniel was desperate enough in his own right to take advantage of her situation, desperate enough to at least put himself forward. If she was truly as cultured and untarnished as he’d been led to believe, some lucky man would snatch her up and it might as well be him.

  “Forgive me,” he said to Penry’s Sarah, coming up to her and proffering a slight bow, knowing he owed her his sincere apologies for his tardiness but unable to stop himself from avidly inspecting the woman by her side. She was the only female he didn’t recognize and the only person who looked more than a little out of place, discounting the pup at the far end who gazed with his mouth agape toward the arched doorway Daniel had just entered through.

  In the muted candlelight, she shone like an undiscovered jewel, her wealth of dark hair piled and looped on the back of her head in a manner quite at odds with the simplicity of her dress. But he cared not to analyze her attire for the faint stirring in his loins boded well indeed.

  Faint? Putting to rest any concerns he had about not being attracted to her, at the thought of bedding the lovely widow, his body stirred more than a dead man’s falling down a ravine—which is what Daniel started to think he’d been for staying with Louise for so long. Dead to any finer sense.

  Determinedly, he fixed his gaze on the frowning Sarah. He started to carefully explain his fabricated, rehearsed excuse for being late. His mouth not yet open, already the tension climbed up his neck and squeezed inward—

  Not now! he wanted to rail.

  But Penry’s woman unknowingly saved him.

  “Do sit down, Lord Tremayne. I’m grateful you decided to finally grace us with your presence,” she told him archly, gesturing to the lone empty seat at the table which, not coincidentally, was next to the woman he had hopes of claiming. “But I’ve held back supper long enough. Hopkins,” she called out to a servant hovering at the ready, “tell Cook the first course may be brought in. Finally.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  A frisson of awareness swelled through Dorothea the moment the latecomer came into view. When Sarah called him Tremayne, the subtle tingling became more of a lightning spike.

  Of what, Dorothea couldn’t say. The gruff-looking man didn’t appeal exactly, but he most definitely attracted—both her attention and greetings from many of the men present.

  “Glad to see that munsons muffler didn’t lay you out for long.”

  Munsons muffler?

  “Nay. Not our man—way to work it till the ringer!”

  “Jolly good show, Tremayne.”

  What? Did he perform in some venue? What an odd occupation for a peer. But apparently, instead of diminishing his standing, it only served to enhance it.

  Yet…as he surveyed the room and his gaze alit upon her, she didn’t think Lord Tremayne needed any more enhancement when a surge of—

  What exactly? Interest? Appreciation? Speculation? A surge of something foreign to her experience came into his eyes, something hot and banked glittering from the depths of deep amber. Being the recipient of such focused potency drove some part of her to contemplate jumping from her seat to proclaim she was ready to retire with him straightaway.

  The other part of her, the heretofore sensible part that seemed to be undergoing a most peculiar change—into sultry?—commanded her lips to curve into a welcoming smile, her melting body to stay put and her eyes to narrow (she feared losing them if they opened any wider) as he made his way to the available chair next to hers and she undeniably drank him in.

  He was a big man, powerfully built yet somehow tamed by the trappings he wore—a rich brown tailcoat over a waistcoat in a muted burgundy stripe, with tan buckskins below. A cream-colored cravat, meticulously tied, and rebelliously straight hair. Rebellious, because all the rage was tousled curls for men (and sausage ringlets for the ladies), as she’d been informed when Sarah’s abigail had tended to hers.

  She liked the silky-looking, thick strands adorning Lord Tremayne’s well-shaped head (Mr. Hurwell’s had been rather narrow; his head, that was. His hair, somewhat lank.). She liked Lord Tremayne’s confident air and strong-looking body too.

  She especially liked the way he smelled, now that he was close enough to inhale, clean and spicy, with just a hint of the outdoors.

  What she couldn’t yet claim to like was his beard. And how he appeared intimidating beneath the bristle, all hard, flexing jaw and tendon-filled neck (she glimpsed a couple inches below his chin and above the cravat when he cocked his head in a peculiar stretch just before taking possession of his chair).

  And until she had reason to like him, rather than land herself further into the suds, Dorothea knew she’d bide her time. Wait and discern what manner of man he truly was before agreeing to proceed with a liaison between them.

  But oh, how she liked the flood of warmth that beset her every limb when he joined her beneath the table, his long, powerful body coming within inches of hers as he brought his chair forward…how she admired his forearm
encased in expensive superfine she’d never thought to view up close—much less consider touching, as he reached for his wine…

  Taking advantage of the slight commotion when several servants began tromping in carrying silver-domed trays, Daniel dodged further introductions by settling himself next to the woman he suspected he was here to meet.

  And to bed.

  Briefly her eyes flicked to his and a ghost of a smile touched her lips before it faded like a breeze. But the damage was done—one covert, up-close, lash-shrouded glance and all he could do was gape and goggle.

  Soft tendrils of her luxuriant midnight hair framed a heart-shaped face. The flickering candlelight caused shadows to dance over her slightly angular nose and jaw. She was a mite thin for his tastes, but any hint of hardness in her features was belied by the bow-shaped mouth that commanded his attention.

  So easily he imagined those plump lips against his, parted and welcoming, where he would sample the passion he hoped was packaged inside this delightful exterior. He’d like to see her dark hair rid of its pins, his fingers tangled against her scalp as he guided her lips lower…

  A hot spike of lust wound through him and Daniel smiled.

  Rescuing Sarah’s little widow would prove no hardship. Indeed, could the timing have been any more fortuitous? At long last, his long lance would undoubtedly sleep snug and satisfied, and, finally, he’d sleep. Snugged against the lithe body he suspected resided beneath the atrocious dress.

  Closer now, he couldn’t help but notice its shortcomings. Her olive gown had obviously seen better days. A thin fichu was tucked into the low, squared-off bosom, concealing her attributes completely. After the overtly stimulating attire Louise typically wore, the widow’s outfit was almost puritan in its severity. Puritan yet provocative…encouraging visions of divesting her of the drab layers and uncovering what lay beneath.

  Giving his body a moment to relax, he turned to his meal. A task which proved surprisingly difficult when, moments later, he was fully aware of her slight wrist grappling with the overdone mutton on her plate. His was already neatly severed. So with nothing more than a lift of one brow and an inquiring Hmmm? that had her pausing in her efforts, he deftly switched their plates, quickly sliced her serving and had them swapped back before anyone took notice.

  A well-timed bite between his choppers ensured all he had to do was nod after her quiet but appreciative thanks and he was off—inspecting her again (for it was a significantly more enjoyable endeavor than chewing overcooked mutton).

  A servant came between them bearing gravied asparagus. A particular and unwelcome scent—one he’d suffered enough of thanks to his prior inamorata—wafted strongly from the dish, and Daniel declined.

  The man turned to the widow and offered to ladle some on her plate. Daniel watched her nose wrinkle.

  “No, thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m not fond of onions.”

  Better and better.

  As his eyes skated over her features in profile, another rush of warmth filled his loins. No haggard-looking widow, this, as he’d half feared based on Penry’s continued attempts to gauge his interest in Sarah’s friend the last week or so. No, this woman looked more like an innocent maiden than a well-used widow.

  And just think—if he could deal adequately with the onion-loving Louise for several years, how long might his interest in this divine little morsel last?

  “Meezes Hurt-weel, I zee you are new to de trade?” The jewels about her neck as counterfeit as her accent, one of the single females addressed the woman at his side with a bite to her voice. Jealous cat.

  “Trade?” his dinner partner queried. “Whatever do you mean?” Thrilled at having her identity confirmed, he was a bit stymied when his widow sounded suitably vague. Was she dense—or only pretending?

  “Zee trade of selling your wares.” With an unmistakable emphasis on “your”.

  “My wares?” Mrs. Hurwell managed to sound both startled and impressed. “You’ve heard of my work, then? Why, Sarah…” His widow pointed her empty fork at their hostess in a teasing gesture. Daniel wasn’t sure anyone but him caught the slight wavering in her arm before she retracted it. “You didn’t tell me you’d shared about my mercantilian efforts.”

  Amazingly, she made it sound like reptilian. And now instead of a phony-French doxy questioning his mistress-to-be, all Daniel saw across the table was a blowsy viper in fake rubies.

  He set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, ready to be amused.

  Sarah, he thought, masked her surprise plausibly well. Reaching for her wineglass, she took a delayed sip. Stalling? For herself or the friend she sought to shield? Returning the glass to the table, she met and held every gaze intent on the byplay. “Aye. But I could not resist. Forgive me. I know your wares are exclusive to Mr.—” A quick gloved hand made its way to Sarah’s lips, as did a soft blush to her face. “Pardon me. His is a very select shop and promised anonymity to my dear friend if she would but consent to sell her work exclusively through him. I can offer no less.” Sarah placed one finger to her lips and appraised the group at large. “May I have your assurance of secrecy?”

  Several heads bobbed and the woman next to him choked off a snicker.

  When she was again composed, and keeping her voice low, the widow leaned forward and addressed the rapt crowd. “I do thank everyone most sincerely. Now let us talk of topics we’ve not sworn to secrecy. Dominique,” she spoke directly to the vixen in forged finery, “do tell us of what ever book you now enjoy. I so love literary recommendations from new acquaintances.”

  “I do not read.” Dominique bristled, looking as though she had no clue how the topic had escaped her grasp and segued back to her. (Daniel wasn’t sure he knew either but it had been great fun witnessing the little charade—for he had no doubt one had just been enacted.) “Not your English drivel.”

  “Don’t read at all, I vow,” his companion-soon-to-be-mistress whispered beneath her breath. Then brightly, to the table at large, “Of course you don’t,” and before Dominique could take umbrage—for no one seemed inclined to come to her defense, he noted—Mrs. Hurwell turned the focus yet again. “What of you, Sarah? Have you finished either of those two volumes you purchased at Hatchards last week?”

  “Yes—what did you buy?” Harrison’s beauty vaulted in with sincere interest. “I just completed Byron’s The Corsair and found it easier to put down than his other works.”

  “Oh, did you?” Sarah said with a sly look at the woman seated between them. “Mrs. Hurwell practically fawns over Lord Byron. I could hardly rip the pages from her grasp the last time she beheld them.”

  “Perhaps so,” his widow demurred, “but once they’d served their purpose I relinquished them easily enough…”

  And so it went. Most of the table’s occupants engaging in light, meaningless banter with the lovely Mrs. Hurwell chiming in as appropriate.

  Daniel found himself more than pleased.

  She answered promptly and with an undercurrent of wit not everyone circling the table seemed privy to. Her responses, while intelligent and entertaining—to him at least—were concise, he noted with no little degree of appreciation. Neither did she instigate conversation but only responded when posed a direct query.

  Exquisite. Could he have asked for better?

  Lord Tremayne’s admiring analysis and pleasure over Dorothea’s lack of verbosity would have most certainly been mitigated had he but known how she battled the inner longing to turn to him and inquire fifty and one assorted things: Was he always this quiet? Did he truly like the glazed shoe leather on his plate? (He must, he’d downed it with nary a blink.) Which poets did he find particularly fascinating? And what in heaven’s name was a munsons muffler?

  The servants brought out another course, this one glazed duck—she thought. It was a bit difficult to tell as the poor bird was so raw it was practically still swimming. Foregoing the foul fowl altogether, Dorothea picked nimbly through the macaroni noodles (they se
emed safe enough, if a trifle undercooked) and allowed herself to admit what she really wanted to ask: Why had Lord Tremayne neglected to shave his chin whiskers?

  Was he growing out his beard or did he not care enough about meeting her to bother? And did he always smell so nice? (A curious combination of cloves and honeysuckle that made her want to forego the filling noodles and lick him instead. Shameful, she knew, but the urge was undeniable.) What did he do with his days? Did he want her for his mistress? Had he any inkling yet, one way or the other? How often might he visit? Was he married?

  Heavens to Hertfordshire, but just thinking of everything she wanted to ask him was enough to keep her mute. Well, her chaotic thoughts and Sarah’s counsel: Take your cue from him.

  So this was a man who wanted quiet? She shoved aside the pang of disappointment at not finding a boon companion in her first foray into the demimonde.

  Then she fortified her resolve because quiet she could do; wedded to Mr. Hurwell, she’d lived in it long enough.

  How soon could they leave? Blazing ballocks, but he’d guillotine Penry if he’d arranged some drawn-out shadow play as he’d done the last time Daniel consented to attend one of these asinine public affairs. That one had been years ago at Sarah’s standard-strumpet townhouse, before his friend had invested more than common sense recommended in his high flyer’s accommodations and purchased her this near mansion. Louise had been enamored with the salacious shadow play and once they’d returned to her lodgings, had wanted him to perform a strip behind a sheet, backlit by the fire, for her amusement (he’d sooner swim the Thames—bound in a sheet).

  He cringed at the memory. Thank God she’d found another protector, some American captain more flush in his pockets than his crown office had swept her off to his ship. She’d sent round a perfumed note before they’d sailed to make sure Daniel knew she wasn’t pining for him. He grunted. Not hardly. Who would pine for that bird-witted bird of paradise—when Paradise of another kind waited in the chair beside him?