Seductive Silence (Mistress in the Making Book 1) Read online

  A good night’s sleep after a good round of frisking! He’d sing if he could, bellow out his delight—

  What? Yammer out the tune of your faults?

  By damn, he’d nearly forgotten.

  A stunned, strangled groan worked its way free of his throat.

  When she looked at him directly, the very source of his amazed consternation, a puzzled expression on her face, Daniel realized he’d gone practically the entire meal without uttering a word.

  Gad, he was an arse.

  4

  Bird-Witted as a Cuckoo or Lucky as a Lark?

  A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

  In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird…

  William Wordsworth, “The Solitary Reaper”

  In the dimmest part of the large drawing room, Dorothea pressed her back into the wall so hard she heard it snap (her back that is, not the wall).

  Escaping to make use of the necessary directly after the sliced fruit course had seemed a good idea a quarter hour ago; rejoining the ribald social scene seemed anything but. Because once her eyes adjusted to the reduced lighting, over half the candles being extinguished, she beheld the most startling sight on a settee not ten feet away.

  So much for the men savoring after-dinner port and the women idle gossip. Dorothea gulped and tried to merge her spine into the wall. Mayhap she could close her eyes and pretend to vanish—

  “He really laps her like he means it, don’t ’e?” a spirited voice asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Startled to realize her secluded spot had been discovered, Dorothea nevertheless smiled when she realized who’d joined her. She’d met Susan before dinner and if the young woman’s pronunciation wasn’t consistent, her friendliness and sincerity of manner were.

  Glad for the company, Dorothea promptly answered the H-heavy high flyer. “That he does.”

  Goodness, but she sounded woefully out of breath. Not taking her eyes from the couple both she and her companion spoke of, Dorothea filled her lungs and tried again. “I say, do all er, um…” How did one properly describe that which was so improper? Blazes! She could practically hear the saliva-induced suction from here! “Ah…do all titled gentlemen nurse themselves with such vigor upon the bosom of their paramours?”

  “Wot?” The young woman’s attempt at elocution slipped yet again. “Oh, you mean are they all so game when they suck on diddeys?”

  “Um-mm…” When he switched his attention to the neglected nipple on the other side, she saw it was the gentleman with the large laugh and even larger nose.

  Dorothea averted her eyes from the scandalous sight. But as though the unfamiliar tingling in her newly awakened breasts controlled her vision more than her sense of modesty did, her head immediately swung back. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen”—or considered, and certainly haven’t experienced—“how such an activity might be done for so long and with such painstaking effort and zeal,” she whispered to her companion. “He’s very thorough, isn’t he?”

  Susan sighed hard enough to ruffle several of the gentleman’s protruding nose hairs.

  While Dorothea swallowed both laughter and dismay, her new friend answered with more than a hint of wistfulness. “Aye, Donny’s—oops, I mean Lord Donaldson.” Susan leaned close to confide, “’E told me to only call him that when we were naked. Well, he’s one of the best I ever had. That man likes nipples more than biscuits crave bacon-grease gravy, an ’e can kiss on ’em for a long while before he goes diving lower.”

  Another sigh made her fond recollections clear, though Dorothea wasn’t quite clear on what “diving lower” meant.

  She had an inkling, an incredible, too-shocking-to-be-accurate inkling but decided ’twas best to stay mum. No need to shock Susan with her ignorance—or herself with the improbable, impossible truth if lower did not mean one’s umbilicus.

  “’E don’t like just bein’ with the same woman over an’ over, so ’e never keeps a mistress but ’e’ll pay you well fer a night or two—and damn me if I ain’t goin’ and fer-forgetting my proper speech with you, Mrs. H. You’re not as hoity-toity as some of them others.”

  Flattered, if surprised, Dorothea said, “Thank you. I’m the last one to put on airs. I’m rather new at the trade myself.”

  “I figured that out when Dominasty went after you at dinner. She’s a real bitch, that one is.”

  Dorothea barely managed to stifle her gasp at the vulgar word she’d never heard another female utter—discourses on breeding dogs notwithstanding. Certainly, no one had ever said it knowingly in her presence before.

  “She’s a miserable rip to anyone she sees as a threat,” Susan continued. “Don’t pay her no, I mean, any mind. Crikey, but these things won’t quit droopin’!” Susan bent over and hauled up her skirt, revealing an indecent amount of thigh—thanks to the drooping stocking.

  Dorothea politely averted her eyes. Only to encounter several other indecent sights.

  About the only decent thing remaining was the cluster of men congregating near the hallway and spilling into the opposite room. The more plentiful wall sconces that direction lit them clearly. Lord Tremayne was among their number and these gentlemen, unlike the others closer to her, remained vertical and clothed.

  Sarah waved and caught Dorothea’s attention. A quick lift of her brows inquired how Dorothea got on, a slight tilt of her head asked whether she needed immediate rescuing.

  Feeling infinitely more at ease now that she and Susan were engaged (and she no longer held up the wall alone), also curious what else the young woman might impart about “Donny” or diddeys or any other formerly forbidden topic, Dorothea smiled encouragingly. I’m all right, she hoped her expression conveyed. Betwattled to the gills but still breathing. Hostess away…

  After an understanding nod, Sarah headed toward the nearest servant to confer over something, leaving Dorothea where she was—which was swallowing her surprise over Susan’s continued actions (really, she balked at a raised skirt, given what else currently went on?). “Those are the most lovely stockings,” Dorothea told her honestly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that shade of lavender before.”

  Certainly not on stockings. Dorothea’s feet fairly lit up at the prospect—would lavender stockings feel any different than ordinary ones? Hers, all two and a half remaining pair, were dingy beige—years ago, they’d started out white—and sporting more than a snag or two, she was shamed to admit.

  Task finished, Susan straightened and fluffed her skirts. “Aren’t they the most rum color? Lord Denten got them for me when—”

  At a shout, Susan glanced up, then her eyes fairly sparkled. “I ’ate to run off but looks like Cecilia’s found us two gents fer the night.” She squeezed Dorothea’s elbow. “Now stop wringin’ your hands and no one’ll know how bedeviled by the jitters you are.”

  “Be well and thank you.” Dorothea’s parting words were lost when Susan’s friend tromped over and grabbed her arm to drag her toward the waiting men.

  Alone. Again.

  Well now. That had been a refreshing exchange.

  But Dorothea was still of two minds: Was she excited about the imminent physical prospects facing her later tonight or dreading them? Did she want this evening to be over swiftly and the die cast, her fate sealed, or did she want the minutes to eclipse slowly, giving her time to make the right decision?

  Were the growing tingles in her abdomen anticipation over what might come? Or was her stomach simply seizing in a cramp because she’d not consumed enough food today? Or perhaps because it protested its recent and disastrous dinner?

  Bah. Watching women abandon all sense of decorum because they enjoyed—nay, encouraged—the roving touch of a man was proving enlightening. Even thrilling, if she were honest.

  Dorothea wanted to be scandalized by their behavior—she should be scandalized. But a heretofore unrecognized part of her found the couples’ actions arousing. She was enticed to stare, even as part of her was compelled to turn aw
ay. The conflicting urges confused her almost as much as the man she’d come to meet.

  Her eyes sought out his form again, though in truth, she’d been acutely aware of him all night.

  Wretched man! Lord Tremayne hadn’t attempted to converse with her during dinner, not once! Neither before nor after he’d so thoughtfully, so unexpectedly, sliced through all her misconceptions about peers when he’d adroitly severed the tough mutton for her. But still—not a word!

  Did that mean he wasn’t interested?

  She sincerely hoped not. For if she were to indulge in sexual congress with another man—if some nipple-licking lord was going to place his hands and lips on her—then she desperately hoped he would be the one. Unlike her late husband, who had, all things considered, been rather nondescript, Lord Tremayne commanded attention without effort. The very air about him seethed with a dangerous excitement that made her feel both on edge and eager for another tantalizing taste.

  “Well? Will he do?” Handing her a goblet of ratafia, Sarah came up and asked the question in a quiet but urgent voice, looking at Lord Tremayne who stood slightly apart from the crowd surrounding Lord Penry.

  Grateful for something to strangle with her wayward hands, Dorothea took the glass by the stem and downed half the contents before coming up for air. “Sarah, why ever did you not introduce us? I believe without that formality, Lord Tremayne did not feel at liberty to address me directly.”

  “Oh, please say he didn’t harp on that!” Sarah laughed without malice and her gaze found Dorothea’s. “I deliberately left that to him so as not to embarrass you. Until you and he come to an official arrangement, I doubted you wanted it announced to the world at large that we’d intentionally matched you. I believe he’s acquainted, at least by sight, with most everyone else, so I thought that the best way to proceed.”

  “Of course. Thank you, then, for your consideration.” Dorothea couldn’t stop her eyes from seeking him out.

  At the sight of his tall, broad form, at contemplating pressing hers along it once they were alone, a strange mew of longing filled her.

  Quite the opposite of what she experienced when Big Nose gained an armful as Dominique landed on his lap—and his hand promptly disappeared under her skirts. (So much for ardent bosom worship; now he seemed intent on, indeed, diving lower, in every sense of the term.)

  “What do they discuss so animatedly?” she asked Sarah when one of the other men rounded on Lord Penry and gesticulated as she imagined might a newly headless chicken.

  “The recent riots,” Sarah answered gravely. “They’ve caused much contention to erupt in Parliament, as members debate the corn regulations. Penry and a handful of others have brought petitions, signatures numbering in the tens of thousands, and have spoken against the Corn Bill as it stands, but their protests have gone mostly unheard. As public unrest has grown to such a violent state, he’s rallying support, hoping to prevail.”

  Dorothea had heard mention of the riots that swept through the city days ago. Angry mobs protesting in the most violent way, attacking the homes of specific peers and members of both Houses. Hearing of the tumult the morning following was a far cry from watching those directly involved discuss the issue with such heat.

  The House of Lords. The House of Commons. The king—or in the current clime, his rascally son. Powerful men whose decisions shaped, for good or ill, their country. Never before had Dorothea reason to consider what all went on, how a single conversation at a small dinner party might change the course of history. It brought home how far her station was from those present tonight.

  A clock seller, a watchmaker. That’s who she’d been wedded to. Someone who lived by the ticking turn of the big hand and demanded she do the same: up at five dings, breakfast at six dongs, open the store at eight chimes (or, when she wasn’t swift enough to misalign something after he repaired it, annoying cuckoos), and so on…until bed twelve hours later when again those horrendous cuckoo birds sang (for by now, Mr. Hurwell would’ve fixed them). Only to do the cycle all over again the following day. To the minute. For in Mr. Hurwell’s eyes, untimeliness was akin to thievery, murder, and idle chatter.

  The only time things ever varied was when a nearby horse race was to be had, and Mr. Hurwell abandoned his metick-tick-tickulous dignity for the thrill of equestrian gambling.

  She’d made the mistake, once, of teasing him about it—his fascination with clocks and all things that dinged, donged or gonged—early in their marriage. A simple comment which led to a setting down of monumental proportions and the severe admonishment that “Levity has no place in the life of a hard-working Englishman. Or his wife’s.” Bah.

  She’d soon come to adore the races he closed the shop to attend, for those were the only days Dorothea enjoyed any freedom, didn’t have to plan her every action according to her husband’s methodical, ding-dong dictates.

  Come to think on it, she hadn’t seen Lord Tremayne consult his timepiece even once tonight. And he’d been sufficiently unmindful to arrive late. How wonderful was that?

  But she was beginning to wonder if he’d ever deign to glance at her again.

  Wretched, intriguing, wonderfully tardy man!

  “They’ll be a while, I’d wager,” Sarah said. “Though I daresay Anna is bursting at the seams to visit.” Sarah gestured toward the pretty blonde of middle years occupying one of the chairs farthest from the men. “She’s increasing,” Sarah explained sotto voce with a smile as they made their way toward her. “Or she’d be in the thick of the debate.”

  Dorothea didn’t know what stunned her more—that a woman might dare argue politics with not just a man (which was shocking enough) but an entire group of them or that her pregnancy seemed a joyous thing. Wouldn’t that mean an end to her protected situation?

  With a light touch to Sarah’s arm, Dorothea halted their progress. “Her benefactor—Lord Harrison. He isn’t angered by her condition?”

  “On the contrary. They’re both delighted. She lost an unborn babe last year, and I gather Harry’s ensuring she takes every chance to rest this time around. Now don’t look so worried… This is a joyous thing—for them. For yourself, simply practice what I told you each time you have relations with Tremayne and your chances of conceiving will be drastically reduced.”

  They’d be completely reduced unless he approached her.

  A circulating waiter came by for their empty glasses and after placing hers and the one she had to pry from Dorothea’s fingers on the tray, Sarah started forward again. “They were trying, dearest. Both of them want this child.”

  A second later she was being entertained by the enceinte woman.

  The next few minutes flew by in a startling blur of whispers and laughs, which did much to calm the quadrille-dancing butterflies fluttering about Dorothea’s middle. Anna was a joy, as pleasant and welcoming as Sarah if more critical toward those she had no tolerance for.

  Hearing her blast the absent Louise as a bubbleheaded ninny who deserved the coarse American she’d sailed off with, thereby informing Dorothea the woman most recently in Lord Tremayne’s bed wasn’t someone she need fear crossing paths with, greatly eased her chest. Laughing so hard when Anna launched into a diatribe about Italian accommodations only made it hurt anew but in a wonderful way.

  Finally the men’s talks wound down, due in part she was sure, to the enticement of several bored strumpets who took to climbing all over a few of the stragglers. Lord Harrison soon drifted over to steal his woman away after thanking his hostess.

  “Hold tight to this one,” Sarah told Anna after Lord Harrison effusively complimented dinner. “The devilish twinkle in his eyes tells you when he’s spouting clankers. But he’s so very sincere about it, I cannot help but approve.”

  Once they were gone and several other couples (and a couple of trios) followed—and once Sarah excused herself to ask Big Nose and Dominique to hie themselves off before soiling her settee—Sarah and Dorothea stood near where she’d begun the evening—t
he darkened corner, surveying Lord Tremayne and Lord Penry. Though the other men had drifted away, the gangly youth had joined them at some point. They were the only three still in earnest conversation.

  “He’s rather a magnificent specimen, is he not?” Sarah was staring straight at Lord Tremayne, leaving Dorothea in no doubt of whom she spoke. “And the way he fills out his inexpressibles…” Sarah made a sound of appreciation. “Impressive, to say the least.”

  Dorothea floundered. She wasn’t used to discussing men or their attributes in detail.

  Her murmur was noncommittal; her blush was not.

  Sarah laughed quietly. “Don’t mind me. Penry keeps me more than satisfied, financially and physically. I wouldn’t be human, though, if I hadn’t given a thought to being with Tremayne. Men like that don’t seek to feather their love nest every day, which is why I’ve championed for the two of you to meet. Tragically, it so often seems the attractive ones are either insanely boring or horribly depraved.”

  “Depraved? You mean wicked? Lord Tremayne?”

  Now why did that thought not have her hieing off? Mayhap, after years of restrained living, she craved a little wickedness—along with lateness—in her life.

  “Certainly not. At least, not that I’m aware of. Tremayne keeps to himself more than most, but I’ve always found him sincere. A bit rough around the edges at times but charming nevertheless. Penry speaks highly of him. And the entire time I’ve been with Penry, Tremayne has only had the one mistress. Does that not bode well for your extended future?”

  Rather than contemplate the future, Dorothea voiced her present concern. “I’m not sure he’s interested in me. He hasn’t said much.” That was an understatement.

  “Oh, posh. Have you not noticed the way he’s devoured you with his gaze on multiple occasions?”

  She hadn’t. With a slight shake of her head, Dorothea commented, “He is very handsome in a ruggedly appealing way.” Another understatement—and when had she begun to think of him thus? A powerfully built hulk of a man who towered over her by nearly a foot and had thick, coffee-colored hair—and whiskers—along with a propensity for sparse conversation…