Once Upon a Maiden Lane

The door opened, and the maids bustled in with more tea. For a few minutes the settling of the tea accoutrements took up all of the ladies’ attention.

  The maids left, and Lady Angrove began pouring the tea.

  “I’m not sure what proof you have that this young woman is indeed the long-lost Angrove child,” Fitzgerald said.

  Henry looked up, his eyes narrowing. “The proof is in her face. Do you deny that she looks exactly like her sister?”

  “No, not at all,” Fitzgerald replied smoothly. “But you may not be aware that the earl is quite a…erm…man about town. There are several natural children, if I’m not mistaken, and who is to say that this girl isn’t—”

  He was interrupted in his long-winded theory by Lady Angrove’s clearing her throat loudly and pointedly.

  “Cousin Lancelot, I’ll thank you to refrain from gossip while in my sitting room, particularly gossip that is hurtful to the present company.” Her face was thunderous.

  Fitzgerald’s face flushed an even deeper red. “I do apologize, Cousin, but please be aware that I only have your best interests in my heart. For all you know this girl could be some sort of charlatan, bent on taking advantage of your kind nature.”

  “Lancelot,” murmured Mrs. Fitzgerald, speaking for the first time.

  Lady Joanna’s voice nearly drowned the other woman’s out. “Oh, that’s such a nasty thing to say, Cousin Lancelot. I’m sure my sister could never be a—a schemestress!”

  Henry coughed, trying not to laugh at the made-up word. “Indeed, Lady Cecilia is the meekest lady I know.”

  That got him a glare from beneath black eyelashes from his intended.

  Henry widened his eyes innocently as he took a sip of tea.

  “Exactly,” Lady Angrove said, apparently still not entirely familiar with her daughter. “I don’t know that I’ve ever met so sweet a lady as Cecilia, unless it is her sister, Joanna. They are both my daughters.”

  She sat back, looking satisfied at her volley, while Joanna glowed at the praise and Mary looked doubtful.

  Henry set his teacup down. “Well, as fascinating as this discussion has been, I must be off to see my man of business. Ladies.” He stood and bowed separately to Lady Joanna and Lady Angrove and then to Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Cecilia.” He took her hand and bent over it, inhaling once again her violet scent. “I trust I will see you tomorrow at my mother’s tea?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she murmured. “I look forward to it.”

  He closed his eyes and brushed his lips against her knuckles, so lightly it might never have happened. He wished he could take her into his arms. Kiss her and tell her that he was beginning to care for her. Hold her for hours.

  But he couldn’t—not here, not now—so he turned and left.

  He vowed, however, to discuss Mary’s safety with her father. And after that? He was going to find and deal with the bastard trying to kill her.

  Chapter Ten

  Well, being a maidservant wasn’t exactly what Clio had been hoping for, but at least she was close to the prince. Day and night she served by his side, and she was able to gaze upon his lovely blue eyes and listen as he confided in her. In the evenings she met Triton in the castle gardens. Each night he would raise his eyebrows in question and Clio would sorrowfully shake her head, for the prince had not yet kissed her.…

  —From The Curious Mermaid

  Henry’s mother was simply delightful. Lady Diane rose to welcome Mary the next day when she came for tea. She was a willowy woman with black hair threaded with silver and her son’s bright blue eyes.

  “My dear,” Lady Diane said, taking Mary’s hands between her own. “I am so glad to meet you finally.”

  The countess led Mary to a settee and introduced her daughters, Lady Rebecca and Lady Katherine, called Becca and Kate respectively. Kate was the older, with her mother’s glossy black hair and a serene air. Becca was the youngest in the family at eighteen and had a mischievous smile. Mary caught her rolling her eyes at something her mother said halfway through the tea.

  All in all it was a lovely afternoon. Mary relaxed after a bit when she realized that though she wasn’t used to wearing the latest fashions she could certainly discuss them. Also, Becca and Kate turned out to be wonderful gossips—they told her about all sorts of members of society. Lady Diane tutted about gossiping, but Mary noticed that she leaned just as close to hear the latest.

  When the tea was all consumed and the plates held but crumbs of the cakes that had been served, Henry strolled into the room.

  He greeted his mother with a kiss on her cheek. “Would you mind terribly if I steal my fiancée away?”

  “Not at all,” Lady Diane replied.

  Mary rose and placed her hand on Henry’s offered arm. She couldn’t help the heat that rose in her cheeks at the touch, however proper. She could feel his warmth through his sleeve, and she fancied that she felt muscle as well.

  She repressed a shiver as he led her out of the room.

  “I wanted to show you the orangery,” he said, bending his head close to hers as they walked. She could feel the brush of his breath on her cheek.

  She swallowed. “You grow oranges?”

  “Oranges and other hothouse plants,” he replied. “Although it’s the gardener who does the growing under Mother’s supervision. When I was a boy the orangery was my favorite place.” He shot a grin at her. “Especially when I was hiding from my tutor.”

  “You grew up in London?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Here and at our estate in the country. It’s a grand old manor with dozens of ancestral paintings and the odd weapon or two displayed on the walls.”

  “Where do you live now?”

  “I have a town house.” He glanced at her ruefully. “Can’t show it to you before we’re married, sadly, but I can drive you by the place.”

  “I’d like that,” she mused as they made the lower level and he guided her through the library to a set of glass doors. “We’ll live there after?”

  “There and at my country house. I have my own besides the earldom’s seat. We can live in London or the country, whichever you prefer.” He seemed to search her face. “Or we can travel if you’d like.”

  She was grateful that he was considerate of her desires. “Perhaps we should decide together.” She glanced up at him, meeting those blue eyes. “After all, we will be both living wherever we go.”

  His smile was warm. “I like that idea.”

  She remembered something. “Henry…” She hesitated.

  “Yes?” He paused with his hand on the glass doors.

  “Your mother mentioned today that your cousin Richard is in town.” She took a breath and looked at him seriously. “That he’s been in town for the last fortnight.”

  “What of it?”

  “It’s just that he’s been here the whole time. He was here when we were shot at.”

  He grimaced and shook his head. “I told you. It’s not Richard. The man is more timid than a mouse.”

  “There are those who would describe me as being more timid than a mouse.”

  “Yes, but you have hidden depths,” he said leaning closer to her with his lips quirked. “Richard is as depthless as a plate of water.”

  She huffed out an irritated breath. “Did you know he was in town?”

  “No,” he said gently, “but it makes no difference. I’m not the one being targeted.”

  “Why would anyone shoot at me?”

  He looked away and then back at her as if he didn’t want to have this conversation at all. “I don’t know but I don’t want you to worry. I’ve talked to your father, and he’s assured me that you’ll be protected. I’ll find this person, never fear.”

  “I’m not frightened for me,” she said rather tartly—the idea that anyone would care enough to kill her was simply ludicrous. “I’m worried about you. Lane is still abed from that shot to her arm. He missed yesterday. What if he’d hit you in the head?”

  “Have you no enemies??
?? he asked, searching her face. “Perhaps someone who is envious of your good fortune at having been found to be Lady Cecilia?”

  “No.” She didn’t even have to think about it. “I don’t know all that many people in the first place, and I assure you that I’ve never done anything to make an enemy. Shouldn’t you at least talk to your cousin?”

  He sighed. “If I promise to talk to Richard, can we cease this discussion for the nonce?”

  She firmed her lips, but really it was the best she could hope for. Why Henry had decided that she was the target was beyond her. She wasn’t the heir to an earldom. “Very well.”

  “Good.” He opened the door to the orangery and stood aside, gesturing her inside ahead of him.

  She walked into a humid wonderland. Green was all around: trees in pots bearing oranges and lemons, lush flowers blooming in rows, and glass walls letting in the sun.

  “Oh, this is lovely,” she breathed.

  “Let me show you,” he said, taking her hand and leading her farther into the foliage.

  Bright-pink and -red and -orange flowers were all around. Mary didn’t recognize the blooms, but then she was used only to the flowers that grew in the Caire House gardens.

  At the back of the orangery was a stone bench surrounded by orange trees in great pots. She and Henry sat on the bench, and Mary inhaled the scent of oranges, damp dirt, and mysterious flowers.

  Then she turned to Henry. “It’s your turn, I think, for a question.”

  His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Very well. What do you dream about?”

  She blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said in a low voice, leaning closer so that his lips brushed against her cheek as he whispered, “what do you think about, late in the depths of night? What things do you long for but cannot put words to in the light of day? What are your deepest desires?”

  She swallowed, very aware of his big body next to hers, of her breathing, beginning to quicken, of the heat between her legs. “How do you know that I dream of anything at all?”

  His chuckle was dark as he turned her face toward his. “Because I know you now, Mary. You may have a staid exterior, all prim propriety, stiff posture, and starched linen, but beneath…” He opened his mouth against her neck and she gasped at the feel of his tongue on the spot just below her jaw. “Beneath, you’re a spirited thing, questioning and wondering. Let me help you explore.”

  He ran his lips up to her mouth and took her forcefully, opening her beneath him.

  Her head fell back helplessly under the assault. How did he know what she’d thought about in the dark midnight? For he was right:

  She wondered and she wanted.

  She wanted him.

  “Henry,” she whispered, her voice unrecognizable to herself, just a husk of sound.

  But he seemed to know what she wanted.

  “Darling, let me,” he whispered.

  She felt her skirts moving. He was drawing them up with one hand as he took her lips again.

  When his hot hand ran up her calf, she shivered like a startled mare. She was wildly aware of his movement. Of his fingers drawing closer to her center.

  “Shh,” he whispered against her lips. “Just let me…”

  She parted her legs for him.

  He traced a meandering pattern on her inner thigh, higher and higher, until at last his fingertips brushed against her tender, wet flesh.

  She gasped, breaking their kiss. No one other than she had ever touched her there, and she didn’t know where to look, how to react.

  He seemed to understand her distress.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, brushing openmouthed kisses against the corner of her mouth. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No,” she breathed, shuddering. “No, don’t stop, please.”

  She thought she heard him chuckle, and then his fingers—those thick, knowing fingers—were parting her folds. Stroking against her. Stroking into her.

  She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

  She whimpered and grasped his face with both her hands, kissing him urgently.

  He took possession of the kiss. Of her. He invaded her mouth with his tongue, and she helplessly suckled as he circled her down there. Down below. There at that sensitive spot that no one was supposed to know about.

  She’d heard what the boys at the home had called this. Nasty, dirty names. Names that made it sound shameful and wrong.

  But this wasn’t wrong. She knew it in her soul. This profound, lovely pleasure he was giving her. Nothing this wonderful could possibly be wrong.

  He lifted his lips from hers and looked into her eyes.

  “That’s it,” he said, unsmiling. It was as if he were searching for something. “You’re so beautiful like this. So open and wanton, all your defenses down. I want to keep you like this forever, hanging on the edge of my hand, weeping over my fingers, desperate and undone. Mary, my Mary. Darling. Let go for me and only me. Let go for me now.”

  And she did, her soul, her body flying apart.

  She let go and fell, her limbs shaking, gasping for air. It was awful. It was bliss. It was like nothing she’d ever felt before.

  And when she opened her eyes she saw his eyes locked on hers.

  His beautiful, witty mouth was twisted, and his gaze was somehow tender. “Darling Mary, you destroy me.”

  A week and a half later Mary took a deep breath and stepped into her first ball.

  The Angrove House ballroom was ablaze with candles and crowded with the very cream of London society, dazzling in their colorful dress.

  Mary took a deep breath and told herself that fainting was a very bad idea.

  “Oh, good, it’s a crush,” Jo said from beside her.

  Mary was so nervous she could only look at her sister questioningly.

  Jo leaned close. “Mama will be happy. All the best balls are overfull.” She snapped open a painted fan and held it before her face, wrinkling her nose. “Although a crush does make it rather hot and smelly.”

  Mary’s lips twitched at that, and she began to relax. After all, body odor was universal: everyone from the King to beggars suffered from it.

  She smoothed down the azure skirts of her new ball gown. It was sumptuously trimmed in cream lace, and she wore ruby drop earrings—a gift from the countess. Mary still couldn’t bring herself to call her Mother, but thought she’d be able to soon.

  “You look lovely,” Jo said, as if sensing Mary’s nervousness. She flashed a quick smile. “Well, of course you do—you look exactly like me, and I’m always lovely.”

  Mary couldn’t help but laugh at that and link her arm with Jo’s.

  Across the room she could see Lady Caire talking to her mother-in-law and the Duchess of Montgomery, and the sight touched her. Lady Caire had told her nearly all the members of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children meant to come to the ball. Only a few years ago Mary had been a girl serving the ladies at the home during their meetings. The ladies had all seemed so grand to her back then, and now they were here, helping to welcome her to society.

  The thought brought tears to her eyes.

  “Oh, look, there’s Johnny and Lord Blackwell,” Jo exclaimed.

  Mary’s pulse picked up as she caught sight of Henry, making his way through the crowd with Mr. Seymour.

  “Is my necklace straight?” Jo hissed.

  “Yes, of course,” Mary said.

  “Thank you.” Jo gave her a sheepish glance. “It’s just…now that you’re marrying the viscount, we have a chance, Johnny and I. Father won’t approve, but if I can get Grand-mère’s blessing he’ll come around.”

  It took Mary a moment to realize that Grand-mère was the rather intimidating marchioness.

  She just had time to squeeze Jo’s arm, and then the gentlemen were upon them.

  Mr. Seymour walked right up to Jo and bent over her hand. “Lady Joanna, you ar
e simply radiant tonight. Will you dance with me?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Jo said with commendable serenity, though the wide smile that lit her face rather gave her away.

  Mr. Seymour beamed down at Jo as he tucked her hand in his elbow. He glanced up and, almost as an afterthought, blinked at Mary and said, “Good evening, Lady Cecilia. May I compliment you on your entrance to society?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Mary replied, firmly keeping her lips from twitching.

  The social niceties fulfilled, Mr. Seymour bowed and abruptly led a giggling Jo off.

  “How are you?” Henry murmured next to her, his voice low enough that none of the people surrounding them could hear.

  Mary ducked her head, feeling shy. She hadn’t been able to speak alone with Henry since he’d shown her the orangery and turned her world upside down. The preparations for the ball, along with fittings and lessons, had taken all her time.

  It had been agonizing. All she could think about was how he’d held her in the orangery. His mouth, his hands.

  And besides that, she found herself wanting to talk to him half a dozen times a day. She’d see a pigeon and want to tease him about his so-called bird hobby. She’d hear about a new edition of a favorite book and want his opinion.

  Sometimes she’d just wanted to sit with him.

  His mere presence made her want to smile, and suddenly she was in perfect sympathy with her sister and her giggling.

  “I’m well,” she replied, glancing at him sideways. “And yourself, my lord?”

  “Glad to finally see you,” he replied. He held out his hand. “Will you dance with me, my lady?”

  She placed her fingers in his palm, and if they trembled, only she and he were aware of it.

  A line of ladies and gentlemen were already assembling for the dance. Mary inhaled and hoped she would remember all the steps and not embarrass herself.

  When the music began, however, she was pleased to discover that her body seemed to know how to move. After the first couple of seconds she could stop concentrating and mentally counting steps and just enjoy the dance.

  It was fun.

  She’d never danced before coming to Angrove House. Why should she have? She’d been a poor girl who had worked since she was old enough to wash the dishes at the orphanage. She’d looked forward to her days off and someday, God willing, meeting a man of her own station.