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Three. Noelle Mack
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“I beg your pardon?”
Lord Delamar rummaged in the compartment where he had found the lead rope. “Let me see. Ah—here is a very fine blanket. It smells strongly of horse but that can’t be helped.” He shook it out and picked a few bits of dry grass from its rough wool.
She was amused by his carefulness and watched without comment as he bent down to pull the corners into neat right angles. Military training, of course, she thought with a smile. That Lord Delamar had been an officer did not surprise her.
That he bore a startling resemblance to the amorous highwayman she had imagined did.
His thighs were as hard, his body as powerful. And his features were a striking improvement upon her faceless fantasy. Lord Delamar was handsome, with a long scar upon one cheek that only made him more attractive. The scar cut through a deep dimple that flashed when he smiled and added an ironic twist to his expression that intrigued her.
“Madame.” He made a gallant wave at the blanket. “Please sit down. You need not fear grass stains upon your beautiful arse.”
“My wha—you are impudent, sir.” Her tone was properly indignant, but secretly his candor secretly amused her. If he wished to waste no time furthering their acquaintance, she was in agreement. Just looking at his long, strong legs, braced apart as he stood with his hands on his hips, and the breadth of his chest was enough to make a fool out of any woman.
“That light gown hides very little, Lady Fiona. The sight of you in it would tempt the devil himself.”
“I wore it because the day is warm. And I did not know I would meet the devil upon a Hyde Park path today. Or that he was so handsome.”
Lord Delamar grinned wickedly. “Thank you.”
She stepped onto the blanket, sinking gracefully down into her skirts and letting his coat slide from her shoulders. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under the folds of the airy muslin, looking about to see if anyone was nearby or watching from a little distance.
They were quite alone.
Edward settled down beside her, stretched out on one side and rested his head upon his elbow. His eyes moved over her with slow pleasure, taking in every detail of her body, from her rounded thighs to her high bosom but lingering longest upon her face. It was quite clear that he liked everything he saw.
She returned his scrutiny but more discreetly as he took off the neck tie that had come undone during his chase and tossed it onto the blanket. The loose linen shirt he wore hinted at the brawn beneath, and his buckskins hinted at nothing but showed everything. His natural endowments were quite evident in that close–cut article of clothing. Soft leather covered a long hard cock and balls that would fill her palm with satisfying heft.
She looked up and caught him watching her. He laughed in a devilish way and rolled over on his back. “So, my lady—where shall we begin?”
Fiona folded her hands primly in her lap. “Not here, my lord.” Had they been anywhere but out in the open, she would have undone his breeches and freed his sex from its confinement. She was eager to see it jut out, ready to be stroked and sucked; eager to tease his scrotum with gentle fingertips until it tightened over his balls, eager to watch him ejaculate in healthy spurts and hear him groan with lust when he did. But…not here.
“Oh? My dear Lady Gilberte, the look in your eyes tells me—”
“I have told you nothing, merely made small talk.”
“Then continue to talk to me, Fiona,” Edward said. “There is no harm in that, surely. You have a very pleasant voice. Soft and sultry. Like summer rain.”
“Hmph.”
“You seem displeased by the compliment.”
“Did you expect me to blush and giggle?” she asked tartly. His flattery had pleased her nonetheless. And a pleasant chat in the dappled shade was a decorous way to begin an affair—she had no doubt that they both had the same thing in mind.
There was no reason to be discreet about it.
Although the promenading crowds were far away, her wild ride and Lord Delamar’s pursuit must have been thoroughly discussed and dissected by now, and certainly all assumed Lady Fiona had spurred her horse into dashing away so she could lead him on.
None of which was remotely true—she hadn’t known he was behind her or even who he was until he introduced himself. Fiona had heard something of Lord Delamar, of course, though she rarely paid much attention to gossip, having been the subject of it so often.
She let her gaze drift over his long body, enjoying the sight of so fine a man so close to her. So he likes to hear women talk, she thought. Then he is easy to please and even easier to seduce.
It would not be long before she had him exactly where she wanted him: in her bed.
Three weeks later…
Frowning, Lady Fiona dipped the nib of her quill in a bronze inkwell and added another line to the morning entry in her diary. Lord Delamar remains frustratingly out of reach. She sketched his profile in the margin with a few deft strokes. Damn the man. Thoughts of him filled her every waking hour and he even hovered in her dreams.
Since their first meeting, Edward had commandeered more space upon the pages of her diary than any of the other lovers chronicled in it, except that she had not one word to say about his sexual prowess, inclinations, or appetite.
She had no real reason to complain, since Thomas was constant in his devotion and called upon her twice a week. But compared to Lord Delamar, Thomas seemed…callow.
Edward stopped by now and then, never staying long but always unfailingly polite. Fiona was dismayed by her eagerness to see him, as she ran downstairs when she heard Henchley let him in, thrilled by the sound of his voice exchanging a few pleasantries with the butler, excited beyond measure simply by seeing him standing in the gloomy marble hall of her Mayfair house, looking warm and virile and so very male.
Surely he ought to make the first move, declare the desire that she knew she saw in his eyes, throw her down upon the nearest sofa and have his wicked way with her…but no. He seemed more interested in her opinions of the latest plays, Whitehall politics, the weather—talk. Talk, talk, talk. She was sick of it, no matter how much he might like the sound of her voice. In fact, she was ready to scream with frustration.
She would have to take the lead, she supposed. Invite him to dinner with a few others for the brilliant conversation he desired, feed him lightly and ply him with a judicious amount of wine…but too much of either and he would be of no use to her. Then, once the other guests had decamped, she would take him by the hand and drag him to her bedroom if necessary.
If only he would seize an earlier opportunity—and her beautiful arse, as he had called it—and do what they both wanted to do! She had no idea why he held back.
Perhaps it was just as well at the moment. With the extra servants hired on to ready the Mayfair mansion for the household’s summer exodus to the country, there was not a private moment to be found, let alone a private space.
Fortunately, the army of servants had already attacked the dining room, first rubbing every crystal on the chandelier until the monstrous thing positively sparkled and then polishing the long table until the fine wood glowed. The carpets had been taken up, taken outside, and whacked nearly to bits to rid them of dust. All was in readiness in that one room at least.
But what to have for dinner? Fiona twiddled her quill in her fingers. She swore under her breath, realizing that she’d dotted her morning dress with ink as a result. She rose and struggled out of it, then ran out of the library in her chemise and drawers, calling for Sukey and throwing the balled-up dress down the stairwell when the maid replied faintly from the first floor.
“Sukey! Have Eliza wash this at once! The ink might come out—perhaps not. But she must try!”
Feeling