Dreams of Desire Read online

  “Some of it.”

  “So you’re aware of how she . . . when she ...”

  “Yes,” she hurriedly interjected to save him the embarrassment of explaining.

  “I haven’t seen her in three decades.” He scowled, appearing somber and solemn. “If you were me, would you kick her out?”

  Would she? Her own mother had died when Lily was tiny, and Lily couldn’t picture her face or remember her voice. If she could have her mother back, she wouldn’t begrudge her any foible. No matter what she might have done or how she’d acted, Lily would welcome her with open arms.

  At least he had a mother to worry about. Lily had no one at all.

  “No, I wouldn’t kick her out.”

  He sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “You won’t make her leave, will you? I heard her mention that she has no money and nowhere to go.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily assume it’s the truth.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “She has a penchant for drama.”

  “I didn’t notice that about her,” she fibbed.

  “She wouldn’t hesitate to tell a tale of woe in order to get what she wants.”

  “And what would that be?”

  He paused and studied her. “Miss Lambert?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to talk about my mother.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “When we are alone, you’re to call me John.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I shall call you Lily.”

  “I don’t give you permission.”

  “I don’t care.”

  The room became very quiet. An ember cracked in the grate; the clock on the mantel ticked away. Her heart thundered in her chest.

  “Have you ever wished,” he said, “that you could be someone else? That you could wave a magic wand and have a different sort of life?”

  “I wish it all the time.”

  “So do I.”

  He was so near, his beautiful mouth only an inch away. Would he kiss her? She hoped he both would and wouldn’t. Further flirtation between them was wrong and dangerous, yet she yearned for him to proceed nonetheless.

  Just once—just once!—she wanted to have an adventure. She, who’d always been boring and ordinary, wanted to do something extraordinary, and she wanted to do it with him.

  He dipped down and brushed his lips to hers, then he pulled away.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, not meaning it.

  “I know, but when I’m around you, I can’t help myself.” He grinned from ear to ear, so that he looked young again and possessed of his mother’s mischief. “Do you remember that night on board ship,” he asked, “when I kissed you?”

  As if she would ever forget!

  “Yes.”

  “Since then, I’ve been able to concentrate on naught but you and how soon we could do it again.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I most certainly am. Why have you been hiding from me?”

  “I haven’t been!” At his dubious glare, she mumbled, “Well, maybe a little. Sometimes.”

  He nodded, an imperious brow raised. “I hate to tell you, Miss Lambert, but our relationship is about to change.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. You and I will fraternize privately wherever and whenever I can arrange it.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Who said anything about wise? My feelings for you—and what I want to do with you—have no bearing on intelligent behavior or rational choices.”

  “What is happening then?”

  “Don’t you know? It’s lust, Miss Lambert. It’s lust—pure and simple.”

  He crushed his mouth to hers, sweeping her into a maelstrom of passion, the likes of which she’d never previously imagined existed.

  She’d been kissed before—against her will by men she didn’t like—so she’d viewed kissing as a distasteful exercise in frustration, where she’d spent every second fighting to escape.

  This was nothing like those prior experiences. It was thrilling and astonishing and exhilarating, and she couldn’t decide what to do except kiss him back.

  His hands were everywhere, stroking across her hair, shoulders, and arms. Her own hands were busy, too, exploring with a reckless abandon. He seemed to relish her brazen curiosity, and the more bold she became, the more intensely he participated, as if he couldn’t get close enough to her.

  He loosened the belt on her robe and shoved at the lapels so he could caress her breasts. They were covered only by the thin fabric of her nightgown. His questing fingers squeezed her nipples, tormenting them till they were taut and rigid, and the sensation was so arousing that she was glad she was lying down. If she hadn’t been, she might have swooned.

  He broke away and nibbled a trail to her bosom. He nuzzled at her cleavage, the gesture sending jolts of excitement to her womb and out to her extremities. As he drew a nipple into his mouth, she squealed with surprise.

  “Hush!” he teased, chuckling, “or the entire household will hear you.”

  “You can’t . . . can’t ...”

  “Can’t what? Can’t touch you here?” He pinched her nipple very hard. “Or here?” He pinched the other one even harder.

  “It’s indecent,” she tried to claim.

  “Yes, it is. That’s why it’s so enjoyable.”

  He fell to her breasts again, and he suckled her nipples, going back and forth, back and forth, until she was so fraught with stimulation that she felt she might explode.

  “Penworth, desist!”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “I might if you call me John.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to continue, won’t I?”

  He jumped in with a renewed vigor that had her writhing and moaning. He was lifting the hem of her nightgown. Her calves were bared, then her knees, and as her thighs were exposed, she panicked.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Hasn’t any man ever touched you like this?”

  “I’m a spinster, Penworth. Of course not.”

  “Lucky me to be the first.”

  His hand came to rest between her legs, and to her amazement, he slid a finger into her womanly sheath.

  She gasped and arched up, as he smiled his wicked smile. A second finger was added, and he began stroking them in and out. They fit exactly right, as if he’d been specifically created to caress her in just such a fashion.

  She flopped onto the cushion, her arms flung wide, like a virgin about to be sacrificed.

  “I give up,” she muttered. “Have your way with me.”

  “I intend to.”

  He laughed as he drove her up and up, until her heart was pounding so violently that she thought it might cease beating altogether.

  “Almost there,” he murmured.

  “Good. I feel as if I’m dying. Have mercy on me.”

  “No. No mercy for you.”

  He kissed her again, as his thumb made a few seductive circles. He jabbed at a sensitive spot she hadn’t previously noticed. Like magic, the most unexpected wave of pleasure shot through her.

  She was blinded by bliss, and she soared to the heavens, then gradually, the agitation decreased and the moment ended. Her body was in shock, her limbs rubbery and limp. How would she stand? How would she walk to her room? Had she been crippled by amour?

  He shifted, stretching out behind her along the back of the sofa, offering her the perfect chance to slip away. She tried to sit, but posture was impossible. Instead, she tumbled to the floor. Frantically, she pulled at her nightgown, covering her private parts and legs.

  Their ardor quickly waned, and she wasn’t quite so overwhelmed. Sanity returned, and with it, her prudence.

  What was she thinking? Why was it that, when
she was in his company, she couldn’t behave?

  It’s Dubois’s potion, an absurd voice whispered in her mind, and she was terrified anew that it was having a reverse effect. While Penworth seemed the same as ever, she was changing by the minute.

  Why was she growing attached? She wasn’t able to fight her attraction. What was causing it? What if it got worse? Would she soon be lurking outside his bedchamber, hoping to be invited in?

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was casually lounged, his head balanced on his hand, his lazy smile mesmerizing her. He looked completely at ease, comfortable and composed, but she felt rumpled, out of her element, and thoroughly undone.

  “You are so wicked,” she scolded.

  “Not usually. This is all your fault.”

  “Mine! What is it that I do? Please tell me so I can stop doing it.”

  “Why would I want you to stop?”

  “We’re marching down the road to perdition.”

  “And I’m enjoying the view.”

  His hot attention meandered down her torso, and she tugged at her robe and tied the sash extra tight.

  “Get back up here.” He patted the empty spot she’d just vacated. “We’re not finished.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  He motioned her nearer with his finger. “Come here.”

  “No.”

  He reached for her and she scooted away on her bottom, out of range. They engaged in a staring match.

  “Don’t pretend to female umbrage,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You love dallying with me. Admit it. Don’t be coy.”

  “I’m not being coy. I’m just not going to do it again.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  He sat up as if he might grab her, and she leapt to her feet and stumbled away. Keeping a wary eye on him, she lugged a chair over to the door, climbed up, and snatched the key. She’d presumed he would attempt to prevent her, and when he didn’t, she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or not.

  “Where are you off to now?” He stifled a yawn, as if—with his having debauched her—he couldn’t care less about where she’d be.

  “To my bedchamber.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of the ghosts?”

  “There are bigger dangers in this castle.”

  “Meaning me.”

  “Yes.”

  He chuckled. “Coward.”

  “To the marrow of my bones.”

  His chuckle became a hearty laugh. “Would you like me to escort you upstairs?”

  “I’m not about to let you catch me in any dark corners. I’ll take my chances with the goblins.”

  He unfolded his large frame from the sofa, and he sauntered over, his blue, blue eyes holding her spellbound. He took the key and stuck it in the lock.

  “Has it occurred to you,” he said, “that the ghosts you heard might be the twins trying to frighten you?”

  Her jaw dropped, and she smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand.

  “Oh, how stupid of me!”

  “I’ll be very disappointed if you let them win this battle.”

  She grinned. “You believe what I told you about them?”

  “Yes, Lily, I believe you.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, then he pulled the door open.

  She dawdled, gawking at him like an imbecile. There were a thousand things she yearned to tell him, but she didn’t dare.

  “Go,” he quietly advised, “before I make you stay.”

  He urged her into the hall, where she promptly bumped into his mother. Barbara’s curious gaze raced down Lily’s body, scrutinizing her nightclothes, her disheveled state, and her bare feet.

  Lily blushed from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes.

  “Well, well,” Barbara said, “Miss Lambert, isn’t it? Violet’s companion?”

  “Hello . . . ah . . . Mrs. Middleton.” Lily was stammering, not certain what to call the imposing woman. “I was just . . . just . . . I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Really?” Barbara guffawed.

  “Why are you sneaking about, Barbara?” Lord Penworth asked.

  “I’m not sneaking. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Was there something you wanted?”

  “No. I think I’ve found all I need and a bit more besides.”

  Lily glanced at Lord Penworth, her alarm clear. If Barbara blabbed about what she’d witnessed, Lily’s job would be over, her reputation shredded.

  The earl—to Lily’s astonishment—understood her apprehension.

  “She won’t tattle to anyone,” he calmly assured Lily. “Will you, Barbara?”

  He glared at Barbara, his expression cold and hard.

  “I’m a veritable fount of discretion,” Barbara insisted.

  He nodded at Lily and waved her away. “You go on. Don’t worry about her.”

  Lily was frozen in place, overcome by the strongest desire to explain or defend herself.

  Barbara looked at the earl, then at Lily again, and she snorted.

  “Tumbling the servants, John?” she mused. “I find it completely unlike you, but I also find it absolutely fascinating.”

  She strolled on and disappeared down the dark corridor.

  Lily spun and ran the other way.

  Chapter 8

  “IT’S not so bad, is it?”

  “I beg to differ. It’s as awful as I imagined it would be.”

  “Stop fussing. Stop scowling at everyone.”

  Phillip Dudley—also known as Frenchman and master charlatan Philippe Dubois—studied the bejeweled horde in the drawing room of Lord Penworth’s Scottish castle. He glared at his sister, Clarinda.

  “I can’t help scowling,” he said. “My collar is so tight that I’m choking.”

  “I should be so lucky,” Clarinda retorted. “Perhaps if I tighten it a bit more, you’ll fall to the floor and stay there.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll cease my complaints.”

  “Rumor has it that the punch bowl is spiked with Penworth’s best whiskey. Why don’t you check?”

  “I am always in a better mood when I’m drinking.”

  “Yes, you are. And I will have more fun if you’re not hovering and frowning at every fellow who gets within ten feet of me.”

  He flashed a fierce glower, simply to hear her laugh, then he sauntered away.

  He wasn’t used to wearing fancy coats and tailored trousers, frilly cravats and boots that pinched his toes, but he’d come to Scotland for Clarinda. If it killed him, he would act the part of a British gentleman. Just to make her happy. Just to give her some semblance of a normal life.

  He was thirty and she was twenty-five, a pair of orphaned, nomadic wanderers. Ever since she was a baby, she’d tagged after him, living on the road, participating in his schemes, and keeping him out of trouble.

  She was an accomplished apothecary and midwife, but he sold amulets and charms and coerced women into wasting their hard-earned money on magic and sorcery.

  Clarinda was his only sister, his only family, and while he thrived on their itinerant travels, she yearned for a more traditional existence. When he’d stumbled on the chance to provide it to her, he hadn’t been able to refuse.

  In London, after a series of dramatic events, their acquaintance—Captain Tristan Odell—had asked them to journey to Scotland where he owned a fine property that was standing empty. He’d urged them to move in to his country house and watch over it for him.

  After much fussing and fretting, Phillip had agreed. For Clarinda’s sake.

  They’d spent years trekking from place to place, so he didn’t believe she’d take to four walls and a solid roof, but for the moment, she was content, and he wouldn’t ruin it for her. Let her make friends. Let her flirt with a beau or two. It wouldn’t kill Phillip to permit it.

  He meandered through the crowd Penworth had amassed for his first hunting party of the season. The old castle was jam-packed with neighbors who’d come to eat,
dance, and fraternize.

  He hadn’t met the earl yet, but he’d been introduced to the man’s relatives. A sorrier bunch he couldn’t have found anywhere: the grim stepmother, the slothful half brother, the haughty fiancée, and the spoiled wards. They were like characters in a bad theatrical play, and he couldn’t fathom why Penworth had brought them along.

  If it had been up to Phillip, he’d have told the entire crew to remain in England. How did Penworth find any peace when surrounded by the wretched group?

  Phillip wondered how poor Miss Lambert was faring. He hadn’t seen her. Was she still working for Penworth? Or had she swallowed Phillip’s potion, married, and fled the man’s employ?

  Phillip certainly hoped that she had. She was too sweet to be trapped in such a miserable situation.

  He located the punch bowl and was elated to note that Clarinda had been correct: The frothy concoction was laced with liquor. He downed a glass then ambled to the terrace, wanting to be away from the gowns and perfume and sweat. Leaned against the balustrade, he gazed out at the park, the trails clearly marked by hanging lanterns.

  If Clarinda kept insisting she was happy, glad for the lodging Odell had offered, Phillip couldn’t make her abandon it. But where would it leave them? They’d always been a pair, a team. If he left Clarinda behind, what would become of him? The notion of carrying on without her was unbearably sad.

  How long would he dicker in Scotland? How long would he wait to hear Clarinda say she was ready to return to London? What if she was never ready?

  “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”

  Phillip spun to see that a woman had joined him.

  “Yes, it is.”

  She was very beautiful, with vibrant brunette hair, big green eyes, and a voluptuous figure. Initially, he thought they were close to the same age, but he quickly realized that she was older, perhaps by a decade or more. She wore her maturity well, her attractiveness flowing out in a pulsating wave.

  “You won’t swoon if I introduce myself, will you?” she asked.

  “I’ll try not to,” Phillip dryly responded.

  “I’m renowned for doing what’s completely improper.”

  “My favorite sort of female.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll get on famously.”

  “Yes, I suppose we will.”

  “I’m Barbara Middleton.”

  She extended her slender hand, and he clasped hold. She didn’t seem inclined to pull it away, so he didn’t either.