Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

A lmost two hours after his first encounter with Mrs. Layton—no, Lily , Oliver reminded himself—he was still by her side and content to remain there. He had woken up with the need to spend the day with his guests to see if he could unearth any clues to his lover’s identity. Breakfast had been a farce, and a peculiar worry had slithered through him. Of the dozen ladies that had been present, none had pulled at him. It was insupportable any present could have been the woman in the secret passageway. Oliver had then decided to take a long ride to clear his head and had been quite pleased to encounter the alluring Mrs. Lily Layton.

She was different from the ladies at breakfast in a manner that seemed elusive. Her cultured tones spoke of a fine education, her manners were exemplary, ladylike most certainty, but she seemed sturdier. And he did not refer to her mouthwateringly sensual curves. Her grace as she dealt with Mr. Crauford’s sanctimonious attitude was admirable and hinted of a backbone. It was entirely strange that Oliver liked her warm company so much.

He’d ignored her puzzled mien as he escorted her from shop to shop, as she bought lengths of calico and laces, some meat pies, knitted stockings for her father, a shawl for her mother, and fruit cake for her nieces. She was too polite to ask why he was accompanying her, perhaps, and she had been scandalized and amused when he took up and carried her basket of assorted goods for her family, who resided nearby. He’d learned her family was made up of her parents and her sister’s family, which was comprised of two darling children and an astonishingly wonderful husband, who was the local doctor.

Everywhere she went, someone greeted her and paused to exchange some pleasantries. Some recognized him and hadn’t been able to stop staring, and a few had been aghast upon introduction and had scurried away to impart the gossip.

“You are well loved,” he murmured, as the current vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bainsmith, ended their conversation with several curtsies in his direction before hurrying toward the small bookshop at the corner of the street.

Lily shot him a side-eyed glance. “I was born and raised in this village. The only time I left was right after the vicar died. I resided with one of my cousins in Lambeth for eleven months before I returned.”

“You’ve never explored London?”

“Certainly not to its full potential,” she said with a light laugh. “The few times I visited my aunt in Cheapside, I snuck away to visit the shops on High Holborn and Bond Street, where the best dressmakers, tailors, and haberdashers are. I quite scandalized my aunt when I ventured to the fashionable area on my own.”

He lifted his chin to the sketchbook clutched in her arms. “For that?”

“Yes.”

Several shops past, she had removed her sketchbook to make space for her items and had been quite reluctant for him to carry it for her. He hadn’t insisted, not that he thought she would have caved. Lily seemed like the sort of woman to know herself, considering her refusal of Mr. Crauford’s marriage proposal. A strange thing, that. In his experience, a woman of her modest means would have eagerly consented to be the man’s wife.

“May I see?”

Vulnerability flashed in her eyes. “My drawings?”

“Only if you are inclined to share.”

After a slight hesitation, she held the book out to him. Oliver traded her the basket for it and flipped it open. There were several sketches of dresses, a few he had seen women of high society wearing and others that clearly were not in existence. The lines and style were elegant and creative. “These are very good, brilliant really.”

“You know of women’s fashion?”

“Enough to know these are exquisite.”

A smile lit her entire face, and her unique prettiness struck him. Christ . Her hair gleamed like copper under the sun, and stubborn tendrils had managed to escape her chignon and curl around her cheeks most becomingly. The jolt he felt through his heart was quite unexpected, the twitch in his cock appalling. She had finely arched brows, high cheekbones, and wide and sensual lips.

He wanted to kiss her without consequence.

Wicked images flicked through his mind at the speed of a runaway carriage. Mrs. Layton’s lips around his cock, how they would glisten when he kissed and nibbled on them.

Good God, what was wrong with him?

“I believe so, too. The dress your mother wore to last night’s supper—I created it,” she murmured, pride and satisfaction evident in her tone. “The countess had been reluctant to wear it until she saw my creation.”

He recalled the dark green beauty his mother had worn with such grace. “You are incredibly talented.”

Lily beamed. “Thank you. I am hoping your mother will be kind enough to recommend me to her set. I am determined to become a sought-after modiste.”

He handed her back the drawings and collected the basket once more. “It must have cost you a lot of money to make a dress my mother approved of.”

“Almost a year’s savings,” she replied with a light laugh, walking ahead once more. “But that is the cost of doing business.”

“Did my mother compensate you for your creation?”

Her head turned and startled eyes met his. “It was a gift. I did not expect to be paid.”

But his mother should have known what it would have cost a woman of Lily’s means to create such a rich garment worthy of a marchioness. Lily was kind and very caring, qualities he deeply admired. It did not escape him that it was her wages she had been using to buy gifts for her family. He admired that she pursued her passion so ardently and wasn’t content to accept the life handed to her. It was a pity she wasn’t of a different class, for he could see himself wooing a woman like her.

“Ah … here we are,” she said with a nervous laugh, waving toward a cottage nestled charmingly off the beaten path. “This is my parents’ home, and I … I’m decidedly unsure what is the proper etiquette here. I had no notion the Marquess of Ambrose would spend the day with me in such a menial manner. Not that I imagined you being with me in any other manner,” she hurriedly assured him.

A blush pinkened her cheeks, and the most befuddling sensation filled his chest and arrowed down to his cock, hardening it. Shock froze him, and with a will he’d never thought himself capable of, he suppressed the sneaking desire worming through his body for a bloody servant within his household. Wresting his gaze from her beguiling eyes, he scanned the yard. Several chickens clucked, and a young lady was hanging billowing white sheets on a line. As if she sensed his regard, she looked up.

“Lily!” she cried, abandoning her laundry, running over to clasp her in an embrace.

“Mary Rose,” Lily scolded. “We’ve company.” She took a steadying breath. “May I present Lord Ambrose. My lord, this is my sister, Mrs. Mary Rose Evans.”

“Lord Ambrose!”

His lips twitched as he caught the pinch Lily placed behind her sister’s elbow as she gawked. Mary Rose possessed the same dark red hair and brown eyes as Lily and was just as pretty. She quickly curtsied and stammered a greeting. Oliver did his best to put her at ease. He bowed. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Evans.”

“Mamma and Papa have gone to call on Miss Shelby. She’s not feeling too well, you see,” she said to Lily. Though Mary Rose spoke to her sister, her widened eyes were pinned on him.

What was he doing there with her sister was the clear question. And the answer eluded him, to his great annoyance. “I spy the most charming garden westward,” he said abruptly. “I’ll leave you to see the arrangements.”

“They are my father’s pride and joy,” replied Lily with a wide smile, and he did his best to not lower his regard to those sweet, pouty lips.

“You’ll not find better, my lord.”

“If you ladies will excuse me,” he said, offering a courteous bow before handing Lily the basket.

They dipped into curtsies, and Oliver walked away, inhaling the mix of fragrances redolent on the air. Life had turned rather strange ever since meeting Mrs. Layton this morning. He had never spent a day so simply but so pleasantly. He hadn’t once thought about his estates or burying himself in his darkroom to paint his erotic murals. He hadn’t even thought about the young ladies back at Belgrave Manor, all of whom were apparently eminently suited to be his wife. He’d enjoyed Lily’s company, and most befuddling, Oliver could not recall having a more amiable time.

The Marquess of Ambrose had spent the day with her. The very notion still confounded Lily. Even more disturbing, she very much liked his splendid and good-natured company. She had never thought it possible to be at ease with someone so far above her in, well, everything, but not once had he made her feel as if she were inferior.

Her parents had returned home only a few minutes after Lily’s arrival. They’d had a pleasant afternoon chat with tea and sandwiches before she had departed. She visited her family weekly, and so enjoyed spending time with them. Their three-bedroom cottage was fully occupied, since it was also her sister and her husband’s abode. Her brother-in-law did not make enough of a living to fully support his family. He was terribly kindhearted and did not charge many of his patients who could ill afford medical care. Lily dearly wished to someday earn enough to hire a kitchen maid to help them with the chores.

She had been indecisive about presenting the marquess to her parents, so she’d been relieved to find he had wandered off to the far fields when she finally drummed up the courage to venture outside to offer him refreshment. Lily still couldn’t fathom why she had felt so discomfited at the thought of Lord Ambrose in her humble and sparsely furnished home.

Now they were walking at a far brisker pace back to Belgrave Manor. Thunder rumbled, and she glared at the sky. “I believe it is about to rain.” She hurried her steps, almost running. “There is a hunting lodge not too far from here. We could wait out the rain there.”

A low curse sounded from the marquess. Lily peered back at him. “What is it?”

There was a dangerous warning in the gaze that stared at her, and she gasped at the dart of heat that quivered to her core. Dear God. Her desires were ungovernable . A drop of rain landed on her cheek, and not wasting time to examine the unexpected tension, she ran ahead, uncaring if he followed. Arriving at the hunting cabin, she clambered up the small steps, wrenched open the door, and spilled inside.

“What is this?” The marquess’s voice came from behind her.

Lily flushed under his gaze. The hunting lodge was clean, with a fresh bedspread and a curtain by the small window. There was even wood stacked by the fireplace and a few books neatly stacked by the small table. She cleared her throat delicately. “The lodge is always empty. I frequently visit here on my off days.”

He shot her a considering glance but refrained from commenting.

A burst of raindrops spattered against the glass panes of the window. Several seconds later, it started to storm in earnest. Lily strolled to the lone chair by the window and sat, a trembling breath escaping her when the marquess lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. Why hadn’t she ever tried to get another chair for the cabin?

He was a handsome rogue who was a threat to any woman’s virtue, even if she were only a paid companion. “Everyone will wonder where we are. I am certain Mr. Crauford relayed to them that we are together.”

“It will be evident our delay is because of the inclement weather.”

“Our being alone will be seen as scandalous.”

One of his eyebrows arched in apparent incredulity. “I doubt it,” he said drily.

Lily flushed. Of course, no one would think it odd a man and his servant had been alone for several minutes. Clearly, it did not even occur to him that people might wonder if they had been improper. “People may still comment,” she warned.

“I do not dally with workers in my household.”

She gasped and shot him a glare. “I did not ask.”

“Ah, I knew what you were thinking. Your eyes are very expressive,” he said with a slight frown as if he were uncomfortable with his assessment.

“And if I weren’t part of your household?”

They both froze at her uncensored and improper question. “Forgive me, my lord, I overstepped.”

He captured her gaze, and in his eyes, she spied a challenge. “There is nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Layton. I appreciate candor in a woman.”

“Even if she is only a servant?”

“Yes.”

“ Oh . You are a remarkably unusual gentleman.”

He considered her for an infinite amount of time, as if she were a perplexing puzzle he was trying to piece together. She dearly wished he wasn’t considering answering in more detail. It would be too humiliating to listen to his gentle explanations of why he would never have looked at her even if he had encountered her elsewhere. Lily was already aware of the numerous reasons—she was too plump, she had no connections nor anything particular to recommend her, and she was barren.

Dear God, what had possessed her to be so silly with her tongue?

She glared at the slashing rain, which seemed as if it had no intention of relenting soon. She needed to be away from the marquess. She could not dismiss him from any part of her awareness.

“You are a frightfully attractive woman, Lily.”

She swiveled around at that proclamation. “I … Empty flattery is not needed. I will not wilt away if you are honest.”

He chuckled ruefully. “If you knew some of the thoughts I’ve had of you, Mrs. Layton, I believe you would happily leave my mother’s employ.”

She stared at him in mute delight. Lily had longed to be admired by a man who saw her in the light of day. If her mysterious lover were to see her now, it didn’t correspond that he would still want her. It was a truth she had not dared whisper to herself until now. “Such as?”

“Nothing fit for the ears of a lady such as yourself.”

She scowled. “I’m not a prude.”

“You are the widow of a vicar.”

“And does that mean I am not a woman?”

He dealt her an arrested stare, then Ambrose lifted a brow in challenge. “Are you implying that you have hidden depths?”

A decidedly charged tension permeated the air. She wet her lips. “Most assuredly,” she drawled, trying to affect a nonchalant and worldly mien.

He stood with fluid grace and prowled over to her, his eyes stripping her where she sat. Lily fancied he could see the wanton desires in her soul. The marquess peered down at her, a thousand questions in his eyes.

“How deep?”

His tone was more curious than anything else, and she prayed she wasn’t blushing.

“Ah … too afraid or innocent to say,” he murmured, his gaze wicked and taunting.

“I … I slept without a nightgown last night,” she said, not wanting to admit to him the far more scandalous thing she had done with her stranger.

Disappointment flashed in his eyes and his shoulders relaxed. “How scandalous.”

His mocking drawl had her narrowing her eyes. “I suppose sleeping in the nude is common to a man such as yourself?”

“I daresay it is common among at least half the ton , but of course, the wife of a vicar would think her naked backside against a silken sheet was appalling.”

“They are cotton.”

“What?”

Her cheeks heating, she lifted her chin and said, “My bare backside slides against cotton sheets.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face and moved away, but she heard his muttered curse, which was much filthier than what she had been thinking.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Layton. I was ungentlemanly.”

A soft humor darted through her. “Truly, I did not mind.”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s the heat,” she retorted quickly.

The dratted man laughed, and her body betrayed her by choosing that moment to shiver.

“I’ve been inconsiderate.” He quickly shrugged from his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. A soft moan slipped from her as his wonderful heat enveloped her.

He stilled, and she peered up at him. The manner in which he looked at her was … lustful . Surely it was her imagination. He smiled ruefully, and she felt a familiar quickening low in her belly. Dear heavens, she was truly a harlot. Only last night she had been wrapped in the arms of a stranger, and now there was a wicked temptress inside, urging Lily to step up to the marquess, tip on her toes, and lick along the seam of his lips.

“Why is it important to open a shop?”

Lily stared at him. No one had ever asked her that. The few times she had mentioned her talent to the vicar, she had been berated harshly. Her duties had been to keep their cottage tidy, approve of his sermons, and ensure she was the first in church and the last to depart. Her marriage before that had been sweet and fleeting, and dear Charlie had only wanted to cosset and take care of her, refusing the very notion of her seeking work.

“Sewing is a talent I recognized in myself at the age of twelve. I’ve spent many days lost in a dream of the fine dresses my sister and I would wear one day,” she said with a wistful smile. “That passion simply grew until I had no choice but to follow where it would take me. I purchase fashion sheets when I can. I have a few local patrons who very much love the riding habits and dresses I’ve created. The magistrate’s wife is particularly complimentary. I can make gowns and pelisses to rival London’s most famous modistes. I want to see my creations on ladies of high society and featured in the Lady’s Monthly Museum . A bold aspiration, I know. Is it so silly, do you believe, to want something of your own, to leave your mark on an ever-changing world?”

“No, it’s admirable. I will gift you five hundred pounds to open your shop,” he said smoothly, his eyes boring into her, his intensity kissing her skin like a warning.

She jerked to her feet as if she were a marionette and him her master. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“You heard me.”

“That is a fortune.”

“It’s negligible.”

She inhaled sharply, at a loss how five hundred pounds could ever be described as negligible. “I … why ?”

“I am feeling generous.”

Her heart pounded a furious beat. “I cannot accept your generosity. It is inappropriate.”

His gorgeous mouth curved into a smile. “Then consider it a payment.”

“For what services? Your mother already compensates me quite fairly for my companionship.”

He looked thoughtful, then offered a reply. “For helping me select a suitable bride from the dozens under my roof.”

“A suitable bride?” she parroted.

“I know my mother has painted your ears with hours of chattering on the type of young lady she would see fill her shoes.”

“She has,” she said cautiously. The marchioness was very hopeful her son would indeed select a bride and move on to the joyful occasion of producing an heir. “But I do not see how I could possibly be in a position to help.”

How she dearly wished there was some service she could render.

Five hundred pounds, oh glorious heavens .

“Finding a suitable bride is no easy task. The sum I offered I gambled away in less than an hour last weekend. It’s a piddling amount, Mrs. Layton.”

“I think it is incredulous you would need my help.”

“Perhaps I realize the impossible task in deciding on a bride in one week.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “You do have the rest of the London season. Surely those balls and picnics will have many more wonderful ladies to choose from.”

“I am disenchanted with the idea of wading through the marriage mart.”

Lily’s thoughts raced ahead. “What are the terms?”

His eyebrow arched. “Terms?”

“Will I be paid once you’ve selected a bride? After you’ve started courting? An announcement of the engagement?”

He looked faintly shocked at her questions. “No. I am simply paying you for your advice … your opinions on the ladies present in my home.”

She nibbled on her lower lip, a nervous habit she’d not shed. “I am not very knowledgeable about ladies of high society, and certainly not your guests. I’ve spent most of my life here in Hampshire. I’ve only been to London a few times to visit my aunt and uncle in Cheapside. Being invited to a few of the events of your mother’s house party is the most I’ve mingled with quality.”

Nothing she said surprised him, and she frowned, hating the awareness pumping through her. “Was your offer one of charity? Because I assure you, there are far more charitable endeavors worthier of your patronage, and I do not require pity.”

“Do not be foolish. Whether or not you have been exposed to the glittering, glamorous world of the ton and its season, you have been the wife of a vicar. You, I believe, have an unerring sense of a person’s honor and true character.”

Dear God, if he knew the truth, she would revolt his noble senses.

“My lord, I—”

“I do not want just a wife … I have certain needs that the young lady must fulfill, and her character must be above reproach.”

The dip in his voice when he said “certain needs” intrigued her.

“And what needs are those?” Lily cleared her throat, fighting down the blush at his arrested stare.

“Those I will be able to ascertain for myself. It is your assessment of her character I would find invaluable. Is she kind, intelligent, thoughtful of others? Or is she a shrew … spiteful to those who are not so fortunate? Is she impatient, unfaithful? Are you not able to assess these things about the human heart, as you rightly assessed that Mr. Crauford is not truly interested in your heart and desires? I believe each young lady here will be on their best behavior when I am about.”

Of course, he was looking for a virtuous lady.

Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her so that he shall have no need of spoil.

It was a Bible verse her late husband had often quoted to her because he had disapproved severely of the desires of her heart. A lump formed in her throat as she stared at Lord Ambrose helplessly. Of course, he would never deign to even look at a woman like her, one with such an irrepressible need and lustful leanings. What was she even thinking? Even if she had been such a woman, a man like the marquess, so above her in everything, would never regard her in such a manner. “To be clear, my lord, you are simply paying me to be your advisor? Or, to be indelicate, your spy?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Except she truly did not. Lily then realized the incredible kindness he was bestowing upon her, for his reasons for gifting her five hundred pounds were rooted in nonsense. He was being charitable and doing his best to show a mien of indifference. The warmth rushing through her heart was surprising.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling, holding the promise in her heart to help him as best as possible. Lily was unable to believe her good fortune. Five hundred pounds . A mere trifle to a man of his stature, but everything to her. She would be able to secure herself a cottage and hire herself a housekeeper and a cook, at least. There would be enough to pay their wages for a year and the rent on the cottage and her shop in town. She could also provide her brother-in-law with a portion to lease the shop he wanted in the village to open a waiting room for his clients to visit him and to stock an apothecary shop to provide medication for the villagers.

“There is something else,” Lord Ambrose murmured, staring at her in a way that was decidedly troubling … and arousing.

“Yes?” Then she winced at the breathless quality of her response.

“May I paint you?”

“Paint me?” she parroted inanely.

“Forgive me if I am too forward, but your skin is the most beautiful I’ve ever beheld, and your smile—I feel it should be immortalized on canvas.”

Lily stared at the marquess in ill-concealed shock. “I … I didn’t realize you painted,” she said, fumbling for equanimity at his praise. Here was a man who didn’t think she was too pale, or her lips too full, her mouth too wide. “I’ve never seen your paintings.”

“They are in a private room in the western wing of Belgrave Manor. There are only a few I trust to see them.”

“And I am in that category?” she asked skeptically.

“I never said I wanted to show you my work,” he replied with a charming quirk of his lips. “Only that I wish for you to sit for me.”

“Oh.” She winced at hardly containing her disappointment.

“I would make it worth your time, of course,” he assured smoothly.

Lily frowned. “In what regard?”

“Another five hundred pounds.”

She dropped her basket. He arched a brow and glanced pointedly at it. Before she retrieved it, he stooped and collected her things, picking up her sketchpad, which had spilled out.

“There is no need to be flustered, Mrs. Layton. I promise to leave you in your clothes.”

“How remarkably proper,” she teased drolly, desperate to disguise her alarm. One thousand pounds was a fortune. “And here I truly believed you had a reputation for being a debaucher of innocents.”

“A debaucher most assuredly, but not of the innocent. I wonder, in what category are you? The reserved sort? Or adventurous?”

The desire in his eyes set her world askew. “Are you trying to taunt me into agreeing to your request?”

“Most assuredly. Please also recall my exorbitant offer of payment.”

“And I would only need to sit for a few hours?” Why was her voice hoarse, and why were they standing so close?

“I may require you to be a tad bit scandalous.”

Her heart jerked most alarmingly. Lily cleared her throat. “How scandalous?”

“I want your hair loose, fanned across your shoulder … and your feet bare of stockings and boots so I may see your toes and the turn of your ankle. Nothing more.”

Nothing more … That was quite scandalous but paled in comparison to how she’d been spending her nights. They stared at each other for an indefinable amount of time. Lily was unsure what was happening, but something had changed between them. It was too vague for her to name, but awareness of it burned along her nerve endings. “Yes, I’ll sit for you,” she said softly.

A powerful need flared in his gaze before his lids shuttered.

She attempted to reassure herself she did it for the fortune he promised, but deep inside, she knew that to be a lie. It was simply because he asked. How very silly of her to be so thrilled at the notion of being improper with Lord Ambrose.

But inexplicably, he had somehow become a beautiful fire, and she wanted to burn in wanton delight.