Chapter 10

Lord Lowell’s lips were still against hers for the first few seconds before he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight. She slid her arms up his back, as far as she could reach. The rasp of his mustache and beard against her cheek made her skin erupt into gooseflesh.

She swept her tongue into his mouth, and a sound rumbled from his chest. He tasted of sweet wine and the hard ridge of his arousal dug into her stomach.

By the time he pulled away, her neck and shins were aching from lifting herself to his height.

He wiped his lips with the back of a hand, then grinned. “I have wanted to kiss you from the moment I set eyes on you, Lady Allen.”

A nervous laugh bubbled up in her throat. “‘Olivia,’ please. I believe we are past formalities.”

He slid hands down her arms and tangled their fingers together. “Only if you use my given name as well.”

She licked her lips. “Thellusson?”

He snorted. “Only my mother calls me that. It’s ‘Thel.’”

“Thel,” she whispered.

It felt so intimate. A name she could whisper in the dark.

He tugged her to a couch and sat down, pulling her to sit beside him. He cleared his throat. “How… was it?”

Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was not one of them.

“It was lovely, but…” She wasn’t sure how to express her thoughts. She recognized the uncertainty in his tone, the skittishness she had dealt with countless times in the girls she sponsored. But what her instincts were telling her was impossible. He had been married. He had a child. This was no virgin, but a man nearly ten years her senior.

“When was the last time you were with a woman?” she blurted out.

He sighed. “Not since my wife passed. There are… reasons. I am not, ah, incapable, I assure you.”

She placed a hand on his thigh. “I do not doubt that.” His trousers were clearly tented. Whatever his reason, it was not a physical one. At the same time, she had been a mistress for enough married men who claimed to be satisfied with their wives that she had to ask the obvious question. “You never considered taking a paramour?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I did. Many nights. But every time I thought I was ready, I imagined what Marguerite would say.” His throat worked. “I loved her so much. When she died, it almost killed me. Compared to what we had, a quick tup—even with an experienced lady—felt hollow. Meaningless. I couldn’t do it.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid I am woefully inexperienced.”

The scenario he described was a stark contrast to the coldness of her own marriage. She could not imagine being so attached to a person such that parting from them would cause her such grief. She’d hardly mourned the deaths of her own parents. But that did not mean she was not empathetic to his situation. Her heart ached for the pain he must have felt.

She drew in a breath. What she was about to suggest was scandalous. Dangerous, even. She’d carefully cultivated a mystique of an experienced woman, a lady whom a gentleman could take to his bed without fear of being blackmailed later. She’d managed this without earning scorn from society by carefully selecting her sexual partners. If even one of them spurned her, they could have her branded a loose woman. But despite barely knowing Thel, she felt she could trust him enough to give him what he so obviously needed.

“I could reacquaint you,” she said. “I am an expert in several… unusual techniques.”

“You would do that?” He frowned. “Your reputation…”

She laughed. “My lord, I am a widow. Becoming involved with you, a widower, is one of the least scandalous things I’ve ever done. If we are discreet, no one will care.”

“In that case”—he slid his hand up her back—“I would be pleased to have you as my mentor.”

She arched her back into his touch.

He added a second hand. “You like this. What else do you like?”

His eagerness would be the death of her.

“I believe we are wearing too many clothes,” she said.

He yanked the edge of his shirt out of his trousers and lifted it over his head. She put a hand on his chest to stop him.

“First lesson,” she said. “Undressing can be a sensual art. There is no need to hurry.”

He flicked the buttons of his shirt open. As each came loose, more of his chest was revealed, carpeted with thick, black hair. When he finished, he ran his fingers down her sides. “Should you take this off as well?”

She nearly choked but recovered herself. “No, it would take too much time.”

She cursed her choice of attire. Had she known what the day would bring, she would have donned a much more comfortable garment. One that was easier to remove.

He put his hand on his bare chest, then looked at hers. “This feels rather unfair.”

The temptation to begin furiously shucking her clothing was strong, but she didn’t feel comfortable enough in his home to reassemble herself.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun.

She dipped her head and kissed his jaw and neck down to his chest and rasped a nipple with her tongue.

He cupped the back of her head with a hand and squeezed.

She lifted her head and pressed their mouths together. This time, he swept his tongue between her lips. His technique was sloppy, but the eagerness with which he kissed her combined with the feel of his hands massaging her hips made dampness flow to her sex.

That was for another time, however. She did not want to rush ahead when they had so much territory to explore. When she felt him throbbing beneath her, she withdrew.

“That was…” He uttered a short laugh. “You have rendered me speechless.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Would it be impertinent to ask what you are thinking?”

She laughed. “You do not want to know what I am thinking, my lord.”

If she told him, they might not leave his office until morning.

“Is it not expected for a mentor to assess her student’s performance?”

She laughed again, harder this time. “You want me to critique your technique?”

Her past partners had only ever cared about her pleasure in its capacity to increase their own. If she had dared offer suggestions to the earl, he would have given her the back of his hand.

“How else will I improve?” Thel asked.

The sincerity in his voice left her speechless. Who was this man who believed in love and was so devoted to his partner that he was willing to risk his ego being bruised?

“I’ll consider your request,” she said. Then she rose from his lap and righted her clothes. Only when she reached the door did she feel able to speak.

“Until tomorrow.”

“Until our next lesson,” he replied.

###

Olivia rolled onto her stomach the next morning and buried her face in her pillow. It smelled faintly of coal from the metal heater tucked beneath her mattress. Without it, the bed would have been ice cold. Of course, if she’d stayed with Thel, she wouldn’t have needed the contraption. The man radiated more warmth than the smoldering embers of a fire. He was earnest, kind, and gentle. The exact opposite of her former husband.

Her mind was drawn back to the moment in Thel’s office when he’d held her. It was unusual to find such an intimidating man who was so gentle. It made her want to protect him, to preserve his innocence despite the fierce desire of the ton to root out such things like stubborn weeds. Thel’s sensitive soul needed to be carefully cultivated, not shorn down to make way for more socially acceptable traits.

London had enough brutish managing men. They did not need another.

A gentle rap came at the door.

“Enter,” she said.

Her butler stepped inside. His dour face was even more pinched than usual, his thin eyebrows drawn together. “Pardon the interruption, my lady, but Lady Briarwood has arrived.”

That was exactly what she needed. Someone with whom to commiserate.

“Show her in,” Olivia said.

The door closed, and moments later, flew open again. Saffron clutched a rolled-up newspaper in her hand, which she slammed on the table.

“I’ve seen it,” Olivia said.

Any whispers she might have received at events would increase tenfold now that there were specific details for the ton to chew over.

“I had Leo reach out to the editor, but the man would not budge,” Saffron said, falling back onto the horsehair sofa. “What happened with Lord Lowell? I thought you had made a deal.”

Olivia winced. “It would not matter if I did. He’s not the source behind the articles.”

Saffron patted the seat beside her. “Tell me everything.”

Olivia perched on the edge of the couch and carefully described the events of the previous day. Saffron’s mouth fell open at one point, but she remained blessedly silent until Olivia finished.

“You have certainly been busy,” Saffron said, swirling a spoon around her teacup.

Olivia sipped her lukewarm tea. It tasted bitter and there was soapy residue on the porcelain. She set the cup down with a grimace. In her obsession to discover who’d been slandering her name, she’d neglected her own household. The gaslights were covered in cobwebs, the furnace was thick with soot and ashes, and now even the tableware was not up to snuff.

She sank into the pillows on the couch. “How do I lure my enemy out?”

She didn’t know his name or title. She didn’t even know if there was a man at all, only that her instincts insisted Constance could not have written the letters on her own. So many assumptions, and little to no facts. It was no way to run an investigation.

“Have you considered staging a counterattack?” Saffron asked.

Olivia tucked a pillow behind her back. “What do you mean?”

“The newspapers with the latest article have already been printed and distributed. It is too late to prevent that. But what if you were to attack using the same means?”

“You mean write a response?” Olivia sniffed. “I doubt the editor would print it. He made it abundantly clear how much he values my opinion.”

“Because you approached him as yourself.”

Olivia straightened. “Are you proposing…?”

“Yes!” Saffron bounced in her seat. “Take the name of a man and make a rebuttal. I can transcribe for you. Summon a maid to bring us the supplies. I have always wanted to play secretary.”

Olivia was quickly swept up in Saffron’s excitement. The maid who brought her traveling writing desk did not ask why she needed it, but the confused expression on the young girl’s face assured Olivia that her servants would discuss this visit for days to come.

Saffron set the mahogany box on her lap and withdrew a pen and a sheet of parchment. “How should we begin?”

Olivia picked up the glass of brandy she had poured while waiting for the maid. “We follow the cadence of his articles. That way, no one can miss the intent.” She sipped her drink, savored the fruity sweetness and the slight burn down her throat, then set her glass down and began dictating.