M'Lady Read online

  “Just call me Ian, M’Lady. It’s who I was before all this kerfuffle.” It felt like he was flying from the sheer relief of her knowing him. The real him, not just the nobleman people wanted him to be.

  Miss Rose smiled. “I’ll agree to your request, on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” He’d willingly walk through fire if she asked.

  “I only have you and one other client. If I turn the other client over to someone else, can you see me twice a week? I’m aware of the increased cost I’m asking for you to take on.” She put a lace-gloved hand on his chest.

  He rested his palm over it. “Gladly.” It came out a little hoarse, but that was alright. He didn’t mind her knowing he wanted her. “Waiting a week was torture.”

  “As was reading about you being at a fine party with bunches of sweet young things playing court to you.” Miss Rose sounded genuinely angry, or perhaps envious. A thrill shot through him that she might be jealous. Rose moved closer as she lifted her hands and undid the ties of his mask.

  He inhaled her sweet rose scent, his cock throbbing angrily at her being so close but still not within his grasp.

  “There you are,” she murmured, pulling the mask away. Her fingers brushed his cheek. “So handsome, those ladies must be falling all over themselves every time you smile.”

  He rather thought not. A small chuckle escaped him. “I’m afraid they’re not so besotted with me as you seem to think. I’m a barbarian from Scotland, about to run off with their virtue at any second. Their mamas have to push them at me because my fortune does make me a fine catch, or so my mother says. She’s eager for me to find a bride.”

  “And you don’t want to?” Her smile was small and sad as her thumb traced over his lips.

  “I’m far from my dotage, I have plenty to keep me occupied, and what demure miss could hold a candle to you?”

  It must have been the right thing to say because her grin became blinding. He couldn’t help himself, his arms went about her and his mouth claimed hers.

  Rose went stiff for a moment, then relaxed against him, kissing him deeply. He shuddered from how right it felt, from how her taste was all her, and from how her tongue slid over his.

  He could have lived like that, but finally, she pushed him back a step, a wicked look in her eyes.

  “Sit on the chair, Earl. I’m not done with you yet.”

  Ian did as told. She flipped his kilt up, tucking it so it’d stay. His cock lay against the folds of fabric, nearly flushed purple.

  “Dear me,” she said, running her lace-clad finger over it.

  He grunted as his hips lifted to meet the gentle touch. “Please, M’Lady.”

  “Looks quite fierce, doesn’t it? Well, since you counted correctly, you can touch yourself. Actually, until you see me again, I want you to take yourself in hand every night.”

  “Not a hardship.” He usually had to anyway if he was going to get any sleep.

  She laughed. “I imagine not, but there’s one more rule.”

  “Yes, M’Lady?” He couldn’t imagine what she wanted him to do.

  “First,” she tapped the stack of handkerchiefs on the table. “You’ll spend into these, one a night. Bring them to our next session.” She handed him a neatly folded square. “Use that one now. And open your mouth.”

  He did as asked, licking his lips to chase after any hint of her taste. “This is for now, while I’m watching. I want you to do the same when you bring yourself off at home, so I know it’s me you’re thinking of.”

  “What—” he started to say, but she stuffed another handkerchief in his mouth. The musky scent and taste overwhelmed him, mixed with just a hint of her rose perfume. Having the taste of her pussy in his mouth made him fist his cock, though her hand was there immediately, pouring a few drops of oil onto his palm.

  “There’s a good boy,” she said, taking a seat on a low stool. Her hand cupped her breast. “Show me what you like.”

  He couldn’t say as much with the cloth in his mouth, but he wasn’t going to take long so he hoped she didn’t want much of a show. His head fell back as he stroked himself, his hips bucking into his fist, chasing a release.

  It only took a handful of minutes before his sac drew tight and he spent himself into the linen he held.

  Miss Rose was right there as he panted, and his body turned to jelly. She pulled the fabric from his mouth, kissed his forehead, and took the handkerchief with his spending, folding it back into a square.

  “Now, promise me you’ll be a good lad until we see each other again?” She gave him the handkerchief soaked in her cream. “And I’ll be able to tell if you lie.”

  “Yes, M’Lady,” he managed, his heart twisting as she turned away.

  He must have made a noise because Rose glanced back at him over her shoulder.

  He sat up and pushed his kilt down. “Well, I just want to know more about you.” He wanted to know everything about her if he was being honest. He wanted to have tea with her, then do what they were doing. Perhaps he could ask the madam about it.

  Her head tilted in a gesture he knew meant she was considering something. “I suppose there’s no harm if you ask a single question.”

  He cast around for something. “Uh, do you like the theater?”

  Rose laughed. It was more of a cackle, really. “Yes,” she said when she managed to get a word out. “Yes, my present, I like the theater.”

  Then she was gone, and he was left quite alone.

  The crowd cramming the bookstore had Ian at his wit’s end. Ladies cooed over new gothic novels, gentlemen were discussing bindings, and quite a few of them were looking at the novels as well. The wooden floor creaked and there were so many voices.

  Maybe he should have sent Jack alone to pick up his parcel, but since Ian had also needed a new hat, he’d said he’d do the errand of retrieving his new books.

  Jack had thrown himself into the throng and was probably holding court in the middle of the ladies, like usual.

  Ian waited in the queue, not wanting to draw attention to himself or to have anyone staring daggers at his back because they’d thought he’d thrown his title around to get quicker service.

  Only if it took much longer, he might.

  He yawned but snapped his jaw shut as the faintest hint of roses hit him. He craned his neck, then realized it was coming from wilting blooms pinned to a lady’s frock.

  To the devil with that, he wanted his Rose. The madam had been eager enough to take the small fortune he’d offered to become Miss Rose’s only client, but she’d needed to say farewell to the other one, so Ian had been forced to wait. He bloody hated it. He wanted to snuggle close to her and to know a ruddy lot more about her than the few tidbits he’d cobbled together so far.

  He wanted to know what new tasks she had for him.

  It’d been frightfully wonderful and terrible to have her taste in his mouth every night as he spent himself in a handkerchief that he then tucked away for M’Lady. What did she plan to do with them?

  His gaze swept over all the primly dressed men and women in the shop, wondering if anyone else was like him, a heathen underneath starched fabric longing to be free and wild with the person of their dreams.

  He ducked his head as a group of young women strode by, several of which he’d called on at the urging of his mother. They were nice enough, polite and lovely, but none of them had the right nut-brown hair color, amber eyes, or sharp wit. In total, none of the things he found himself wanting in his life. He was fairly sure the qualities he possessed which they wanted were wealth and a title.

  Ian didn’t have the first clue what to talk to any of them about and had gone with Jack’s suggestion of asking the women about themselves. Thankfully, that had worked, though he now knew far more about painting, playing the guitar, and goats, than he had ever wanted to. The last was a surprise and he very much hoped the lady’s mother realized she’d be better off as a country squire’s wife than hosting balls in London. Though he might enjoy a ball with goats. They could chew on all the feathers the ladies wore.

  He managed to make the counter without anyone accosting him. The woman behind the counter turned from where she was saying something to another customer. Her brows shot straight up.

  “Lord Fitzwilliam,” she gasped. “Why didn’t you speak up? It’s a crush in here, you didn’t have to wait.”

  He waved her concern away. “It’s quite alright.”

  “But—”

  “No worries, I will still only bring my custom to this establishment.”

  The girl looked so relieved she appeared to be close to collapse. “Thank you, sir, I would have been fired for sure. Let me get your order.” She bustled away.

  Ian hated that someone’s livelihood could be taken away based on his whim. The weight of the estates he owned, all the lives dependent on him, or at least the earldom if not precisely his person. It was ridiculous. He was a silly sod from the highlands, not a blasted English lord.

  Only he was, and if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have met Miss Rose. Or Jack, who’d intimated a time or two that the entire household was much happier with Ian to serve as opposed to his great-uncle. It was a small spot of comfort amidst the chaos of assuming his new station.

  The shopgirl returned with a stack of books in her arms, which she hefted onto the counter. He eagerly grabbed the top one, a blue-leather-covered volume of new plays from Scotland. He flipped through the gilt-edged pages, imagining the words coming to life with a skilled company. It was why he was heavily interested in the little theater and company he’d discovered that operated just outside the most respectable area of the city. Not that most people thought the theater was any kind of respectable, but there were the playhouses the ton went to in order to be seen and heard. Ian wanted the bloody play. He had one of their two boxes reserved for a night in several weeks’ time. They’d tried to insist he come earlier, but he hadn’t wanted to advertise his patronage by kicking someone out of the seats they’d purchase. It would be no secret, of course, that he’d be attending, but he wanted goodwill all around.

  Too bad he couldn’t bring Miss Rose. He wondered if she already knew of this theater, its actors and dancers were popular among men in trade, solicitors, and the like. Was that her set?

  He could at least give her a tiny piece of it all.

  He closed the book. “Very satisfactory, thank you.” His finger tapped the cover. “Is there a second copy? I’d like to give it to a friend.”

  “Of course, I’ll fetch it.”

  She scampered away, returning moments later with a second copy of the book. He had the feeling he was poaching someone else’s order, but they could make do.

  He nodded at her, knowing the bill would be sent round. Earls did nothing so vulgar as fish coins out of their pockets.

  Outside was nearly as busy as the bookshop. He waded through the crowd to hand off the books to a footman waiting with the Whitecliffe carriage. It blocked half the lane, but nobody seemed to mind. The shoppers all nodded respectfully or tipped their hats at him if they caught his eye.

  Ian’s overly fashionable hat cost more than what he’d spent in his entire life before on clothing.

  He wished he could see Rose at that moment. Knowing the sweet taste of her pussy but not having lapped at the source was driving him right round the bend.

  “Where to next, sir?” the footman asked.

  Ian turned in a circle, looking at the vast array of shops. The sun gleamed off their windows, reminding him of candlelight reflecting off Rose’s black satin mask. He should bring her more than a book. He rounded on the footman. “Where would I go if I wanted to buy jewelry?”

  Chapter 6

  The fruit sellers were louder than normal as they moved among the theater’s boisterous crowd. Jane’s stomach growled. Would it be terribly bad form if she waved one of the sellers over and ate a pear on stage? She’d had a rubbish day, starting by being woken up to screaming from Phoebe, the woman she roomed with.

  The screaming had been justified. Jane would have done the same thing if a mouse had run over her face while she was asleep. Phoebe was tough, but everyone had their limits. She and Phoebe had spent most of the morning chasing after the mouse, then had to ensure there were no crumbs anywhere a mouse might return to eat, along with plugging up any holes that a rodent could squeeze through.

  It’d all meant that Jane hadn’t eaten before arriving at the theater. Then it’d been problems with her costume. One of the shoes had a broken heel and the skirt needed mending. There’d been no time for a meal before the start of the performance, and after she was due to run over to The Secret Treasure.

  Jane was looking forward to an evening with Ian. Maybe she could have him feed her grapes. Or a roast chicken. Her stomach rumbled again.

  It was tempting to buy a bite of fruit, but she’d be in a great deal of trouble if another actor complained about her doing so. She didn’t think any of the patrons would even notice unless she was munching on something while saying her lines. To distract herself she focused on one of the young wick cutters as the boy trotted from candle holder to candle holder, making sure the wax didn’t drip on anyone or catch the building on fire.

  When her character finally died in the fourth act, Jane breathed a sigh of relief as she lounged for a moment on the pillows that cushioned her landing. Her new shoes pinched, and now she was imagining Ian massaging them. She popped up, nodded to David as she passed, and hurried through her change back into regular clothes. Thankfully her own, plain, shoes were much more comfortable.

  David met her like usual.

  “I thought you might faint out there,” he said by way of greeting.

  Jane groaned. “I never had a chance to eat today. Do you think the audience noticed?”

  He shook his head. “That set wouldn’t have noticed a thing unless you took off every stitch you had on.”

  “We’d have to charge higher fees for admittance if that was the case,” she said with a laugh. “Though I think our lead actress should be the first to do so.”

  David looked down at her, concern on his face. “Is everything alright with you?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?” The question puzzled her. Beyond her unfortunate morning and a bit of hunger now because of it, she thought she’d been getting along well.

  “Well, it used to be you’d complain endlessly about being cast as anything other than the lead. But haven’t said a single word since it was announced. You haven’t even mentioned anything about Daisy’s performance.”

  “Ah,” Jane said, understanding his worry. She turned over the words. “I guess it doesn’t bother me like it once would have. Daisy is a fine actress, and I am content with what I have. My patron at the Treasure is a fine fellow and is paying handsomely for my time. I suppose that I don’t expect to spend my whole life treading the boards. I want a quiet little cottage and a large library. Perhaps a cat to keep me company.”

  David studied her face as they passed beneath the warm glow of a flickering streetlamp. “You may enjoy that,” he finally allowed. “But I also think you’d be bored before you knew it.”

  “Well, what else is allowed to an actress? I have to end up somewhere nobody knows me. Maybe I’ll marry a widowed farmer and care for him and his ten children.”

  David's loud laugh echoed off the brick buildings around them. “La! You would go nuts in two seconds cooking for that many, not to mention herding chickens or whatever a farm wife does.”

  “Well,” she said while managing not to punch his shoulder. “What do you suggest?”

  “I still think you should be this bloke’s mistress. Coerce him out of all the blunt and jewels you can, and then live right in the center of town and flash all your finery every chance you get. The large library can still be a part of that.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “And what would I do while I’m sitting in whatever house I’m stashed in? Embroider?”

  “God no, I’ve seen your sewing skills.”

  This time, she punched his shoulder.

  The Treasure was around the next corner, and they parted with a smile. Jane’s feet were light as she hurried to change, this time picking an elegant gown in bright red. It did nice things for her breasts, which spilled over the top of the low-cut bodice and allowed her to easily free them if she wished. She had nothing on under the dress of course. Ian would be delighted by all of it, she had no doubt. It was tempting to tie him spread eagle on the bed and have her way with him.

  After she convinced him to feed her grapes.

  Opening the door to her chamber, Jane nearly fell over at the sight that greeted her. Ian, masked again, once more wearing only his kilt, which she appreciated, but he was kneeling beside a table and chairs. On the table, a steaming pot of tea rested along with two cups and a plate piled high with cakes, tarts, and fruit.

  A neatly folded pile of handkerchiefs sat beside one of the cups. It nearly made her dissolve into giggles. There was the evidence of his spending, laying amid what was otherwise a perfect posh tea service.

  “Ian,” she purred, crossed the room to cup his face. He smiled and nuzzled against her hip, letting out a soft, sweet noise of contentment. “You must tell me the meaning of this?”

  Her stomach growled loudly, and he frowned at her middle.

  “I very badly wanted to have tea with you,” he said. “A little extra coin and the madam was happy enough to indulge me.”

  Her stomach grumbled again.

  “You sound starved,” he said, rising and propelling her towards a chair. “Did you not eat today?”

  Startled, she let him guide her. “Well, it’s been a trying day up until now and I didn’t have a chance.”

  His frown grew. “Start with one of the apricot cakes. I’ve been assured they’re the best.”

  It didn’t surprise Jane in the least that the madam would eagerly bow to Ian’s wish to share tea with Jane. Of the many odd requests she’d received from patrons, that could hardly be the strangest or the most difficult to accommodate. What puzzled Jane was why Ian wanted to have tea with her of all people.