carriage door opened and joyous music and laughter floated in. She cringed. There was no way she would be able to gain entrance to this event. A frown turned her lips. What was she thinking when she crawled into the blanket box? Daft, truly daft, Lilly.
The only coins in her pocket this night were her unnoticeable looks and that no one of this ilk knew her at all. Maybe she could sneak in the servants’ entrance…but then what? Her attire certainly was not for a formal evening, and if she did gain entrance, she would never fit in with this set. Oh, and what would she see? His company on this ride sent icy fear straight to her heart.
She needed a plan.
The sway to the side and the sudden lack of noise, followed by the lurching forward of the carriage again, indicated all had left the cab. The driver would pull over and stop on the street someplace and wait for her brother.
She would exit the carriage before they stopped and the footmen took notice of her. From this point on tonight, what came her way came.
Sweat pierced her brow and Lilly pushed up against the seat bottom and lifted the lid to the blanket compartment. She peered out—her heart in her throat—into the cab of the carriage.
No one was present.
She eased herself up with her arms. Her legs ached from the crouched position she held since they had left Rousemore Hall in Bedfordshire late that afternoon. Her body shook and she strained her body, which did not want to respond to her will to move. She concentrated all her energy on lifting her leg up and over the edge. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth and strained slowly. Her leg lifted up over the edge and pins shot straight through to her toes.
Ouch! She lurched forward and landed on the opposite seat, her legs in searing pain. She sighed as the carriage swayed around a corner. This was her chance. She could not wait for the pain in her legs to subside. She grasped the door handle in her gloved hand and pushed it wide. The ground rolled by before her. She closed her eyes and sucked in a large breath. Jump, Lilly, jump. She sprang out of the carriage.
Her slippered feet hit the cobbled drive and slid straight back. Her arms flew out. Hands slapped into the hard, cold cobbles and a shooting pain burst through her knees.
Ouch!
She never was good at climbing or jumping as a child, and age had not improved that skill.
She pushed up from the cobbles and stood, staring at the side of a large country house and its stables, which surrounded her. She grimaced and her gaze dashed around the stable yard. Footmen rushed about, but none of them glanced her way. She sighed in relief and her shoulders sagged. Hide, you silly! They will see you if you shan’t. Bushes lined the edge of the house and she scurried to hide behind them.
No one had seen her escape from her brother’s carriage. She pressed herself up against the rough stone house as branches of the boxwood scraped against the muslin of her sleeve. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye and she swallowed hard. Her body pulsed with the beat of her heart and she blew out a tight breath.
She was not in London. Sweat pierced her brow. What was she to do now?
She couldn’t sneak off to Burber Place, the family London home. She was alight someplace and she had no clue where she was! Sweat pierced the skin on the back of her neck.
Foolishness, Lilly, foolishness. She shook her head. Take a deep breath and get your bearing. You can always sleep in the barn if need be. She inhaled the crisp night air and smelled the scent of horses, hay, and smoke from the chimneys floating on the slight breeze.
She would sneak into the house and find something to wear. She closed her eyes again. What a blunder you have gotten yourself into. Silly, silly, Lilly. A deep sigh escaped from her lips and she straightened her shoulders. No going back now. She was here and so was her brother. She would prove the townsfolk wrong.
2
The Intersection
She wished someone would have told her at that age what a messy thing marriage was. Grace narrowed her eyes at the group of young women who stood at the corner of the dance floor and blushed at the eligible men of the ton. White dresses, with satin bows, blushing cheeks, and batting fans. She rolled her eyes.
“Lady Wentland, may I interest you in a glass of lemonade?” The laughing note of deep, polished English purred by her left ear.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well, Markus, only if it has a hefty shot of…what is it you call it, spirits?” She turned her head to see the deep blue gaze of her late husband’s best friend, Lord Brummelton, slide down to her breasts and stare with the knowledge of exactly what they tasted like.
Warmth crept across her breasts and she swallowed hard. Her insides squirmed and she shifted in her seat. She hated the way the men her husband had introduced to their bedroom stared at her outside that sphere.
“Indeed, spirits. They are serving claret.” His hand rose and his knuckles grazed the curve of her elbow. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I am heading to an event. A one-night ordeal. One I know you will enjoy, dear Grace. There will be people in attendance that you have not seen since Oscar’s death.”
She closed her eyes and heat spread through her…a one-night ordeal. It echoed in her mind, and as she opened her eyes, all the people in the room changed. The blushing girls in the corner slid into images of dancing girls dressed in barely anything as they teased and pleasured the men of the ton.
A warm longing slid down her arms and she held in a sigh of nostalgia. There was a part of her that had indeed enjoyed her marriage. Oscar had shocked her senses with futtering that she never knew had happened among her peers…or among anyone.
Markus’s finger slid to her wrist and the images evaporated, like snow on a hot stove.
“I am uncertain, Markus. This is the first proper ton event I have attended this season.”
“Grace.” His eyes hardened with unrelenting determination. All of her husband’s friends had that look when they believed something was right. How they all possessed the same expression, she had no idea.
She glanced down at her hands and then back at the tame and staid men and women chattering about nothing of any importance to her. After Oscar’s death, she had longed to find a normal man. She desired to find a way to live out the dreams of her youth, married to a respectable man, but…She glanced through her lashes at the gentleman who stood two feet from her.
Lord Sutterley. His corseted waist and padded calves were obvious to everyone in the room. She cringed. Never would she end up with him. He fidgeted with his mustache as he glanced at her from the corner of one eye. Images of his mouth between her legs, and that mustache tickling her thighs as he licked her sex, made her stomach roil and she squeezed her legs together. No! Never!
She gazed back to her hands. The truth…a chill ran down her spine. The truth was, there was no reality in her childhood dream. Or the fantasies she used to share with her brother and their dear friend, Winston, in their youth. The idea of what they had all thought this world would hold simply was not steadfast, no matter how much she wished the illusion so.
She would not find what she longed for here or anywhere, but she could not, would not, end up in bed with Markus again, either. Not that he was untalented in that sphere.
The memory of his body pressed up against hers from behind, sweat from hours of long, intense futtering pooled between them, as he brought her to spend again and again. His arm muscles tightened about her, his fingers pinched her breasts. These memories wet her pussy on lonely nights. Markus was delightful. The problem was simply that…well…she promised herself she would have a different life and Markus was at the top of the peerage in what was Oscar’s world.
She turned back to face the handsome black-haired man who had futtered her more times than she could remember as her husband watched from his chair. That damned chair!
Markus’s lips curved up into a smile that said he knew he had won. “Thinking about