Once an Heiress (37 page)

“And I love you, Lily Bachman. Helling,” he amended.

“My lady!” Miss Cuthbert exclaimed.

Lily glanced up from her notes, where she was painstakingly laying out the schedule for Michaelmas term. She’d lost a month when the property had been out of her possession — and several instructors, as well. There were only four months standing between her and the opening of King’s Cross Vocational School for Young Ladies. Four short, busy months. There wouldn’t be a chance to catch her breath if the school was to be ready in time. Every day between now and the first of October would be filled with meetings, planning, arranging … Lily loved it.

“Yes, Miss Cuthbert?” she said.

The headmistress held a letter over her pile of correspondence, a happy grin splitting her face. “Lord and Lady Hollier have — ”

A loud crash in the room above Lily’s office — followed by shouted curses between the workmen — ran over the older woman’s words.

“I beg your pardon?” Lily squinted.

“Lord and Lady Hollier have donated a pianoforte,” Mrs. Cuthbert repeated. “Brand new!” She held the letter out for Lily’s perusal. “They invite you to select an instrument and have the invoice sent to his lordship.”

A rush of gratitude touched Lily’s heart. Once she made the acquaintance of the Holliers, she’d quickly grown to adore them. It was easy to see why they’d always been particular favorites of Ethan’s, and she regretted having ever turned their dinner invitations into opportunities to wage battle against her husband. Lily put the letter into her own tray of correspondence; she would write a note of thanks this very evening.

“How lovely of them!” Naomi said. “The Holliers are such dears.”

Lily glanced to the other end of her desk, where Naomi waded through the student applications that had poured in the last few weeks. Her friend let out a frustrated sigh and dropped her arms to the stack of applications. “So many deserving candidates,” she lamented. “However shall we choose?”

“Miss Cuthbert,” Lily said a short time later, “that will be all for today. Thank you.”

When the older woman had gone, Lily sighed and leaned back in her chair. Naomi read an application as studiously as a Latin primer.

“How has the season passed?” Lily inquired. “I’ve not set foot in a soiree these last few months.” Being too scandalous to receive invitations had been a blessed relief, as it spared Lily the tonnish galas she so despised. Gossip faded, however, and invitations to modest affairs were trickling in.

“Tedious,” Naomi said. “Aunt Janine is a lax chaperone, and Grant is overly cautious. Between the two of them, I’ve wanted to tear out my hair on more than one occasion.”

Lily gave her friend a sympathetic smile. She started to say something, but Naomi continued pouring her heart out. “Last year, Marshall forbade me from forming an attachment to any gentleman. He wanted me to have fun, he said. Well, let me tell you, there was no fun to be had with the entire
ton
gossiping about my brother and former — and now again — sister-in-law. No gentleman wanted to come within a mile of that spectacle.” With a dejected sigh, Naomi propped her elbows on the desk, and her chin in her hands.

“This year,” she went on, “Grant forbade me to form any attachment, for fear of my making a choice Marshall would disapprove. So, I’ve yet again had to dance and smile, but discourage any gentleman’s attentions. Six of my friends are either married or betrothed now, and I’m being left behind.”

“You’re only twenty,” Lily pointed out, “hardly on the shelf. And now that His Grace is home, you can be swept off your feet.”

Naomi wrinkled her nose. “I think I’ve given up this year. Most of the eligible gentlemen not sitting in Parliament have left town.”

Lily thought of her own, unlikely husband. Her blood quickened as she recalled their first disastrous meeting, and the love that had come from that wretched beginning. “You never know what’s around the bend, dear. Don’t despair just yet.”

As though she knew her friend’s mind, Naomi smiled wryly. “We can’t all have our future husbands greet us at the door.”

“No, but yours is out there, Naomi.” Lily’s eyes narrowed as she cast a thoughtful glance toward the ceiling. “Just think — right now, the man you will marry is going about his day, never knowing that his future bride is longing for him at this very moment.”

“You’ve turned romantic, Lily,” Naomi said in disbelief. “Lord Thorburn has wrought a change in your perspective.”

Lily blushed, but could not disagree.

Naomi smiled. “I’m happy for you. I truly am.” Standing, she crossed to the window. “There’s Grant. I shall go down to meet him. Good evening, Lily.”

Lily rose to press cheeks with her friend, and stood in the hall as she started toward the doorway. Naomi stopped at the top of the stairs to give a dust-covered man a wide berth.

“Good evening, Lord Thorburn,” she said. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t give you my hand.”

He bowed gallantly instead. When Naomi had gone, Ethan came to Lily, a happy smile in his eyes. He leaned down to kiss her, careful to keep his dusty person away from her dress.

“How have you kept yourself busy?” Lily asked. “I’ve not seen you since noon.” Her husband’s appearance would shock those who believed a proper gentleman did not engage in manual labor. Sawdust sprinkled his hair like snowflakes, and plaster dust clung to his face and clothes. Only his hands were clean, thanks to his thick leather gloves.

Since re-acquiring King’s Cross Vocational, Ethan had thrown himself into the work of preparing the school for students as whole-heartedly as Lily, but from a different angle. He met with the architect and foreman of the work crew, then lent his own hands to speed the progress. Lily couldn’t believe she had the good fortune of a husband whose enthusiasm for her venture equaled her own.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, tugging her hand. “Come and see.”

Their footsteps bounced off freshly plastered walls. Lily noticed the silence filling the house. “Have the workmen gone?”

“I sent them home,” he answered. “It’s nearly sundown.” He led her downstairs to the kitchen level. He stopped at the door of the room that had caused the workmen such consternation and turned to smile down at her. “The bath-room is finished.”

Lily clapped her hands in delight. “Everything?”

He nodded, his grin widening. “Everything. Would you like to see?”

“Of course.”

She bit her lip in anticipation as he opened the door and stepped aside. Lily gasped at the beautiful room. The center of the space was dominated by the massive tub and shower. The dark wooden tub was lined with gleaming copper. Four posts near the scrolled top — two on either side — supported the exotic shower mechanism. A round head rested atop the posts, covered with short spouts aiming back into the tub. It was a marvelous device, and Lily was proud to have it.

She pulled her eyes away from the domineering bathing station to examine the rest of the room. A coal-fired boiler stood in the corner, and a pipe ran from it along the baseboard, then below the tiled floor to carry hot water to the tub. When she came close, she noticed the boiler emitted heat. She turned and cast a curious look at Ethan.

He redirected her attention to the vanity table with a framed mirror mounted on the sunny, yellow wall. A little padded bench stood against the adjacent wall beneath the high window, and next to it, a shelf was already stocked with piles of folded towels and cloths. A basket on another small table held fragrant soaps. Lily picked up a little cake of soap and inhaled its lavender scent. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured. Turning, she gaped at Ethan, who stood bare to the waist and was unfastening his trousers. “What are you doing?”

“I want to try it!” he exclaimed.

“It’s for the students,” Lily protested.

“Not yet, it’s not.” A devilish gleam twinkled in his slate blue eyes. “That tub is large enough for two.”

Lily’s mouth fell open as she looked from Ethan to the tub and back again. He had finished stripping off his clothes, and the evidence suggested he had more than just washing on his mind. He grasped her arms and turned her around, making quick work of her buttons.

A thrill coursed down her spine as he stripped her. Ethan selected a soap from the basket while Lily unbound her hair. He took her hand and she giggled impishly, feeling like a girl sneaking another tart from the tray.

He caught her mood and swept her around. Lily shrieked as he dipped her backward and lavished her with a ravishing kiss until she was lightheaded with desire. “Now, princess,” he said, righting her, “are you ready?”

Lily nodded and Ethan turned a valve on the boiler. The pipes made a gurgling sound as water coursed around the room and across the floor to the tub. Turning another valve on the tub produced a sputtering sound, followed by the astonishing sight of indoor rain cascading from the shower. Thrilled with the new sight, Lily held a hand into the water. The drops fell faster and harder than rain, and the warmth raised gooseflesh on her arm. She cut her eyes to Ethan and smiled. “It’s perfect.”

He stepped into the tub and gasped as the water poured over him. Rivulets streamed down his face and onto his chest, washing the grime of his day’s labor down the drain. He reached out and took her hand. Lily stepped over the side of the tub and into the water. Ethan gripped her hips and pulled her close; his skin was warmed by the shower water. Lily lifted her face for a kiss, which he obligingly provided. Hot water rained down on their bodies as they explored one another — delighted with the new sensations offered by this modern innovation.

Ethan took the bar of soap and worked up a lather. He made quick work of washing the remaining sawdust from his hair and face. Then he soaped his hands again and turned his attention to Lily. He worked his hands over her breasts and belly. Hugging her close, he moved side to side. Lily gasped as her skin glided over his, hot and slippery. “I like that,” Ethan growled in her ear. “What say you?” He kneaded the globes of her derrière as he pulled her hard against his arousal.

Lily’s arms twined around his neck, clinging as he shifted to move his hand between her legs. “What I say is, may you never stop surprising me, my dearest love.” A pleasured moan escaped her as he dipped into her core. “I also say,” she added, laughter rising in her throat, “that we build our own bath-room.”

“I knew I married an intelligent woman,” Ethan said in a hot, wicked voice, “but that idea, princess, is sheer genius.”

Like all good Southern girls, Elizabeth Boyce fell in love with the past early on, convinced the bygone days of genteel manners and fancy dresses were only an air conditioning unit shy of perfection. Her passion for the British Regency began when she was first exposed to that most potent Regency gateway drug,
Pride and Prejudice
. She’s remained steadfast in her love of the period ever since. Those rumors of a fling with ancient Greece are totally false — honest.

Elizabeth lives in South Carolina with her husband and three young children. She loves to connect with her readers, so keep in touch!

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1813

Isabelle Jocelyn Fairfax Lockwood, the former Duchess of Monthwaite, knelt on the stone hearth and prodded the weak fire in the grate of her small cottage in southern Leicestershire. The flames gave a half-hearted attempt to brighten before they settled back to a feeble glow. She blew into the coals. Again, the flames briefly intensified. She held her hands out for warmth, their cracked skin pained by the January chill.

“Another bit o’ peat, do you think, Mrs. Smith?” asked Bessie, Isabelle’s lone servant and companion.

The middle-aged woman’s round cheeks were pink from cold, she noted with a pang of conscience. Bessie wore stout wool stockings under her dress, a shawl, cap, and fingerless gloves. Isabelle wore much the same; her attire was of only marginally better quality. She felt chilled, but she knew the cold did not seep into her bones the way it did Bessie’s. It wasn’t fair to make the woman suffer on account of Isabelle’s thriftiness. “Certainly.”

She rose from the hearth and picked up the dress lying across the back of a chair in the cottage’s parlor. It was a fine gown at odds with the humble abode: sky blue silk with silver embroidery down the long sleeves and around the bottom hem, and seed pearls adorning the neckline. It was a heaven of luxurious elegance, a dress fit for a duchess, and it had several small moth-eaten holes in the skirt. Isabelle had cursed under her breath when she discovered the damage this morning. She had so few nice things left to her name, she’d be damned if this dress would feed those insidious creatures.

She settled into the chair near the fire, took up needle and thread, and began carefully repairing the fabric.

“Wouldn’t you like me to do that for you, ma’am?” Bessie hovered beside her, one hand extended. “Such a lovely thing. Where’ve you been keeping it?”

Isabelle flinched inwardly. It was foolish of her to have the dress out where Bessie could see it. She ran the risk of spoiling the false identity she’d cultivated to escape notoriety. “Mrs. Smith,” the parson’s widow, had no business owning such an extravagant gown.

She should have sold it with the rest, she chided herself. Goodness knew she needed the blunt. Alexander was late with her allowance — again. The last money her brother sent in October was nearly gone.

But sentimentality had gotten the best of her. Everything she owned now was simple, serviceable, sensible. She had precious little left to remind her that she was a gentleman’s daughter and, for a short time, a noblewoman.

“No, thank you,” she said, pulling the gown against her stomach. Isabelle cast around the immaculate cottage for something to occupy the maid. “Do you have any mending of your own?” she asked.