Chapter 11
Lynette impatiently waited two hours after her mother returned from her outing before sneaking out.
It was not uncommon for the vicomtess to take some time away after a row. Lynette had inherited the same wanderlust when aggravated, so she knew the feeling well. Sadly, she was not allowed the freedom tonight. Her only recourse was to pace the length of her room and think endlessly of Simon. No matter how it appeared, she believed him and she needed to see him, needed to warn him that her family may react in disturbing ways. She would not see him harmed in any fashion due to her.
And so it was that when the hour turned sufficiently late and the odds that her mother would attempt to speak with her diminished greatly, Lynette set in motion her plan to leave.
She stuffed pillows under her counterpane and topped the body-shaped form with one of her wigs. The ruse would not bear close inspection, but a quick peak from the doorway would give the impression that she was abed and sleeping.
Shielded by a cloak and hood, she exited to the rear garden, then out to the alley. There a stableboy waited, a young man named Piotr who had been with her family for years. She had always been kind to him, bringing him sweets and treats when possible, deliberately cultivating a bit of favoritism that had enabled her frequent bouts of mischief at home. Tonight he provided her with a pair of his breeches, a man's cloak, and a tricorn. She changed in an empty stall in the stable, then met him outside.
He handed her the reins of a saddled horse, then mounted another to accompany her, as he always did. He had been trained to use a pistol with precision, as most of the male servants in the de Grenier household were. Simon's admonishment to avoid confusion with Lysette Rousseau was foremost in her mind. To the casual observer, they were two young men riding alone.
The horses' hooves clopped rhythmically along the street, lulling her into a semidreamy state. The night was dark, the moon half hidden by clouds. The breeze was slightly chilly and it slipped through the arm slits in her cloak, cooling her heated skin.
Would Simon be at home? Or would he be out? Perhaps he was not alone…
What would she say if he was entertaining someone when she arrived? A woman.
Lynette inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. Her posture while riding-head and shoulders bent low to hide her features-only added to her sense of falling off a cliff. She was not a woman to cower in the face of anything, yet she was afraid now.
Afraid to be seen, afraid to find Simon occupied or gone, afraid her parents would never forgive her this transgression.
Yet she did not turn about. Her need to be with him was stronger than her apprehension. He calmed her, at the same time he revived the spirit she'd once had. The spirit suppressed when Lysette died. She felt like herself with him. Free of airs or evasions. Freed from the need to maintain an unfamiliar timid deportment.
Do not upset the balance. Do not give her parents reason to lament the misfortune of losing the good and quiet daughter, instead of the unruly one.
Lynette drew her mount to a halt before Simon's home. She was not certain how she ended up standing before the door or why she was breathing as if she had run the distance traveled. She felt dizzy. Disoriented. More than ever, she wanted to cling to Simon's strength.
She blinked and found the butler standing before her, a stocky man whose wig did little to disguise his youthful features. His only sign of surprise upon seeing her dressed in the garb of a male servant was a slight rise in his brow line, then he stepped out of the way without her saying a word and closed the door behind her.
'Mademoiselle,' he said, his voice sounding as if coming from a distance due to the rushing of blood in her ears. 'May I take your cloak and hat?'
She gave him the hat, but clutched the thick wool like a shield.
'I should warn you, mademoiselle, Mr. Quinn is in poor humor this evening.'
'Is he alone?' she whispered, emboldened by the kindness in his eyes.
'He has a guest in residence, but his lordship is otherwise occupied.' The butler gestured ahead with arm extended. 'May I show you into the parlor while I inform Mr. Quinn of your arrival?'
'Would you mind terribly if I s-showed myself up?'
She was afraid Simon would make her leave if she stayed downstairs.
But she knew what would happen if she went upstairs.
The butler did as well, if the flushing of his cheekbones was any indication. His head tilted slightly. 'Second door on your right,' he murmured. 'I will see that your servant is shown to the kitchen.'
'Thank you.'
Gripping the staircase railing with white-knuckled force, Lynette ascended carefully, her steps hesitant due to the shaking of her legs. She gained the landing and paused.
The hallway was barely lit; only two tapers in widely separated sconces shed any illumination. Although the decor was vastly different, she was reminded of the Orlinda manse. Her blood heated in response.
Light peeked out from beneath two doors. One on the left, the other on the right. She was passing the first when voices within arrested her. Her nerves were already strung tight by existing circumstances. She had no notion how she would survive a chance meeting in addition to that.
Fear of discovery froze her in place. Then, mercifully, the conversation grew more animated, ensuring that the participants were too engaged to hear her pass by. She was about to continue on when conversation ceased and the creaking of a bed was plainly heard. Biting her lip, she remained motionless.
A woman's throaty laugh floated through the door, followed by a man's.
The soothing baritone of the man's voice thickened and became coaxing. The woman purred something that incited a masculine groan… followed by a rhythmic thumping that permeated the walls, strong and steady and endless.
Lynette's lungs seized. Her hand rose to her throat as sweat beaded on her forehead.
Unable to stop listening, she sagged into the wall, her free hand fisting and releasing in the folds of her cloak. She clenched her thighs to ease a growing throbbing, and bit her lower lip as fevered cries of pleasure rose in volume and spilled freely out to the hallway.
She had no idea how long she stood there. She knew only that her senses were overstimulated, her skin too hot, her mouth too dry, her breasts too full and aching unmercifully.
The door on the right wrenched open and golden light flooded the hall. Lynette straightened as Simon strode out with a thunderous scowl. Breeches were his only garment. They were unfastened, revealing a tantalizing triangle of tawny skin and a thin trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the doeskin… just above the long, thick evidence of his arousal. His abdomen was laced tight with muscle, his fisted hands causing his powerful biceps to bulge. His hair was unbound, the silky ebony strands swaying around his powerful shoulders.
She had never seen anything as savagely beautiful.
Or wanted anything more.
Simon paused midstep, staring at her, unblinking. The tempo of the rise and fall of his chest altered, as did the air surrounding him. Fury turned into lust so hot it scorched her.
'Simon,' she whispered, raising her hand to him.
Two strides and he had her in his arms, cradled to his chest. Her arms circled his neck, pressing her breasts to his torso and her lips to his throat.
He smelled of tobacco and brandy and musk, and the fragrance soothed something restless inside her. She was where she needed to be, in Simon's arms. Boneless, she held him as he carried her into his bedchamber and kicked the door closed.
Simon knew. His features were austere with hunger, his eyes feverishly bright in the light of the many candles. He set her on her feet by his massive bed and unfastened the frog at her throat. The shield of her cloak puddled around her feet, leaving her feeling as if she were naked, despite being fully clothed.
'What in hell are you wearing?' he barked.
