Buxom Betsy bouncily brings brimming buckets of butter to bossy, balding Bob in the big, bug-filled basement.
Roses are red,
The birds they do chirp,
the worms, they do squirm.
But they don’t eat the dirt.
“They do, really, but-but couldn’t get it to-to-to rhyme.”
Daniel smiled encouragingly and Tom finished off with two more.
Roses are red.
Words can be fun.
No matter what people may think.
I am not dumb.
Touched, because Daniel had no doubt Tom’s father had written that one for him at a very young age, he was hard-pressed to maintain his smile. That was, until Tom’s rendition of:
Jane Jubilee jubilantly jiggles with joy when Jack Johnson, a jug-bitten jackanape, jumps over with jacks. Just jolly!
“Bravo.” Daniel applauded.
“It may be jolly, son,” Everson said, still writing, “but you’re going to wear out his lordship’s wattles.”
“’Tis fine. And call me D-Daniel, both of you.” Another deep, pray-I-don’t-muck-this-up breath and he exhaled. Resting his arm along the back of the couch, attempting to appear completely casual, he announced, “All right. I’ll give it a whirl. Ahem-hem.” How long could he stall? His neck already felt rawer than squealing bacon. “Roses are red. / My name is T-Tr-Tremayne. / Think we’ve all lost our marbles. / But at least we’re not lame.”
“Good!” Tom practically cheered. “Do-do anotherrr.”
“Here you go.” Everson passed him the sheet. “Try the top one.”
He read over the lines to himself: Dashing Delbert, with pockets so deep, diddles his days away, while pretty Patty ponders by the pond, pitching puny pennies to dog-paddling puppies.
Gads. I’ll destroy it.
He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Tom said, “You’re among fr-fr-friends, mmmy lord. ’Tis part-part of the fff-ffun!”
Everson gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Take your time, Daniel. There’s no censure here.”
6
Counterfeit Charms Charm the Truth
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
William Shakespeare, King Richard II
“Exquisite.”
The rasped compliment raised the fine hairs at Thea’s nape. Lord Tremayne’s voice was deeper tonight, more rugged—if that were possible.
She hadn’t needed the words to know he was well pleased with her appearance. The sudden gleam in his eyes as he surveyed her when she came down the stairs told her clearly enough.
She was too aware of the late hour—significantly past six—and too aware of her changed appearance to meet his gaze for long and hers veered away to focus on the rail where she placed her gloved hand to steady herself as she descended. Watching her satin-covered fingers slide down the mahogany banister was much easier than contemplating the forceful presence below.
A quick, lash-veiled peek told her he looked remarkably handsome, if somewhat different. She couldn’t quite identify why, but it must be his clothes. She’d never seen him attired so impeccably, in formal evening dress, everything ink black save for the snowy cravat and white silk stockings beneath his knee breeches. Even his waistcoat was black beneath the snug-fitting tailcoat. Her heart gave a distinct lurch when she glimpsed the strong thighs—and impressive parts between—shown to exquisite perfection by the absurdly tailored breeches (if there was an extra wrinkle of fabric to allow for movement, she couldn’t discern it).
A few steps from the bottom, a self-conscious hand went to the back of her hair where “Suzette,” upon asking Madame if she could remain (under the guise of reboxing everything they’d brought), had offered to weave in a feather or two.
“It’s all the crack,” she’d told Thea, unearthing two iridescent feathers that shone with the same inner fire her dress did. The dress Madame had finally settled on, a rich, shimmering sea-blue confection unlike anything Thea had ever seen, much less worn.
It was also, to her dismay, the one with the falsified bosom.
No drawers either! Just beautiful silk stockings tied at her thighs. “Drawers will ruin the glide,” Madame V had imperiously informed her.
Thea felt so very debauched, and he hadn’t even touched her yet. Oh, but she was primed for it. For their entire night together, for how it would end. With them in her bed, skin on skin, hot, slick, sweating—
She gasped as her left foot slipped on the step.
Lord Tremayne jumped forward but she waved him back as she regained her footing, determined to make it to the bottom unscathed. “Silly me. Best I watch where I’m going.”
Buttons and Mrs. Samuels had hovered about all evening, laughing with Sally Ann (who’d professed to preferring her real name over the fancy “Frenchy” one) while Thea quietly endured their attentions. They were all excited about her first night out with “his lordship”, and though she portrayed the epitome of ladylike composure, inside she was a fluttery, flustered wreck.
The look he gave her when she reached the landing didn’t help. Trembling, she allowed Lord Tremayne to tug her in front of the mirror.
Where had the servants gone? Just as his hands settled heavily on her shoulders, a startled glance told her they’d disappeared into the woodwork.
Leaving two of them very much alone. And she was very aware of his tall and powerful presence brushing up against her as he snared her gaze in the mirror.
At the picture of her low—dreadfully low—neckline, Thea struggled to smile. Had she ever before exposed so much skin? (Discounting their mirrored encounters upstairs, that was.) The padded corset plumped up the swells of her breasts to the point they were actually visible. It was a miracle. And oh, mercy to Mercury, there was a hint, just a hint mind, of shadow between them.
What dismayed her most was how her nipples (she thought the word on a whisper) nearly promised to peep over the edge of the deeply rounded bodice if she so much as sneezed.
She noticed her reflected image quivering and resolutely locked her knees. Over her shoulder, Lord Tremayne captured her gaze. Above those piercing eyes of his, thick, coffee-colored hair was brushed back with careless abandon, tempting her fingers to muss it further. “You look extraordinarily handsome tonight, my lord.”
He gave an abrupt nod. The
