“Down?” Lucius asked dubiously.

Tess pulled her arms through the tiny sleeves and yanked at her bodice. She gave a little wiggle. “It would be easier if you do it,” she told him, carefully keeping her face bland.

So he carefully slid the close-fitting black velvet down over her breasts, down her slender waist, with a tug over her hips, and, finally, she lifted her feet to allow him to pull it off.

“And my corset,” Tess commanded, turning her back. “Please. I must bathe.”

She felt his fingers at the ties on her corset and bit her lip so that she didn’t smile.

Chloe was crooning hoarsely, obviously comforting herself. Tess silently promised her an extra helping of seeds in the morning.

The laces fell from her corset. Tess promptly pulled it forward and off of her body, and then pulled her chemise over her head as well, throwing it to the side. All she wore now were a pair of delicate lawn pantaloons—the very latest style, straight from Paris—her stockings, and her high heels.

“Lucius,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder, “I’m afraid that I shall be lamentably late to dinner. The chef will be displeased.”

She walked over and put one leg on the stool before her dressing chair, then bent over and began unbuckling her high heels.

A second later he was there, behind her. “I should be more impetuous, hmmm?” he said into her hair, but one large hand was curling around the curve of her bottom, and the other had pulled her snug against him. There was something in his voice that was both amused and potent, simmering from laughter into desire.

“Yes,” she managed.

But that was all she managed, for at least a good hour, after which she said, rather drunkenly, “Again?” And then, with rather more interest, “Like that?”

Lucius must have been too tired to sneak away to London like a thief in the night. Because when Tess awoke in the early dawn, there was a large male body sprawled in the bed next to hers.

She bent over and asked: “London?”

“Not today,” he said groggily.

She said one more word in his ear.

“Again?” he asked, but there was a smile in his voice. And later: “Like that, Tess?”

And finally: “God, but marriage is a surprise to me.”

Chapter 32

H orse races are noisy affairs. The Cup itself wouldn’t be run for two hours, but already the men crowding the railing were shouting and jostling amongst themselves, watching a group of two-year-olds tear around the back-stretch, heading for the starting gate. Eager bettors were howling at the jockeys, and then howling at each other. The grandstand shook as thirty-two or thirty-six hooves pounded by. One could smell dust and sweating horses, an odor as familiar to Tess as that of roses or baking bread.

Lucius took her arm and led her not to the grandstand, but to a small white structure just to its left.“The royal box?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” he answered. “It belonged to the Duke of York, who was very eager to give it up and even more eager for an influx of cash for his stables. I thought we might wish for a place of our own.”

Tess thought, not for the first time, how very nice it was to be married to someone richer than a royal duke. The box was lovely: a proper room, with large open windows just on the track. It was furnished in a lavish manner that would suit the Duke of York: all hung with red velvet and gilded candelabras that looked rather tawdry in the sunlight.

Imogen and her husband were already settled at the windows. “How are you?” Tess asked her sister, giving her a delighted kiss. “I’ve missed you so; you can have no idea!”

“I am very well,” Imogen said, smiling hugely. “How very nice to see you again, Mr. Felton. I understood you would be in London today.”

“As it happened, I changed my mind,” Lucius said, giving Tess a quick, wicked grin.

“I’m so sorry you arrived before us,” Tess said, trying not to think about what had delayed them in bed that morning.

“We’ve been here since the warm-up rounds, of course, as Draven believes that he should be here from the very moment the books are opened. It’s very important to know who the favorites are early.”

“I—yes, I know,” Tess said. How could she not? Had not Papa discoursed on the art of laying bets throughout virtually every meal they had shared in the last ten years?

“Annabel sends her heartfelt apologies,” Imogen said. “Lady Griselda’s modiste must return to London tomorrow, and Annabel has ordered so many gowns that she was needed for fittings all day. But she told me that she and Josie are coming to you within the week.”

“She must be in seventh heaven,” Tess said. “Are you ordering some clothing as well?”

Imogen shook her head. “Oh no, we—” But she broke off. “Josie is quite happy too. Her governess declared herself appalled by Josie’s lack of etiquette, but they have struck a happy bargain according to which Josie submits to what she calls ‘ladylike flummery’ in the morning, and then she is allowed to read all she likes in the afternoon.”

“Why aren’t you ordering new clothing?” Tess persisted.

Imogen glanced at her husband, but he and Lucius were standing at the front of the box, watching a low-bodied, muscled horse sweep through the finish line. “I’m afraid that Draven lost a great deal of money at Lewes this week,” she whispered to Tess.

“How much?” Tess asked bluntly.

“Twenty thousand pounds.” And then, at Tess’s expression, Imogen added hastily, “But trifles of this sort don’t weigh heavily on a nature such as Draven’s. He is in all things optimistic. But I do wish to do my part in keeping the household expenses down, of course. He was so crestfallen afterward.”

“I can imagine,” Tess said. All she had to do was picture her father’s face.

They were interrupted by Draven, who wished to take Lucius to the stables so that they might supervise the dressing of some horse whose name Tess didn’t catch. There was a roar of excitement from the crowd. Draven and Imogen rushed to the windows to find out what had happened. Lucius, quick as a wink, pulled her to her feet, backed her up a bit, put his hands on her face, and gave her one hard kiss.

Tess’s mind blurred into an image that sprang to her mind from that morning: of him arched over her, his chest golden in the morning light, his face anything but expressionless—looking down at her, clenching his teeth, driving her higher and higher, watching her…

And now he had the same look in his eye, and all he was doing was rubbing her cheek with his thumb—his gloved thumb.

“How do you do that?” she asked.

“What?”

“Make me—” She stopped and pulled away, but her back was against the wall. Draven was leaning out of the box, howling at the racetrack. Tess could feel herself blushing. “Think of you,” she whispered.

“I think of you,” he said steadily, his eyes on hers. He wasn’t even touching her, and her body was trembling. His eyes slid to the red velvet sofa that stood next to them, designed to support the Duke of York’s not inconsiderable weight.

Tess could feel crimson spilling into her cheeks. But at the same time there was a welcoming pulse in her veins, in her heart.