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Authors: Jillian Stone

BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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She read the telegram and nearly fainted. Perhaps all was not lost. If her heart could sing, it would be trilling an aria. Light-headed and breathless, she could barely contain the surge of hope and joy quaking through her.
Mr. Black read the missive over her shoulder. “I see Agent Moore wants to get cracking.”
“Oh yes, I believe this is very good news, don’t you?”
“You shall have a very relaxing, pampered weekend with me at Roos House.” He kissed her neck which always caused a shiver. “Then, first of the week, we shall travel on to Portsmouth and reconnoiter with Mr. Moore.”
Her eyes glistened. “You will go with me? Help me find my father’s ships and arrest Yanky Willem?”
“I told you I would help you whenever possible.” He moved around the table. “And you will not travel to Portsmouth accompanied by Dexter Moore. The man’s a—”
“A roué and a seducer?” She lowered her eyelids and shot him a smoldering gaze. “Nothing like you, Mr. Black.”
“He does his best to hide it.” When he raised a haughty brow, she found it impossible not to scoff.
“Which would you rather have, my dear? A man who is honest and forthright about his proclivities or a profligate underhanded cheat?”
A sudden revelation caused her brows to furrow. “Oh, but I cannot accompany you to Roos House, Mr. Black.”
“Why ever not? You received an invitation. I heard it myself.”
She hesitated, bit her lip, and then blurted it out. “I have nothing to wear.”
Chapter Thirteen
H
IS WIDE-EYED STARE CAUSED AMERICA TO TURN AWAY
. She carried their breakfast dishes to the pantry counter and filled a dishpan with water. Rare, to catch Mr. Black unawares.
“We’ll go shopping.”
She spun around. “I’ve not a farthing to spare on clothes.”
“But you have a generous employer who can easily purchase a few dresses.”
The man was positively wicked to obligate her in such a way. A terrible ache in her chest led to a rush of yearning. A new wardrobe was an agonizing temptation. “I cannot accept such an extravagant gift, Mr. Black.”
His gaze narrowed to a squint. “Ah yes, you refuse to be my concubine.”
“I will not play your simpering doxy.”
He brightened. “You are on the brink of recovering your shipping business, Miss Jones. Once you get your sea legs back, so to speak, you can repay me.”
She swirled soap flakes into a teacup of hot water and stirred with her finger. “An acceptable offer. But only if I include a reasonable amount of interest.” She dried her hands on her apron. “I’ll need the use of your fountain pen and a sheet of paper.”
At the kitchen table, she wrote out a promissory note.
A small snort from over her shoulder meant he was annoyed by either the amount of interest or her atrocious penmanship. “Drop that to four and a half percent, Miss Jones. No sense in paying me any more than the short-term bank rate.”
“I believe I wrote down exactly the going rate, but if you insist.” She crossed out the number. “What about Agent Moore?”
“Keep him abreast by telegraph.” He leaned forward to initial the note. “If we are to reconnoiter at Portsmouth Harbor, he can reach us at Roos House, Twickenham.”
Not entirely returned to her employee role, America turned her head and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Black.”
He drew her back for a kiss on the lips. “Now, we can spend what is left of the day shopping along Oxford Street. Or there is Harrod’s. ‘
Omnia Omnibus Ubiqat ue—
All Things for All People, Everywhere’ is their motto. I’m told the store offers some very fine apparel, ready-made. Since time is a factor—”
“Harrod’s will be fine.”
After another stolen kiss, he let her go. “I shall arrange for transportation and wire Detective Moore.”
A charge of elation tempered her every thought as she packed his suitcase and a leather satchel. She saw the bags as well as herself into the waiting carriage. She was actually traveling with the man.
He smiled at her from the opposite side of the coach, and she knew exactly what he was thinking. The memory of all those positions she and Mr. Black had accomplished last night made her fidget against the comfortable upholstered seat.
She tried setting aside a number of awkward and troublesome thoughts, until she gave up and blurted out her most pressing concern. “You may accompany me, and help select my new attire, but you must allow me to pay for these purchases on my own. That will require the specified loan amount in banknotes.”
“Your purchases will be simple enough, I have an account—”
She crossed her arms under her chest.
“Very well, Miss Jones.” Mr. Black tapped on the roof of the coach and used the speaking tube. “Slight alteration in plans. We’ll be making a stop at Lloyd’s Bank on Waterloo Place.”
He replaced the cone on its hook. “Do not vex me any further.” The carriage rocked and their knees bumped just to emphasize his point. An exasperated glare, meant to intimidate her, did not.
“One more thing. A question, really. Do you plan to refer to me as—what? Who am I to be, Mr. Black? Certainly not your housekeeper.” She scraped upper teeth over lower lip. “Perhaps a long lost sister. Your father might have had an indiscretion with a woman of color?”
 
“The Princess Serafine al Qatari is here to replenish her western wardrobe.” Phaeton nodded a respectful bow to the assembled salesladies and attendants. “Alas, a number of her traveling trunks have gone missing and are presumed lost or stolen.” He handed his card to a mature saleswoman of accommodating expression. “Mrs. Boswell.
“Phaeton Black, Scotland Yard, assigned to the service of Her Highness for security purposes and fashion advice.” He lowered his voice, drawing the shop girls closer. “The princess intends to make an ungodly amount of purchases and wishes to proceed immediately. Discretion is paramount. Call as little attention to her highness as possible. Now, if you please?” The ladies whisked the princess into a spacious, elegant dressing room.
Phaeton was shown to a seat in an adjacent parlor, which featured a full-length looking glass framed in gilt. Immediately, he was surrounded by a bevy of young women, who brought him an assortment of newspapers, and at his request, replaced the sherry on the table with a good Scotch whiskey.
He gestured to a lovely girl hovering nearby. “Her Highness has asked me to inquire about undergarments. Dressing gowns, pantalettes, lacy camisoles, and the like? Preferably French. And do make sure they are silk.”
The otherwise pale complexioned sales assistant turned a lurid shade of pink and ran off in pursuit of said unmentionables.
Phaeton sipped his whiskey, opened up the
Times
, and waited for the parade of fashion to begin.
The first dress. “Too pink.”
And the pale peach? “Lovely, but for all those ruffles.”
A boldly striped carriage dress with a crisp white collar and cuffs and a cornflower blue fitted pelisse made him sit up. “Yes.” And when the attendant added a jaunty, high crowned hat in cobalt blue, he added, “Very striking.”
Next came a crimson concoction with a dazzling array of scarlet plumes. “Awful. Where exactly would you wear that? To a hog slaughter?” His remark drew a withering glare from Her Highness, and a harrumph from the matronly sales woman.
For her part, Miss Jones had adopted the most alluring accent. What was the inflection exactly? Some appealing patois of French Creole. She raised a noble brow. “Monsieur Black,
comment vous savez—
you know fashion?”
“I often accompany the Princess Louise and Princess Beatrice on their shopping trips.” A boldfaced lie, but since the two royal women were well known for their fashion sense, Phaeton narrowly redeemed himself.
He quickly gave the nod to a confection of emerald green satin. The gown featured a narrow bodice held up by the daintiest small sleeves, which fell off her shoulders and threatened to bare all if she so much as exhaled.
How he hoped she might take a deep breath.
A navy skirt, with a high-collar blouse and a brass-buttoned jacket complete with epaulettes also received his nod. But it was the deep plum-colored evening gown with plunging décolleté that left him speechless.
The pretty shop girl entered the dressing room carrying an armful of lingerie. From the top of the pile he held up a pair of sheer pantalettes with dainty lace edging.
Mrs. Boswell drained of color.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a few girls free to model, would you? Like they do in Paris?” The elder saleswoman snatched the expensive French drawers out of his hands and shooed her twittering staffers into the back room.
“How disappointing.”
The selection of shoes, gloves, and various sundry items went on interminably, and Phaeton left the dressing room to supervise the loading of a half dozen hat boxes and a trunk filled with dresses and delicate underthings into the carriage.
He waited at the curb and checked his pocket watch.
Finally, Princess Serafine exited the celebrated department store in all her splendor. Phaeton took a moment to appreciate his vivacious traveling companion.
“Your Highness, I’m afraid we have missed our rendezvous at the river ferry. However, Mr. Milner, owner and driver of this fine transport, has offered to take us on to Roos House.”
“I will trust your decision in the matter, Mr. Black, if you promise to never, ever make another comment about my wardrobe choices.”
He followed her inside the carriage. A large stack of hat boxes and packages filled up the opposite seat of the cabin. “I happen to be very good at knowing what looks dreadful or appealing on a woman.”
“Yes, but do you have to be so ...”
“Honest about it?” He sat down beside her.
They bickered from Knightsbridge until the terrain outside the coach turned to countryside. Having escaped London’s congested boroughs, they now made their way through the quaint hamlets and expansive parklands, whose estates lined the river.
“At least the air is healthy to breathe.” She stifled a yawn.
Phaeton quirked a side of his mouth. “You must be exhausted, trying on all those pretty things.”
“Some of them not so pretty.” She removed a wad of banknotes from her reticule and began folding back corners. “What did you call that last dress? Perfect for a funeral dirge.”
“The garment was drab. No, make that dreary.”
“It was understated.” She corrected him and resumed counting. “There is still quite a large sum here. I shan’t require. . .” After tallying nearly three hundred pounds she looked up. “Are you secretly a wealthy man who deliberately chooses to live below stairs in a brothel? Please do tell, Mr. Black.”
Dressed in a new striped traveling dress, coat, and hat, she was the very picture of pretty. He could hardly take his eyes off her. “Upon my majority, I came into a comfortable living bequeathed by my mother’s estate. I have little use for the income. Parked most of the inheritance with bankers. I have also made a few investments.”
He wondered what color undergarments she wore. The pale blue with the black satin bows and matching garters? He meant to find out.
From an inside coat pocket, he retrieved a small velvet box. “A little something I found in the jewelry department. If we are traveling incognito together, you’ll have to start calling me by my given name, in earnest.” A gold ring nestled in the satin lining of the box. A large oval sapphire surrounded by white diamonds sparkled in the dim light of the coach.
“You can be my fiancée. No, better yet, let’s call ourselves married. Perfect cover and we can lodge in the same room together.” He winked.
America raised a brow, but was unable to take her eyes off the ring. “My future, unexpectedly, is full of promise and adventure. And I am not about to ruin it with another quarrel.”
“No objections? Lovely. You shall be my assistant during our stay at Roos House and married while in Portsmouth.” He unfastened dainty pearl buttons along the inside of her wrist and removed a new kid glove. A bit of heat rushed to her cheeks as he slipped the ring on her finger for size. A near perfect fit.
She held up her hand and admired the beautifully cut deep blue stone before meeting his gaze. “I shall call you Phaeton if you conduct yourself as a proper husband. If you persist on acting the Lothario and pestering me with advances, it will be Mr. Black.”
His grin appeared to irk her, no end.
“And do not think to use your wicked charm on me again.”
“This husband has insatiable appetites for his wife.”
“Mr. Black—”
His gaze narrowed. “Phaeton.”
“Phaeton.” The pout did it. Unable to control himself, he grabbed her up and set her down on his lap.
“You feel that?” He rested his head on the upholstered squabs of the back rest.
Her thigh rubbed against his burgeoning erection. “How could I not?”
“Mmm, such plump, moist lips, and the upper lifted in perpetual petulance.”
“Perpetual petulance?” She smiled. “We might make a tongue twister out of that. Penelope plumped a pout of—”
“Perpetual petulance.” He placed his mouth over hers and took soft bites. His tongue swept under her lip and pushed her mouth open. She greeted him playfully, their tongues intertwined, as desire surged through him.
“Unbutton me.” Through eyes half closed, his gaze connected with hers. Glassy pools of green and gold sparkled in the late afternoon light.
He pushed up her skirt and set her knees to each side of his thighs. Reaching between her legs he found the slit in her pantalettes. “Ah yes, you wore the blue.” Slick fingers signaled she was ready and he plunged into her. The coach did most of the work; as they rocked back and forth, she gradually took more of him inside her.
She grinned. “The Duke of Pleasure pumps his prick into—.” She thrust against his groin and demanded more.
“Tonight, my dove.”
“Why not now?” She kissed him quite savagely and flexed silky smooth inner wall muscles to further excite him. He groaned. “Because we have arrived.” He retracted a window shade. “Have a look.”
Her gaze turned into more of a gape. The immense edifice, no doubt considered a jewel of Gothic architecture, featured the kind of arched buttresses and steeply pointed eaves one would expect in a church. The stately manse was built almost entirely of stone, and appeared to incorporate a prayer chapel at one end.

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