Tutoring Lady Jane Read online

  TUTORING LADY JANE

  By

  Charlotte Featherstone

  © copyright by Charlotte Featherstone, March 2005

  Cover Art by Eliza Black, © copyright March 2005

  ISBN 1-58608-373-2

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  DEDICATION:

  Many thanks go out to my critique partners, Monica Burns and Kristina Cook for their unfailing support and enthusiasm. Where would I be without you?

  To my husband and daughter, who support my writing and share my goal of being a published author, despite the take out dinners and the messy house, thank you, and I love you.

  And lastly, to every woman out there who has ever thought she didn't have what it takes…. I dedicate this book to you.

  Chapter One

  London, 1780

  The cracking of a log in the hearth sounded over the crinkling rustle of French silk. In the distance, the muffled rhythm of the minuet could be heard beyond the paneled door of Lord Lennox's study. Senses attuned to any sound that might lead to someone discovering him and ultimately an inconvenient dawn appointment, Gavin Reynolds, Viscount Grayson, spread his arms wide on the back of the brocade settee, watching as his latest conquest--Lady Lennox--worked to unfasten the jade buttons of his waistcoat.

  Surely the languid warmth of the fire and the view of Lady Lennox's breasts, which he'd recently freed from her bodice, were the reasons his senses were slow to process the fact that they had a visitor, and a decidedly female one at that.

  From his peripheral vision he saw the door inch open, revealing a sliver of a heavily embroidered eschelle corset, above which sat the creamiest bosom he'd ever seen--and he'd seen plenty.

  "Oooh," his conquest purred as she parted the lace ruffle of his shirt. "I've wondered what your dark skin looks like. Sarah was right; it does resemble coffee with cream."

  He stiffened, unable to stem or hide the impulse. For some damnable reason his eyes automatically searched the opening in the door, checking to see if the female ensconced behind it had heard Helena's words. He didn't give a bloody farthing what Lady Lennox thought of him, he knew what all the women of the ton called him. But for some elusive reason, he did not want the voyeur behind the door to hear the comment and thinly veiled reminder that he was nothing but a filthy half-breed.

  He knew who watched him, knew and sensed as he always did whenever she strolled into a ballroom or happened to glance his way. His body always reacted to Lady Jane Westbury in such a curious way.

  The woman was not the type he normally cavorted with. It was said that she was rather plump and unremarkable. Plain, he'd heard countless men describe her. Yet he, a self-confessed connoisseur of female flesh found her utterly intriguing. He supposed she was plain when compared to some of the beauties of the ton. But there was something about her that captured his attention in a far deeper and more meaningful way than the buxom lovelies he spent his evenings with.

  Lady Jane was buxom, of that he was certain. But it wasn't only the sight of full breasts and lushly rounded hips that drew his eye. No, it was a quality he had never experienced in his legions of paramours. Lady Jane was a true lady. A paragon of womanly virtue. A woman of taste, refinement and kindness.

  That she should be here now, watching as Helena Lennox tore open the flap of his silk breeches while he reclined on her husband's settee, was impossible. Impossible and highly arousing. His reputation as the whoring India Rat would be firmly implanted in Jane's mind. He didn't know quite what to make of that.

  "My lord," Helena, cooed, her lips a scant inch from his cock. "My work seems to be cut out for me this evening."

  Gavin glanced down to see his limp member in Helena's be-ringed hand. She looked up at him imploringly through painted eyes. Her face was powdered white with the exception of two rouged circles on her cheeks. At the corner of her right eye sat a black beauty patch in the shape of a crescent moon. She was the height of fashion. Every man in London thought her beautiful, and yet he couldn't get up the desire--literally--to take her.

  He blinked, trying to clear the vision of Helena's head with its gray curling wig covered in pearls and a ridiculously large blue plume lowering to his lap. A fleeting vision of a fresh, country faced countess flashed before him and he groaned. His mind supplied the visual of firm, large breasts and plump thighs, not to mention his dark hands covering every inch of her milk-white skin. Even now he could imagine the feel of her body, could conceive of the way his fingers would trace the curves of her figure. She would be ripe and full beneath that rose-colored gown and he knew, as sure as he knew his name that she would be possessed of a derriere he could cup and knead while she lay atop him.

  "Ah," Helena murmured between flicks of her tongue. "This is what you're in need of."

  "Perhaps." His answer was vague and noncommittal as he rested his head back against the settee, letting his body go limp as he tried to push the sound of his uninvited guest's hushed intake of air out of his mind. He'd shocked her, no doubt. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be witnessing the extent of his wickedness. And she should damn well not be privy to him allowing a married woman such as Helena to take his cock greedily into her mouth.

  "My lord," Sarah Manchester said huskily as she strolled from where her gown and petticoats lay in a heap on the floor. "Are you ready to play?"

  That damnable sound of hushed shock again resonated through his brain. He instantly regretted agreeing to meet with the two friends who apparently enjoyed sharing everything. Thankfully his body was now working on instinct alone and would not disgrace him.

  It had never been a trial for him to perform the sex act while thinking a myriad of thoughts--hell, as he'd been tupping Sarah last night he'd pondered what his cook would be making him for breakfast.

  But he couldn't seem to get these thoughts--thoughts of Lady Jane out of his mind. He imagined her working his cock with her pink mouth, visualized her naked on her knees before him looking up from a cloud of honey brown hair. On a whim he conjured up the feel of her breasts, full and heavy, the nipples erect and searching as his lips fastened onto them, suckling her, making her moan and pant beneath him.

  "Mmmm," Sarah purred, standing behind the settee and lowering her breasts to his mouth. He leaned his head further back to take one erect nipple between his teeth, pretending the husky desire he heard belonged to Lady Jane, not Sarah, the man-eating Duchess of Manchester.

  Already tired of Sarah, he pulled away, fixing his gaze on the door. She was still there, watching, her bosom rising and falling rapidly above her tight corset. He could smell her, the scent of sweet country flowers. And he could still see her as she glided into the ballroom not more than two hours ago and smiled at him. It had not been a smile of invitation for an illicit rut in a study, nor a mocking grin because she had heard the gossip that his mother had been nothing more than a Bombay whore, but a smile of genuine kindness and warmth. A smile that had unexpectedly and confusingly, invaded his dreams.

  She was a lady, true as well as bred. He was the son of a scandalous liaison and marriage between a half Indian, half English concubine and her lover. A lover who had, unexpectedly, inherited a viscountcy.

  His parents' torrid love affair, and the fact that his proper English father had not only married, but procreated with a courtesan who was at one time in the keeping of a Sultan, was the bane of Gavin's existence. He'd lived his whole life fighting the stigma of his mother's heritage an
d her illegitimacy, while enduring the cruel taunts of the children at school. The sly comments had not ceased at Eton, but continued on in the form of the callous remarks of men and women who were no more moral or pious than himself.

  But she had never looked at him in such a way. He had always fancied that the intelligent and somewhat plain Lady Jane had seen more to him than his legendary sexual propensity and colorful breeding.

  "Grayson," Sarah scolded, brushing her nipples against his lips, coaxing him to suckle her. "Your reputation is tarnishing by the second. I enjoyed this much better last night. You were much more exuberant."

  Damn her, he thought, suddenly feeling sick. He meant nothing to them; he was just a prick to play with. He would only ever be the half-breed with a large cock, hard body, and strange, dark skin that every woman of breeding fancied a go with. In the light of day he would forever be the dirty half-breed whose only claim to fame was that he'd fucked half of the ladies in the adjacent ballroom.

  Clearing his throat, he sat forward, removing Helena's hand from his rigid length, a rigidity caused not by Helena, but by the woman who was hidden behind the door. "I grow bored, ladies. Excuse me."

  Ignoring Sarah and Helena's shocked expressions and pleas that he stay, he refastened his breeches and shirt before knotting his cravat. Without a glance, he donned his waistcoat, buttoned the jade closures that everyone said so resembled his eyes and shrugged into his frock coat. With a curt bow he turned and stalked to the door, grinning as the sliver of bodice instantly disappeared. It had been one of his best conquests--to have the very proper Lady Jane Westbury's full attention. Now it was just a matter of finding the enigmatic countess amongst the guests and discovering just what made her seek him out, as he knew she had. He'd felt those chocolate brown eyes following him throughout the night. Perhaps, he thought, as he reached for the door latch, she wished to experience the delights of his bed. The very idea made him pleasurably aroused.

  "Filthy Indian," Sarah cried, as he stepped into the shadowed hall. "You'll never be anything more than an oddity to take to bed."

  "But not your bed," he quipped without looking back. No, the only bed he envisioned himself falling into in the foreseeable future was Jane Westbury's. A daunting, but thoroughly arousing thought.

  * * * *

  Jane picked up her skirts and raced through the darkened hall, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. She must have been absolutely depraved, not to mention desperate to follow the viscount. She'd known he was about to meet his latest paramour, but she had never, not in a hundred years guessed it would be Lady Lennox, not to mention the countess' good friend, the Duchess of Manchester. Two women, her mind screamed as she made her way to the ballroom of the Lennox country estate. His debauchery truly was everything she'd heard, and his mastery everything she'd dreamed of.

  Damn her curiosity, she fumed as she stopped running and smoothed her skirt. She should never have accepted the invitation for a genteel country weekend at the Lennox estate, and she most certainly should never have entertained the notion of meeting with, much less propositioning the viscount.

  With a flick of her hand, she opened her mother of pearl fan and forcefully beat the air before her. Damn her wastrel husband, too. For if Archie, the Earl of Westbury, had not abandoned her and their wedding vows for the far too young and lovely Arabella, she would not have found herself in such a predicament.

  Nodding to a few acquaintances, Jane waded through the ballroom, heading to the terrace and the sanity of the cool night air. The ballroom was filled to overflowing and the evening was at its height. No one would notice if she stepped out for a brief minute. No one ever really noticed her. They hadn't before her marriage, and most certainly not since Archie had cast her aside, except, of course, to whisper behind their fans and cast looks of pity in her direction.

  Stepping out into the darkness, she sighed, pondering her circumstances and her foolish plan to follow Lord Grayson. Had he seen her? No, she didn't think so. He'd been too involved in the beautiful women fawning over his body. A body, Jane had to admit, that she'd always admired.

  Archie had been pale and thin, where Grayson was tall and broad and possessed of the most exotic skin she'd ever seen. He looked perpetually tanned, and when he grinned, flashing a set of brilliant white teeth, she felt weak-kneed. Her husband had been nothing like the viscount. Archie always shaved his hair, preferring wigs to his natural blond locks. But the viscount wore shoulder length black hair, tied in a queue with a simple black ribbon. And those eyes.... Jane fanned herself again. When he'd looked toward the door, those infamous green eyes pierced her. She'd sworn he could see her then and she had been unable to move. She'd been hypnotized, bewitched by turquoise eyes that she thought surely must resemble the waters of the Indian Ocean.

  Foolish. She was being fanciful. Viscount Grayson would never look at her as she looked at him. She was plain and plump. So unremarkable, in fact, that she faded into the silk cloth that lined the walls of the Lennox's ballroom. She had always been, and forever would be the ton's wallflower.

  She was glad she'd run away when she saw him stroll to the door. She had saved herself a cartload of the humiliation she would have experienced when she presented him with her outrageous idea. Surely he would have narrowed his gaze and grinned at her in mockery.

  What would the handsome and notoriously experienced viscount say when the utterly proper and undesirable Lady Jane Westbury asked him to tutor her in the ways of pleasuring a man? Laugh, that's what he would do, then he would look upon her with sympathy. 'Poor, plain Lady Westbury,' he would mock, 'unable to find herself a man after being left by her husband.'

  Damn Archie for succumbing to the wiles of a girl less than half his age. Archie had been forty, when he'd left her for the charms of Arabella. Arabella in turn had been only eighteen, and infinitely stupid. Although apparently not half as feeble-minded as herself--Arabella, had, after all, been able to attract and keep Archie's attentions. Something she had never been able to do.

  How fitting that Archie should decide to cock up his toes in Arabella's bed. Archie had never exerted enough energy in their bed to even break a sweat, and Jane couldn't help but think that the blackheart had deserved everything he had gotten. Well, it meant nothing now--it did not matter a fig about Archie and Arabella. But Archie's death had left her in a bit of a fix.

  She was now a thirty-year-old widowed countess without an admirer, a husband or children. It was all she had really ever wanted growing up--children of her own, a loving husband and a quiet but happy life in the country. What she'd gotten was a philandering spouse whose idea of loving was to come to her room at night, lift her night rail and plunge into her, spending himself in the hopes of siring an heir. Archie had been neither loving nor particularly caring.

  He hadn't always been quite so cold, not in the first years of their marriage, but five years ago, all had changed. Archie had become moody and irritable, forever finding fault with a body that had, admittedly, changed in the years since she married him at the tender and impressionable age of seventeen.

  She'd been but a girl when she'd wed him. A thin, straight figured girl with a flat stomach and narrow hips. It was only natural that she would one day turn into a woman, and a woman had curves. It was with the blossoming of her figure that she discovered Archie detested voluptuousness in women. Not only was it her body he found abhorrent, but it seemed he found her rather inconvenient as she could not even do her duty and conceive. 'And you're not even pretty,' he'd snapped as he stalked out of their bedchamber leaving her alone in the dark. 'Had it not been for your dowry you would've been utterly useless to me.'

  Archie's taunts and sneers reverberated around her brain and she looked up, into the night sky, trying to erase the pain of her marriage. She no longer loved him, had not really loved him for the past five years. Still, she would not have left him as he had left her. She would not have shamed or humiliated him by dying in her lover's bed.

  A
nd that brought her up to her present circumstances. She had narrowly avoided humiliation once again. For degradation would have been her best friend had she the backbone to ask the infamous viscount to show her the way of getting a man's attention and keeping it too.

  Fool, she muttered as she turned to walk back into the ballroom. She would leave for Kent tomorrow. She would return to the empty, lonely estate she had purchased with what little money Archie had bequeathed to her.

  "Wait."

  The voice was dark and sensual and Jane's skin came alive as the word caressed her neck.

  "You've been spying on me."

  Every nerve ending reared and tightened and she gasped, as she always did when she couldn't string two words together.

  "I heard that very sound not more than five minutes ago and do you know what it did to me?" Hot breath caressed her neck, the ribbon securing her diamond choker tickled her skin. "It made me wonder why a lady such as yourself would be observing such a personal moment."

  She licked her lips and willed her knees to stop trembling. Why, when she felt the first touch of his finger stroking her spine above her stomacher, did she have the impulse to confess all?

  "Perhaps you were merely curious, hmmm? Wondering just what the India Rat does with all those women he has at his beck and call."

  "N-no," she stammered, hating the name coming from his own lips. It didn't matter that the others called him that. He was not an India Rat. He was not, despite what the ton said. Feeling somewhat brave, she screwed up her courage, preparing to bare her deepest desires to a man who reputedly would do nothing but exploit them.

  She was a woman of thirty. A woman who had experience of men and the marriage bed, although not nearly enough. Surely she could present her plan in such a way that the viscount would see fit to agree. Surely he would not humiliate her if he found her scheme laughable.

  When the silence stretched on, she felt his muscled chest press into her back. "Perhaps you entertained the notion of joining us? Four makes for much more spirited play than three."