The Veiled Heart (The Velvet Basement Book 1) by Elsa Holland Page A
Authors: Elsa Holland
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excellent taste.
Another card lay at the bottom of the box. It read:
Lily, every lesson needs to be reviewed. Wear my gift. Let me know you’ll see me again.
Her hands were still shaky as she placed the box and veil to the side and focused on her breakfast. Each morsel of food incomparable to her thoughts.
Last night in the carriage was her first taste of pleasure. She wanted verification, to see that what her body was telling her hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.
She’d floated in on a postcoital haze.
Her lips swollen and sore, her legs weak, and the air filled with the faint scent of musky damp as she undressed.
She’d stood naked in front of her full-length mirror and looked at her body for the first time in years. Red marks glowed where the buttons of his trousers had rubbed her inner thigh. Her breasts were full and heavy in her cupped hands. What would a man think; what would an appreciative man do with them?
The body very rarely showed its secrets. Nothing remained to show what her body had endured at the hands of her husband. No permanent mark could be seen. Her skin was still as pure and smooth as a bowl of cream, a color and luster other women looked on enviously.
The nightdress as it had slipped over her head and over her skin was a soft caress. An inferior echo of his.
“What are you doing?”
“Wet, Lily. I’m making you wet.”
The lace lay there, an invitation. She’d been brave enough last night, was she again?
“Mary.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Her hand reached out, clasped around the corner of the black box, and lifted.
“I want you to arrange this veil on my riding hat. I want to wear it all day.”
7
CHAPTER SEVEN
So tonight, he was a ‘Mechanic’. To match the note to Lily, he dressed as close to what he imagined a mechanic would dress when heading out on the town.
This morning, after the visit to Harrods, he’d shopped premade clothes for the first time in his life. As Lord Worthington, he had no call for what he had on tonight. Chocolate brown pants and jacket, russet waistcoat, an off-white shirt, and dark brown tie. He drew the line at all the fancy plaids and colors that many of the working class men wore. The dark navy seaman’s jacket from his time in Canada helped him look the part.
To his mind, meeting as they had last night and doing what they did gave him some latitude around identity.
From a cab across the street, he could watch the front of Lily’s townhouse. He clicked his fob open: eleven p.m.
The last of the spring sun had long streaked the sky with burnt pinks and mauves. A turbulent canopy of clouds now dominated the night sky, a testament to the capriciousness of nature as it heralded the inevitable rain.
It didn’t take a genius to know Lily would head out again tonight, rain or no rain. He had two reasons. Her need to know about the sheaths last night held an urgency, a pulse that bordered on panic. And buying out London’s inner city supply in one night spoke of a plan in the hands of a woman who took bold jumps. He’d experienced that firsthand.
A panel in front of the driver’s feet opened on the hansom cab and the man bent down to speak into the carriage.
“You still want to wait, sir?”
“Yes.” Of course.
The panel slid closed.
After he’d seen her face, he didn’t need her address. She’d been ‘the tabloid princess’. Miriam and her husband, Freddy Rothbury, had been gossip column favorites. Their every action had guided London’s social set. A beautiful couple with the perfect marriage doing all the perfect things a young couple should. Balls, dinner parties, outings to the opera, house parties, trips to the Lake District, travel to the continent. They were icons of a life of good fortune. Their union made the best business sense to the families, as he was intimately aware, and from day one had been touted the love match of the decade.
Freddy. Seeing Freddy with her in every photo drove him
Another card lay at the bottom of the box. It read:
Lily, every lesson needs to be reviewed. Wear my gift. Let me know you’ll see me again.
Her hands were still shaky as she placed the box and veil to the side and focused on her breakfast. Each morsel of food incomparable to her thoughts.
Last night in the carriage was her first taste of pleasure. She wanted verification, to see that what her body was telling her hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.
She’d floated in on a postcoital haze.
Her lips swollen and sore, her legs weak, and the air filled with the faint scent of musky damp as she undressed.
She’d stood naked in front of her full-length mirror and looked at her body for the first time in years. Red marks glowed where the buttons of his trousers had rubbed her inner thigh. Her breasts were full and heavy in her cupped hands. What would a man think; what would an appreciative man do with them?
The body very rarely showed its secrets. Nothing remained to show what her body had endured at the hands of her husband. No permanent mark could be seen. Her skin was still as pure and smooth as a bowl of cream, a color and luster other women looked on enviously.
The nightdress as it had slipped over her head and over her skin was a soft caress. An inferior echo of his.
“What are you doing?”
“Wet, Lily. I’m making you wet.”
The lace lay there, an invitation. She’d been brave enough last night, was she again?
“Mary.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Her hand reached out, clasped around the corner of the black box, and lifted.
“I want you to arrange this veil on my riding hat. I want to wear it all day.”
7
CHAPTER SEVEN
So tonight, he was a ‘Mechanic’. To match the note to Lily, he dressed as close to what he imagined a mechanic would dress when heading out on the town.
This morning, after the visit to Harrods, he’d shopped premade clothes for the first time in his life. As Lord Worthington, he had no call for what he had on tonight. Chocolate brown pants and jacket, russet waistcoat, an off-white shirt, and dark brown tie. He drew the line at all the fancy plaids and colors that many of the working class men wore. The dark navy seaman’s jacket from his time in Canada helped him look the part.
To his mind, meeting as they had last night and doing what they did gave him some latitude around identity.
From a cab across the street, he could watch the front of Lily’s townhouse. He clicked his fob open: eleven p.m.
The last of the spring sun had long streaked the sky with burnt pinks and mauves. A turbulent canopy of clouds now dominated the night sky, a testament to the capriciousness of nature as it heralded the inevitable rain.
It didn’t take a genius to know Lily would head out again tonight, rain or no rain. He had two reasons. Her need to know about the sheaths last night held an urgency, a pulse that bordered on panic. And buying out London’s inner city supply in one night spoke of a plan in the hands of a woman who took bold jumps. He’d experienced that firsthand.
A panel in front of the driver’s feet opened on the hansom cab and the man bent down to speak into the carriage.
“You still want to wait, sir?”
“Yes.” Of course.
The panel slid closed.
After he’d seen her face, he didn’t need her address. She’d been ‘the tabloid princess’. Miriam and her husband, Freddy Rothbury, had been gossip column favorites. Their every action had guided London’s social set. A beautiful couple with the perfect marriage doing all the perfect things a young couple should. Balls, dinner parties, outings to the opera, house parties, trips to the Lake District, travel to the continent. They were icons of a life of good fortune. Their union made the best business sense to the families, as he was intimately aware, and from day one had been touted the love match of the decade.
Freddy. Seeing Freddy with her in every photo drove him
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