A Gentlewoman's Pleasure (2 page)

Despite the fact that she was unclothed, Lucy’s body burned with hot blood flowing through it. Though her friends might have thought it of her, she wasn’t a prim woman, far from it. This sight of male beauty made her yearning fingers tingle to reach out and touch him. She held her breath as he dipped the cloth into the bowl again and began to wash his privates.

There was nothing salacious in the way he handled himself, but somehow the very workmanlike quality of his touch thrilled Lucy to the core. He was efficient, powerful, a perfect male animal, and the hidden female animal in her silently cried out to him.

When she saw that his penis was stiffening slightly, she gasped.

Her rescuer stilled, as if his attention had been caught, and then he looked her way. Holding her breath again, Lucy slid as noiselessly as she could back beneath the bedclothes and shut her eyes tight. She had to force herself to breathe evenly as soft footsteps approached.

The curtain was drawn back, and she could feel his presence at the bedside with every nerve in her body. She could still see a vision of him behind her closed eyelids, tall and perfect, his skin damp from his wash and his male organ half-risen, alert, and pointing her way.

Do something! Do something!

It was an inner scream, but she knew not whether it was to herself or to her silent watcher. Still she feigned sleep, every sinew tense.

His pause seemed to last forever, but then she sensed movement. Before she could discern what she was about, she felt his fingertips at her temples, plucking at her spectacles.

Oh, you dolt, Lucy! You left them on!

Infinitely gentle, her rescuer removed the glasses, and she heard him set them on the top of the chest.

He knows…he knows….

But just as she was about to open her eyes, and make a little pantomime of waking up, soft lips settled on her forehead in a feather of a kiss. She smelled soap and mint, and felt the warmth of him wash over her, even though it was only his lips that made contact, and just for a second.

Without thinking, she slid her arms out from under the covers and put up her hands to grasp his shoulders, pulling him back down to her. It was unseemly and dangerous, she knew that, but she simply could not resist his beautiful maleness so very close. Her instinct and her desire were far too strong.

For a moment he resisted her, and in the low light, she seemed to see a blur of confusion in his face.

“I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to…”

But his protest died as Lucy kept up the pressure, unwilling to let him go. With a soft exhalation, his lips settled onto hers softly and quietly. She felt him take his weight on the bed, resting on one hand, and with his free hand he reached to sweep her tousled hair from her brow.

Kiss me! Kiss me harder! Kiss me properly!

As if he’d heard her plea, his tongue stroked the seam of her lips and she admitted him instantly, darting her own tongue forward to greet his. He flicked lightly, probing a little, not forceful, just playful and delicious, as inside, Lucy’s heart roared with triumph. He hadn’t rejected her. He’d matched and met her kiss.

Her body alive with simple pleasure, she wound her arms around him, loving the way he held her too, one hand cradling her jaw, the other sliding around her as he shifted his weight forward to sit on the edge of the bed. The covers slid, and bare skin met bare skin, his like silk, caressing every inch it touched.

They kissed for a few moments, and with every second that ticked by, Lucy wanted him more. She’d been romanced by her sweetheart, the one who’d ever so politely thrown her over for a prettier, better connected girl, and even though they’d never fully consummated their dalliance, there had been some pleasure. And ever since, she’d longed to repeat it with a man.

But just as her hero’s hand slid to her breast, cupping the slight orb and tantalizing its crest with his palm, he stopped, and this time she was too swept away, and off her guard to prevent him pulling away from her.

“Please, no…go on!” she urged, knowing she was wanted, but feeling the crush of disappointment after the sweet and sudden embrace.

Kind hands stroked her hair again, and pushed her back against the pillows, then drew the sheet over her. Lucy shut her eyes tightly, unable to face even the indistinct look of revulsion on his handsome young face.

“Hush…hush,” he murmured. “You’ve had a nasty shock. You don’t know what you’re doing.” He paused, and Lucy braced herself for more words of rejection. “I can’t take advantage of you this way, no matter how much I want to.”

Want to?

Despite the fact that her body was taut with frustration, Lucy’s spirits soared. He
did
want her. Spectacles, plain looks, shapeless body, and all.

“But what if I wish you to take advantage of me?” Her own boldness made her smile, and she saw the blurred shape of a smile on his face too. “I feel much better now. Greatly restored, in fact, and I…I would like to reward you for your kindness.”

His laugh was young and free and happy, and Lucy found herself laughing too. His mirth wasn’t directed at her. It was inclusive, almost an embrace in itself, like another deep kiss.

“Well, ma’am, I must say I cannot think of a finer reward. But still, you’ve taken a bump to your head, and you need to rest more.”

Lucy tried not to look disappointed, but something must have showed, because he cradled her cheek again, and kissed her brow once more. “Sleep for a spell. Rest while I attend to some pressing matters, and then perhaps we can return to these negotiations when you’re fully restored and in possession of your judgment.”

“Very well…” She did indeed still feel a little weary, despite everything. His low voice was so soothing, almost that of a mesmerist. “But first, there’s one thing I must know, sir.”

“Anything.”

“May I know your name?”

They both laughed again. It was so absurd. They were still strangers.

“My name is Ethan Oakley, and I’m at your service.”

I hope so… I really hope so…

“May I know your name too?” he continued, slipping his hand beneath the covers, finding hers and drawing it out, then kissing it courteously.

“Lucy Dawson. Miss Lucy Dawson… But please, do call me ‘Lucy.’ I think we’re a little way past the formal niceties now, don’t you think?”

Again came that beautiful, desirable smile, so vivid in her mind that Lucy’s imagination filled in the details for her defective vision.

“Indeed, Lucy. Indeed. Now, please, try to rest.” He returned her tingling hand beneath the bedclothes, and tucked them up around her. “Is there anyone I should notify as to your whereabouts? I gather from your portmanteau that you’re on your way to a visit.”

Already sleepy again, lulled by his calm presence, Lucy struggled to think straight. Yes, Matilda must be worried about her, and wondering where she’d got to.

“Yes, my cousin, Mrs. Matilda Courtney of Bentall House. She’s expecting me.”

Ethan’s hand settled over her hidden one. “I know Bentall House. I’ll arrange to have a note sent, saying you’re safe but have been delayed. Is that all right?”

“Yes, thank you. That would be very kind.” Her lids drooped. “Very kind indeed.”

“Rest now,” said Ethan, low and soft, then with one last reassuring pat, he withdrew, pulling the curtains as he went. As if bewitched by him, Lucy found herself slipping back into sleep, her body gently glowing—with anticipation.

When she awoke again it was morning at last, but Ethan was nowhere to be seen. So pulling on his overcoat and donning her glasses, Lucy got up to explore the cottage and the backyard, feeling entirely steady on her feet this time.

In the full light of day, she discovered that the cottage backed on to a stand of thick, deep woods and, along with vegetables growing in neat rows, she found an extensive herb garden, also well tended. The source of his restorative drinks, no doubt. It seemed strange that a young man should dabble in natural medicines, but even knowing him so slightly, she sensed he was unusual.

The dwelling itself was a single room, clean yet cluttered, the space filled with heavy old furniture that was gleaming and well cared for, including several bookshelves crammed with many volumes. A lot of the chair backs were adorned with items of her clothing, and more of it, including her chemise and drawers, was drying on a rack set close to a big old range.

On the table lay evidence of her rescuer’s profession. Across one half, what looked like blueprints, depicting a building and filled with notations, were spread wide.

Are you a designer, my mysterious knight errant? Or perhaps an architect?

It seemed so, and curiosity flared in her bosom, along with the desire that seemed unabated despite his absence.

He’d left her food, too, and there was tea in a big earthenware pot. The latter proved to be surprisingly fresh and unstewed as she sipped it to accompany thickly sliced fresh bread, spread with country butter and raspberry jam. Famished, she ate several pieces. It had been nigh on twenty-four hours since she’d last eaten, in what now seemed like an entirely different lifetime.

This is my adventure. My time spent away from the world and what’s expected of me. Here I can do anything, and be a different person.

Suddenly, she thought of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle, and her friends who told such tall tales of their supposedly naughty exploits. What would they think of her being here, plain, eccentric Lucy of the spectacles and knickerbockers, all alone and stark naked in the house of a handsome and mysterious young man.

I’ll seek you all out again, when I’m next in London. And this time I’ll have something to tell you, even if you think I’m making it up.

Her simple breakfast over, Lucy discovered Ethan had retrieved her belongings. From her portmanteau she took out her dressing case, which contained all her personal items, and set about her toilette using the same earthenware bowl that he’d used. Although her tweed bicycling habit was still damp, her undergarments were dry. And yet she hesitated to put them on. To get dressed was to prepare to leave, and she didn’t want to do that.

We have negotiations to contract.

So instead of her own clothing, she took a shirt of Ethan’s from the rack and slipped it over her head. It smelled wonderful, of herbs again, and despite the fact that it almost came down to her knees and she had to roll up the sleeves, it felt deliciously sensual and provocative to be wearing it.

Where are you, Mr. Oakley? Where are you?

What was this business he had to deal with, she wondered as she lay back down on the bed again. Though there were books aplenty on a wide variety of fascinating topics, she couldn’t settle to read. She could only want him, her rescuer.

Lying amongst the linen, she imagined him there with her, touching her. Experimentally, she cupped her hand around her breast, sliding the linen of Ethan’s shirt over it, tickling her nipple that had crested at the thought of him. She remembered certain breathless afternoons with Ralph, the man who’d romanced her. The exquisite sensations had been wonderful, but she’d sensed him shocked by her enthusiasm. When they’d parted, no further young men had come around, and she’d made no attempts to make herself attractive to another swain. Instead, she’d thrown herself into other pursuits: art, botany, reading, needlework and, of course, cycling. Her family were quite wealthy, she didn’t need a suitor, and so she’d settled down into her role as the eccentric spinster in their midst. At thirty-two, she’d thought herself content with her lot. And she had been until now.

Until the moment Ethan Oakley had appeared to her, as a tantalizing stranger walking out of a rainstorm. He was a man she’d barely exchanged more than a few words with, and yet one with whom she was prepared, nay desperate, to share her body.

The feelings of excitement gathered. Her nipples were hard and aching, and between her thighs there was a heavy, gathering sensation that called insistently for contact, for pressure, for stroking and teasing and more, more, more…

Lost in a dream, she pressed her hand to her cleft, imagining it Ethan’s. She’d set aside her glasses on the bedside chest, but she didn’t need them to see him with her mind’s eye. His smile was beautiful as he caressed her and petted her intimately with those kind, strong fingers of his. Whipping up her borrowed shirt, she crammed her own fingers against the moist flesh of her sex and found the sensitive little pearl that nestled there.

“Ethan,” she moaned, manipulating herself, imagining it was he. Her legs kicked amongst the bed linen and she squirmed against the firm-packed feather mattress, her body tense and striving as she continued to rouse herself in his name. She’d done this before, albeit infrequently, but never had it seemed as powerful and as meaningful as it did now.

She was his handmaiden, preparing the way for his return.

Parading images of him bathing, and leaning over her on this very bed, she grew more and more excited. Her sex cried out silently for fulfillment, and beyond point of turning back, she rubbed harder, reaching out for it.

Then the crisis came, white and perfect, drowning her in pleasure and in the intensity of his blue eyes, watching and applauding her in the kingdom of her mind.

Afterward, she lay gasping, shocked but also pleased, smugly pleased with what she’d done. The pleasure left her drowsy, and it was the easiest thing to drift away, into a light doze, smiling and thinking of Ethan Oakley. Anticipating…

Waking again, she sensed his presence even before she opened her eyes. She could hear him breathing—he must be close—and smell the scent of herbs on his clothes. When she opened her eyes, he was a blur to her unspectacled vision, but he was right next to her, lying alongside her on the bed. The sun was high now, and with light streaming into the cottage, she guessed it must be noon at least. Time seemed to pass strangely here in this enclosed little world.

She should be shocked by his proximity. She should protest. But she was beyond all that. Here in this cottage, she was in a new domain that existed outside the purview of family and friends who might disapprove. Here, there was only Ethan Oakley, and the prospect of those activities that her other friends, the ladies of the sewing circle, would thoroughly applaud.