Cheryl Holt (35 page)

“Why?”

“It just seems wrong.”

“Then why are you here, dressed like this?”

She flushed bright crimson. “I thought that you might want to . . .”

“I do,” he persisted. “Lie down.”

“Answer a question for me first.” She shifted so she could look him in the eye. “Have you just been to another woman’s bed? Because if you have, I couldn’t possibly make love with you.” Hastily, she added, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’ve been in the country, searching for my brother. There’s a whorehouse in Surrey that he particularly likes.”

“Oh . . .”

“But he wasn’t there”—he kicked off one boot, then the other—“and I didn’t partake of any of the females. I came straight back to London.”

Nodding, stalling, she tried to quell her careening emotions. She was so confused about what was best! She craved this so much—apparently so did he—yet she couldn’t proceed until she ascertained the truth. “With how many . . .” She swallowed, blushed a brighter scarlet, then forced the words on a rush of air. “With how many virgins have you lain?”

“Two. You and my wife.” His answer was honest and succinct as he scowled down at her. “Why would you even ask me such an absurd question?”

“Someone said something . . .” She trailed off, unable to describe the strange, hateful conversation she’d had with Barbara Ritter.

“Who?” he pressed.

“Just . . . one of your companions.”

“Which one?” he queried, refusing to let the matter rest.

“Lady Newton.” She flinched; speaking the name of one of his other lovers was too excruciating. “I chatted with her that night at the theater. She said that you regularly sought out virgins and lured them to bed—just for sport.”

“You believed her?”

“Shouldn’t I have?” she asked vehemently.

He gave her a mocking bow. “No doubt that is the kind of man you perceive me to be.”

No, no, of course not!
she longed to cry, but what emerged was, “I’m just so disconcerted, James. I don’t know what’s true anymore. And what’s not.”

He reached for her shoulders and shoved the robe down,
baring her breasts. With a finger and thumb, he manipulated her nipple, and her body’s reaction was instantaneous. As though they’d never been apart, as though they’d just made love minutes ago instead of weeks ago, she was hungry for him and what he could provide.

He grabbed for the waist of his trousers and started working them off his hips. “I want you now. Lie back.”

James stood in front of her, naked, fully aroused, and unashamed of his virility. His male beauty was irresistible, and without pausing to decide the wisest course, she nuzzled her face against the bristly hair surrounding his privates. When James desired her like this, demanding gratification, she simply couldn’t deny him.

Whatever animosity remained, whatever issues still separated them, they could resolve their problems later. For now there was only this extraordinary rush of sensation.

Rooting and nestling along his abdomen, she filled her hand with his erect cock, relishing the throb of his elevated pulse through the eddy of enlarged veins. She cupped his balls, caressing the tender sacs. He groaned his approval, and she rewarded him by drawing him into her mouth.

His taste was so intense, a concoction of sweat and man designed especially to inflame her. Automatically, his hips began flexing in the rhythm she enjoyed so much. His hand was at the back of her head, steadying her, and she eagerly complied with his directions, taking as much of him as she could, his satisfaction serving only to increase her own.

The tip of his phallus oozed with his sexual juice, and her level of anticipation grew. During their prior night of loving, he’d refused to spill himself in her mouth, insisting she wasn’t ready, but she knew how greatly he welcomed completion in this fashion, and she hoped he would allow her to pleasure him to the end.

But just as she concluded that this would be the occasion she would endure all, he pulled away and settled her against the pillows. His superb, heavy body pushed her into the mattress, the hair on his chest and legs rubbing against her and causing her to writhe with anticipation.

He didn’t kiss her, which disappointed her terribly, but
she didn’t complain. In his current state, she couldn’t predict how he might react, so she forced herself to be content with whatever he chose to share.

With his mouth at her nipples, he labored over her, sucking formidably, inducing her to thrash and struggle against the fierce stimulation. Never stationary, he touched her everywhere: shoulders, arms, breasts, stomach. He clutched at her pantalet and ripped it away, throwing the swatch of red silk on the floor. Then his fingers were inside her, rough and determined, and her hips instinctively thrust in the carnal tempo he set.

He traveled slowly down her stomach, blazing a stormy trail and spurring her to open for him. Licking at her clit, delving into the folds, he buried himself, lapping at her saturated cleft, and he reveled in her flavor as though imprinting it into his very soul.

She wanted to come, she
needed
to come, but he left her hanging on an appalling cliff of exhilaration, begging and pleading for more.

He kneed her legs apart, then grabbed her thighs, the crest of his erect staff at her center, and he hesitated, staring at the spot where their private parts were barely joined, his swollen cock intense and eager, her blond hairs coaxing him in.

Clasping at her hips, he said, “I am going to fuck you so hard.”

“Yes, James,” she urged, far beyond the point where she would disagree with him about anything. “Whatever you want . . . please. . . .”

“Never forget,” he declared, “that I was the first. The only one.”

He immersed himself, his reckless member impaling her so ferociously that it felt like a punishment, but it was chastisement she craved. She arched and widened, giving him all the access he could stand. His hips pounded like the pistons of a huge machine, the impact of his momentum propelling her across the bed until she was shoved into the headboard. Grappling to stabilize herself, she gripped the
edge, holding on while she received more of his brutal invasion.

She was stretched to breaking, his cock battering her with each incursion, yet he didn’t ease up, nor did she want him to. This frantic, savage coupling was so very distinct from what she’d fantasized might occur that she hoped they never reached the conclusion. There was something so joyous about how desperately James appeared to lust after her that she was almost frightened by his intensity.

Perspiration pooled on his brow; his pelvis buffeted hers. His heart was thumping so stridently that she could see it beating against his ribs. He braced himself on either side of her shoulders, his muscles corded with tension, his fists gripping the pillows. From his level of agitation, she recognized that he’d arrived at the pinnacle where he’d spill his seed. At the last second, when he would have stolen his sexual emission from her, she wrapped her feet around his calves, her arms around his back, and she held him as tightly as she could.

With tortured surprise, he glared down at her, but it was much too late to expect that he could hold off. He plunged deep, deeper than it seemed possible to go, then he emptied himself, and she encountered the flaming spray of his semen against her womb.

Closing her eyes, she whispered a small prayer:
Please God, let us have made a babe
.

For that single moment, she didn’t care about the future, about Society, its mores, stigmas, or the ultimate disgrace she might bring down upon her family. She was simply a woman who had been thoroughly loved by the man of her dreams, and her body was crying out for the natural consequence to transpire.

With a final, feral submersion, he shuddered and collapsed, his forehead resting on her bosom, his fiery breath spewing across her sweat-soaked skin. As he gradually relaxed, she used the opportunity to calm herself.

Surely, after all that, he’d have purged his animosity and frustration!

She waited for him to speak, but to her dismay he said nothing, and when he shifted away, he had an unreadable expression on his face. It scared her. She’d been so certain that she would finally behold the love burning in his eye once again. Anxiously, she wet her bottom lip, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a semblance of a smile. Her heart ached. He was so beautiful when he smiled.

Gracing her with a chaste kiss, he said, “I shouldn’t have finished that way.” He shrugged. “I’m always more careful. I’m sorry for my lack of control.”

With that, he tipped himself onto his haunches and stepped to the floor. He retrieved her robe and tossed it to her, then he reached for his trousers and began pulling them on.

“What are you doing?” She watched, horrified.

“I’m needed elsewhere,” he replied enigmatically, causing a myriad of hideous images to careen through her mind as she contemplated where he might be
needed
. And by whom.

“But . . . I thought we should talk. . . .”

“About what?”

“Well . . . about us . . . about—”

“Lady Abigail,” he interrupted, killing her by articulating her title, “there is no
us
. There never has been. You know better than to believe otherwise.”

“James, please. I’ve apologized. Say you’ll give me your pardon.”

“Certainly, milady. All is forgiven.” He grabbed his shirt, tugged it on.

“But . . . you’re still so angry with me.”

“Truly, I am not. I simply have many, many more pressing matters with which to contend. Now”—he found a boot, jerked it on. Found the other, jerked it on as well—“if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. Thank you for inviting me to your bed. The experience was most . . .” He paused, searching for the appropriate word, then concluded with, “Most rewarding.”

Their loving had been so dramatic; she’d been so convinced
of the outcome! After what had happened between them, how could he consider withdrawing? “You’re going to leave? Just like that?”

“Yes, Abby,” he responded more gently. “And I must request that you not ask me another time. Don’t bother my mother; don’t send me any more notes. I won’t answer, and I’ll not come again. My visits with you have been an extremely pleasant diversion, but they can’t continue. There couldn’t possibly be an acceptable conclusion for either one of us.” When it looked as though she might argue, he added, “You know I’m right.”

“But . . . I love you,” she whispered in dismay, and to her ultimate chagrin, tears overflowed and coursed down her cheeks.

“I’m sure you do,” he retorted, “but that was a grave mistake on your part. For I don’t love you in return.” He bent over, took one last, quick kiss, then stood. “Goodbye,” he murmured, then he turned and strolled out of the room.

Lying there in a stunned silence, she was unable to move, unable to breath, listening to the sound of his foot on the stair, to the front door opening. With the click of its closing, she managed to rouse herself. She pushed her arms into the sleeves of her robe, rushed to the window, and cast open the shutters. Down the street, she could still see him, and she cried out, “James! James!”

The thoroughfare was busy and noisy, with innumerable people and vehicles passing, so nary a head spun in her direction. She called again, but if he heard, he gave no indication. He kept on.

“Well?” Barbara Ritter prompted as the curtain covering the carriage window fell into place. “What do you think about my story now, Lady Marbleton?”

For a long while, Margaret Weston didn’t answer. She continued to stare, her gaze drawn to the upper-story window where her sister-in-law had just made a scandalous
fool of herself, though no one on the street below appeared to have noticed.

Abigail was a pitiful sight, her hair askew, her breasts barely covered by one of the flimsy undergarments that James had purchased from Madame LaFarge. Weeping and shouting his name, her hand outstretched in supplication, she couldn’t have been more heart-wrenching if she’d been on the stage and acting out the latest melodrama. If Barbara had directed the event herself, she couldn’t have planned it more perfectly.

Margaret had seen all.

It had taken a great deal of cajoling to induce her to come, and even more sweet-talking to persuade her to stay. Abigail had shown up shortly after they’d arrived, causing Margaret to raise her bushy brows in consternation, but Margaret hadn’t actually believed Barbara’s strange report until James had also appeared and sauntered inside. Even then, Margaret had remained skeptical, watching and waiting in silence as the hour had ticked away. If Abigail hadn’t ended her sexual assignation so spectacularly, Margaret might still be wondering.

But with Abigail’s frantic good-bye, there could be no doubts, no suppositions, no uncertainties. While pristine Caroline Weston pranced around London’s fancy drawing rooms, her supposedly chaste chaperone was spending her leisure moments fornicating with James Stevens. Through Margaret Weston’s eyes, Abigail couldn’t have picked a more sordid character with whom to commit her monstrous sin.

Abigail finally put them out of their misery by stepping into the shadows and pulling the shutters closed. At witnessing her despair, Barbara almost felt sorry for her. Almost. But she couldn’t help the gleeful smile that begged to burst out, and she had to hide it behind her fan, lest Margaret discover how delighted she was with the afternoon’s proceedings.

Margaret surreptitiously observed the house for another thirty-two minutes—Barbara timed every agonizing second—until
Abigail departed through the front door. Lost and forlorn, she walked down the street to a parked hansom cab and dejectedly climbed inside.

Once the conveyance rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Margaret’s hand dropped away from the curtain, and she settled her massive bulk on the seat. Two bright spots of red marred her cheeks.

“I have to tell you, Lady Newton”—she breathed out a heavy sigh—“that when you first approached me, I didn’t credit your wild tale. Abigail has always been such a fine, upstanding young lady; I couldn’t accept your account as being true. To find her like this! With
that
man! Of all the scoundrels in the world!” She shuddered in distaste.