DisobediencebyDesign (6 page)

She closed her eyes as she gathered her courage. “In the
drawing room tonight, before Royston walked away he touched my arm.” She
hesitated.

Arthur gave her a gentle squeeze. “Go on.”

She looked up at him, finding her strength in his eyes. “You
didn’t see it, I know you didn’t, but I felt it. He touched me.” She could not
hold back the tears. “His thumb scraped along the side of my breast.”

Arthur paled. “My God. No,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll call him
out.”

“Oh no you won’t!” She sobbed. “I won’t stand for such
foolishness!”

His brow twisted. “Henny, I can’t let this go. He has no
right.” He folded her in his arms and rocked her gently, imbuing her with warm
safety.

“No,” she sniffled. “I know you can’t. But there is another
way to defeat the villain.” She looked into Arthur’s eyes. “Make me yours.”

The incredulity returned, this time tinged with hope. “Henny?”

“I’m ready, Arthur. I want to leave here already your wife.”

“But darling—”

“He won’t touch me if I am spoiled. He has a letch for
innocence.”

He gaped in horror. “Henny—”

“Please don’t ask me how I know. Please.”

He enfolded her in his arms. “No. I won’t.”

The fire popped and sputtered, the only accompaniment to the
uneasiness that hung in the air. Arthur held her tightly, gently swaying to
some unheard tune.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

He bent and kissed her mouth slowly, succulently, his tongue
gently probing, tantalizing her. She wrapped her hands about his neck, clinging
to him for dear life. Her life.

He pulled back, his face a little flushed, his hazel eyes
dark with arousal.

“Make love to me, Arthur. Now.”

“Oh darling.” His lips quirked up in a smile. “Let’s go to
my room.”

“What about here?”

“In the library?”

“It’s lovely in here. The room is warm. There’s light.” She
cupped his cheek. “I want to see you and I want you to see me.”

With an enthusiasm she had never witnessed he tore off his
jacket and laid it down on the rug before the fire then divested himself of the
rest of his clothes, inviting her to do the same, helping her with buttons and
ties. He made a comfortable nest with the pile of clothing then knelt and held
out his hand, grinning broadly.

She knelt next to him, panic and desire coursing through her
at the sight of his nude body rampant and ready. He motioned for her to lie
down, preceding her in the act, patting the space next to him. She stretched
herself out at his side, shivering despite the fire.

He traced curves from her breasts to her belly with his
finger. “Relax, darling.”

But she couldn’t. Because of excitement? Or nerves?

“Perhaps if we play one of our games,” he murmured in her
ear. He cupped a breast, weighing it.

Her nipples crinkled at his touch. “Yes.”

“My desert flower.” He kissed the crook of her neck. “So
soft, so shy. One would not think you sullied and hardened by nomadic life.”

She closed her eyes, breathing out her trepidation,
breathing in the fantasy of the exotic East, the fire like the desert sun
streaming through the flaps of their tent, their clothes a bed of silken
pillows. “I was kept locked away, my master—”

He drew the tip of his tongue along her neck to suck lightly
on the delicate pulse point. She surrendered to the wet heat like the dunes
yielding to the relentless sirocco.

“For your pleasure.”

“You will make a fine addition to my seraglio.” He caressed
her waist, continuing down her hip to her thigh. “Your radiant beauty belies
your experience.”

His warmth imbued her with confidence. “But no man has
touched me, my sultan.”

“No man has breached the walls of your innocence?” He
dragged his fingernails up her thigh, tickling the flesh at her hip until she
squirmed.

“None, sire.”

“Then you are the jewel in my crown of pleasures.” He
smoothed his hand across her belly, continuing lower until he reached the
thatch of hair at her mons. “You inflame me, my odalisque.” He threaded his
fingers through the strands, dallying playfully before reaching for his
intended target. “I am rendered incautious in your arms. I cannot wait to pluck
your rose in my garden of delights.” He parted her wetness and slid a finger
through to touch her clit. “I must have you now.”

He rubbed in a slow, circular motion, murmuring praise as
she softened under his touch. She exhaled a moan.

“You cannot deny nature’s ways, my gem.” He stroked and
twisted his finger mercilessly, willing her to climb to her peak. “Give in to
your lustful desires.”

She writhed as sensuous waves ebbed and flowed within.

He inserted a finger inside her. Her eyes flew open. He had
never done that before. He held her gaze with his, libidinous, dreamy, his
pupils full and dark as he moved his finger, then two, in and out. She had
expected such intimacy to hurt, had even been told it would. Instead Arthur’s
ministrations were wonderfully exhilarating. And she wanted more.

“Arthur?” she said beseechingly.

He flashed a gentle smile and moved to lie between her legs,
parting her thighs with his knees and positioning himself at her opening. He
watched her face as he pressed in tentatively.

There was a pinch, slightly painful. She gulped a mouthful
of air.

His forehead furrowed and he pushed in a little more. He was
huge and exquisite all at once.

He looked down at her questioningly. She nodded. Slowly he
pushed in fully and then pulled out.

She sighed in ecstasy and he continued his motions. She rode
the waves of pleasure, closing her eyes briefly before realizing she wanted to
see him, needed to see him, to see what he felt, to know what he experienced
was the same for her. His eyes were black with desire, his expression lost in a
fog of lubriciousness. He increased his pace then slowed, raising an eyebrow
for her consent. She nodded again.

With every thrust he plunged deeper, picked up speed, his
breaths puffing to the beat of his exertions. The need for his touch at her
core overwhelmed her. She tilted her hips to goad him. The depths of his
penetration surprised her, propelling her to exhort him even further.

His sweat-sheened forehead wrinkled in splendid agony above
his blank eyes, his lips parted and rounded. She knew the signs of his crisis.
Unexpectedly her own burgeoned, matching his, until her body clenched around
him, drawing a wail from her lungs. He jerked and held himself against her in
one final thrust, groaning his ecstasy.

He gently collapsed on top of her, pressing his face into
the crook of her neck. “Henny, Henny,” he whispered reverently. “Darling. My
wife.”

She stared at the shadowed ceiling, astounded at the
sensation of pure joy. Tears threatened her eyes then fell in an uncontrollable
flood down her cheeks.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing
her hair, her face. His hardness waned and he slipped from her body. He rolled
to her side, still touching her, still murmuring in awe of their love.

“Come to my bed,” he said, wiping damp strands from her
forehead. “Stay part of the night with me.”

“Oh Arthur, that was simply extraordinary!” The flush of
satiation still suffused her skin. “We should have done that a long time ago.”

He chuckled. “Yes, we should have.” He cupped her breast.

“Now whenever I’m in this room I’ll think of what we did,”
she said, biting her lip playfully.

He laughed then stood and extended his hand. “Up. And gather
your clothes, my sinful mistress.”

“Rakehell.” She laughed.

As they fussed with the pile of clothing, Henny breathed a
sigh of relief that she was out of the clutches of truly evil sin.

* * * * *

Sophia stopped on the vast lawn of the Harwell estate to
toss her head back and look at the threatening clouds.

She grinned at her own audaciousness. The past few days and
nights spent dreaming of Mr. Phillips—
Joseph
—had emboldened her.

Before Henny left she had told Sophia to make the most of
her freedom while it lasted, to be as a carefree young girl but to pepper that
girlish exuberance with a bit of womanly flirtation. Sophia understood the
covert meaning of Henny’s advice. Royston loomed large in Sophia’s fate and if
she actually did marry him, every scrap of freedom she once enjoyed would be
buried forever in a horrid existence.

Sophia presumed Henny had meant a flirtation with Geoffrey
but Geoffrey only came to the estate occasionally. Their relationship wasn’t so
much flirtation anymore—it was more like
arrangement
, planning when they
could both get away and meet. Their rendezvous were still daring and fun but
Geoffrey had said he wouldn’t go any further than necking and a bit of touching
on top of their clothes.

And Sophia wanted more than that. She had wanted more than
that the minute she had seen Joseph in the billiard room with his shirt undone,
smelling of cigars and brandy, tempting and tantalizing her with gallantry and
masculinity.

Now she practically swooned whenever she saw him. And she
really liked how she felt around him, the warmth in her belly, the tingle up
her spine, the swollen dampness between her legs.

She even liked the nerve-racking thrill she got as she
walked—skipped, really—across the rolling lawn to the wrought iron folly. She
had to slow down as the studio came into view. Its occupant would be able to
see her approaching and would wonder what she was doing skipping on the lawn in
the middle of the estate. She paused. She hadn’t yet thought of an excuse. Of
course it could simply be that she was out for a walk and saw the studio and
thought she’d pop in for a chat with her brother. She wouldn’t tell Joseph she
knew Arthur had gone to Little Bytham to check on a tenant’s ill mother.

The front windows framed Joseph standing by the stove,
pouring water from the kettle into a teapot. He placed the teapot on a table
nestled between two stuffed armchairs, a wonderfully domestic act in such a
cozy setting, which for some reason inspired all sorts of naughty thoughts. She
was futilely trying to dismiss those thoughts when Joseph caught sight of her.
He stood by the drapes at the front window and waved a welcome. She inhaled a
fortifying breath and went inside.

The studio was pleasantly warm from a fire crackling in the
corner hearth opposite the stove. Some of the discarded furniture had been
grouped into a seating arrangement, giving the space a homier feel. Books had
been stacked neatly on the floor and on a chair. Joseph pulled the front
curtains closed then motioned for her to sit.

“All this glass,” he explained. “The drapes will keep the
heat in. I’ve tea enough for two if you’d like to join me.”

“I’d love to.” She placed her bonnet on a table and sat.

“Are you out for a walk on this dreary day?” His tone
suggested it was a slightly ridiculous notion.

“Well, it’s not raining.”

“Yet.”

He smiled at her and she could swear his eyes twinkled. He
often got such a look where his eyes revealed he knew a lot more about a
situation than was being said, but he always held his tongue. Sophia liked that
about him, although he seemed to be implying now that she had chosen a time of
day when it might start pouring rain and she and he would be trapped together
for hours upon hours.

A wonderful thought
…

He poured out two cups of tea then added milk from a little
jug into one cup. He held out the jug and raised a brow at her.

“Yes please.”

“There’s sugar in the cooling cupboard, if you like.”

“No thank you.”

Not only was this the first time they had been alone
together, they were engaged in one of the most mundane acts of the day. And she
loved every minute of it. His every move fascinated her—so careful, deliberate,
measured. Like his drawings of railway carriages.

“Are you drawing today?” she asked, sipping her tea.

“Yes. I’ve just finished some preliminary designs. I always
like to take a break afterward then go back and look things over. Taking a break
can stir up new ideas.” He moved a stack of books from a chair onto the floor
then relaxed into the seat with his teacup.

She glanced at the books. On the top was a well-read copy of
The Odyssey
. Impulsively she picked it up and flipped through the pages.

He chuckled. “A rather appropriate story for a traveler like
me. Have you read it?”

“Not thoroughly, I admit. Is it good?”

“Lately I’ve been reading literature whether I enjoy it or
not. I’m trying to gain an understanding of the literary references in upper-class
society. I don’t want to appear uneducated in such company. My accent is
unsophisticated enough.”

That he felt comfortable enough to reveal such an insecurity
moved her deeply. “I can’t see anyone thinking that about you,” she said,
subdued. “You’re very confident, you know the railway business and your accent
is exotic.”
And ridiculously seductive
. She could listen to him reading
railway schedules and be riveted.

He sipped his tea. “Thank you,” he said. “Still, I have to
mingle with the Cambridge and Oxford set to get investors. There’s only so much
ignorance I can attribute to cultural difference.”

“I admire that very much. Does Arthur know you put in all
this extra effort?”

“He does. He says I shouldn’t worry.”

Sophia stood. “Well you shouldn’t. Would you want to take
money from someone who minds if you don’t know your Homer from your
Shakespeare? I’d rather my investors cared that I knew about railway parts.”

He smirked. “That’s what your brother said.”

“Well it’s true!” she said, her hands on her hips. She went
to the writing desk. “May I see what you’ve done today?”