DisobediencebyDesign (8 page)

Sophia couldn’t believe her ears. Joseph seemed to be quite
amused by Henny’s machinations.

Arthur was quick to accept. “Of course, darling.”

Henny grabbed his arm and sidled up to him, beaming. He
turned to Joseph.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.”

The touch of eagerness in Joseph’s response sent a little
flutter to Sophia’s belly.

After a nod Arthur and Henny mounted the stairs with an
enthusiastic flourish.

Joseph shook his head, a wry curl on his lips.

“You’re laughing, aren’t you? Why?”

“The bedrooms are upstairs, my lady,” he murmured closely in
her ear. He placed her arm around his and proceeded to the ballroom.

Heat flushed her face. Arthur and Henny? But only scandalous
couples did such things! She glanced over at Joseph. Yes, but only scandalous
women tried to seduce men in estate follies on rainy days.

“Shall we dance?” she asked, now thoroughly flustered.

“I think I’m supposed to ask you that,” he countered
teasingly.

“Yes. Of course.”

The music had already started, the ballroom bustling with a
polka. Joseph steered her to a spot on the edge of the room next to a
decorative column and a potted palm. They were tucked away, obscured by the
leafy fronds but with a view of the dancers. He positioned himself behind her,
so close he crushed her skirts. The heat of his body radiated into hers. His
breath warmed her bare shoulders yet he did not touch her in any way.

Geoffrey’s tall, lanky form bobbed noticeably above the
crowd on the dance floor. He was a good dancer and especially enjoyed the
liveliness of polkas. His partner was beautiful, her golden curls swaying in
time to their movements, her face glowing from his attentions, her tightly
bound bosom rising and falling as she flashed demure glances his way. Did he
hold this beauty a little more closely than he would hold her? Sophia tried to
remember the last time she and Geoffrey danced and how far apart their bodies
were—

“Is he thinking of you as he moves with his partner?”

Joseph’s voice thrummed low and intimate from behind, startling
her from her thoughts.

“Imagining it is you in his arms, your palm against his as
his fingers press into the back of your hand? He holds you tight at your waist,
his grasp strong and demanding, controlling you, commanding your body to move
with his.”

Sophia swayed to the music, swayed to Geoffrey’s steadying
strength.

“But it is not a dance he imagines when you are in his arms.
He craves a deeper connection. Are you willing to surrender?”

Sophia gasped. Joseph’s words sparked an unexplored
yearning.

“The heat of his arousal penetrates the space between your
bodies. The burn of his gaze on your décolletage stirs the peaks of your
breasts to harden against their prison of stays.”

Her flesh prickled to excitement.

“You hunger for the passion of his lips against yours, the
warm wetness of his mouth on your neck, his kiss grazing lower to your
now-heaving bosom. His hands slide up your waist to cup your perfect breasts—his
thumbs tantalize the tips as his breath lies hot against your cleavage.”

Sophia flexed her fingers, needing to grip, to clutch
something, anything, desperately wanting Geoffrey’s touch in return. Desire
dampened her drawers. Her breasts ached in her corset, chafing for freedom, for
his hands, his mouth. Her breath came in agitated, hurried puffs as the
lusciousness she could never control welled within, her disobedient body
rushing toward release as if she were alone, lying in the dark, her hand
between her legs, and not standing on the fringes of a crowded ballroom.

“Will you submit to his need as he presses against you, his
hips thrust into you, as he grabs you where he’s never ventured before…your
arse, your thighs, drawing you so close your bodies meld together—”

She had never allowed him such liberties yet she would let
him do anything to her now. The lusciousness consumed her, dizzied her, the
ballroom and its occupants falling away as lust propelled her to soar above
them, above the chandelier to absorb the brilliance of the lights until she
shattered into a million droplets of crystal, twinkling in their descent.

She exhaled a mewling whimper. Lightheaded yet exhilarated,
she stared blankly at the golden glow of the gas chandelier hanging above the
dancers in the center of the room.

Joseph remained behind her, his body mere inches away,
frustratingly close yet not touching.

The music ended. The hustle and bustle of the party-goers
reminded her of where she was—not in the embrace of a potent man but standing
solitary in a crowd. Geoffrey waved. She barely saw him. Then he was right in
front of her, still breathing excitedly from his exertions.

“I say, Sophia. We haven’t had our dance yet tonight.” His
smile was charming, honest. “Phillips? May I?”

Joseph must have indicated his assent. As if he owned her.
The thought only inflamed her further.

“Sophia? What say you?”

She struggled to find her voice. “Yes,” she answered
throatily.

Geoffrey was wonderful as always on the dance floor. But
this time she noticed every move, every touch, every urging of his body against
hers. She let go, allowing him to take control of her, to take her body where
he wanted. The surrender was freeing, liberating in a new way. And when the
dance ended she was left wanting more.

“Sophia, I don’t know about you but I’ve been dancing
practically all night. I’d like to take a turn on the terrace, if you don’t
mind.”

He would suggest we go for a walk.
“That would be
lovely, Geoffrey.”

They followed other couples seeking the comfort of the cool
night air. Their footsteps clicked in unison quietly on the flagstones. He led
her as far as the balustrade next to the steps going down into the darkened
garden.

“Sophia,” he said quietly, “have I told you how stunning you
look tonight?”

He would flatter me
. “No, Geoffrey, you have not.”
She tried to convey surprise at his pretty words.

He turned to her. “Well you do. A man would be a fool not to
notice your charms. I’m lucky to garner your indulgence.”

His tone conveyed his sincerity. She always liked that about
him. If he weren’t just the heir to a damn viscountcy, she’d be engaged to him
by now.

I think I should like him to kiss me
. “Geoffrey, I’d
like to go into the garden now.”

“Yes, Sophia. That would be nice.”

* * * * *

Shit.

Shielded by a palm frond, Joseph adjusted the crowding in
his crotch.
Amazing
. Sophia had climaxed from just his words—and the
memory continued to bedevil his cock. He’d never been so damn hard in his life.

Watching her dance with Peel, watching her move rhythmically
with him, their bodies in concert, hers under his command, aroused Joseph even
further. With him or with another man, Sophia’s partner mattered not—he just
wanted to be a witness to her passion.

When Sophia and Peel left the dance floor, Joseph followed
surreptitiously, clinging to the shadows. They stood on the terrace for a
minute before descending into the garden. The pitch-dark garden.

He kept an eye on them, trying to be stealthy. But no one
paid him mind. All the others were lovers looking for a spot of their own in
the dark.

He slowly rounded a thick trunk and almost fell into Sophia
and Peel. He pulled back in awe and admiration. Peel had her pressed up against
a tree, crushing her skirts as he rolled his hips between her legs, his hands
roaming frantically. He kissed her mouth, her neck, her cleavage, his groans
and growls muffled against her skin. Sophia responded with sighs, moaning entreaties,
undulating beneath him to match his sensual rhythm.

Joseph palmed his cock, wanting very much to frig himself
right then and there.

She would let him do everything Peel was doing to her. She’d
probably let him join them in a sensual triad. But he wanted her just for
himself the first time. He watched Peel’s hands, imagining them as his own,
flexing his fingers with every grasp and clutch…watched Peel’s mouth, flicking
his tongue as if dueling with hers. Her sharp cry brought him back into his own
body. He was deliriously aroused.

He closed his eyes and grabbed his crotch, seeking release.
But he would not find it at that moment, in that place. If he were back on the
docks, he would find a willing woman in seconds, would have his satisfaction,
pay her and be done. Contemptible, yes, but no different than what others were
doing at that moment in upstairs bedrooms, and a damn sight better than abusing
servants in back stairwells. At least the women on Water Street knew what they
were getting into.

He left Sophia and Peel to finish unwitnessed and walked
back to the house. The ballroom held little appeal at the moment. A touch of
the reality of his old world was what he needed. He walked around the back of
the mansion, toward the ground-floor service entrance, knowing his attire would
allow him privileges of polite interactions with the staff. A life of service
was a life he—by pure chance—had dodged. He hardly knew what position he would
have held anyway. Jack-of-all-trades. He snorted. He would have had a romance
with one of the parlor maids or possibly the governess. Perhaps she would have
discovered his talent for sketching, for drawing, for mechanics and
engineering. She would have told their master, who would have—

The muffled cries of a girl caught his attention. Cries of
distress, uneven sobs, timid pleading. He quickened his pace then slowed
immediately when the scene came into view. He pulled back to hide in the
shadows. The dim light of the upper floors illuminated the space below, where a
large man crushed a slip of a girl against the wall of the mansion, his hand
clamped against her mouth, berating her as she cried. His tone was gruff,
brutal, his words indistinct but understood. He shoved her harshly then turned
and stomped away. The girl collapsed to the ground.

Joseph stared as the man strode back to the terrace, passing
right in front of him but not taking notice.

Royston
. Unmistakably Royston.

Joseph ran to the girl and knelt beside her. She sobbed
uncontrollably.

“I’m here. I’m a friend. Let me help you,” he said softly.

His accent must have disconcerted her. The sobbing stopped
and she stared at him.

The apron of her housemaid’s uniform clung to one shoulder,
the other strap drooped to her waist, torn and ragged. Her cap had fallen,
still pinned to her hair, which hung in a rat’s nest at her nape.

Her cheeks, streaked with tears and blood, retained the
smooth plumpness of adolescence.

Good God Almighty, she’s younger than Sophia
.

Joseph pinched his lips tightly to smother a curse. Royston was
the worst kind of villain.

“You need to be inside, my lady,” he said, flattering her.
He had found he could say such things and be considered merely an ignorant but
charming American.

It worked. Courtly deference always worked.

She allowed him to help her to the garden entrance, into the
service area and to the servant’s common room. He sat her down by the fire.

“What is your name?” He grabbed a shawl and covered her.

“Sarah, sir.” Her eyes were vacant.

“Who is your housekeeper? What is her name?”

“Mrs. Fitch.” Her voice was subdued, her face disbelieving.

“Where will she be during such an event as this?”

“In the kitchen I should think. I really don’t know.” She
shook her head without conviction.

By that time they had attracted a few onlookers amongst the
staff. “Watch her, please,” he said to a seemingly sympathetic maid. “She’s had
an accident outside.”

He left to find Mrs. Fitch.

He found her in the hall near the kitchen, giving direction
to a handsome pair in livery. Footmen. They dispersed according to their
orders. She caught sight of Joseph and looked as if she was about to reprimand
him when he approached.

“Mrs. Fitch. Madam, I am Joseph Phillips, a guest at this
affair. I discovered your charge, Sarah, after she had been molested by another
guest. I have brought her here.”

The housekeeper looked at him dubiously. “Very well, sir.
Show me to her.” No doubt she had to clean up after her masters far too often.

He led the way and when Mrs. Fitch saw the wretch she went
to her, kneeling and taking her hand.

“Sarah?” she said with motherly affection.

The girl flicked her eyes toward Joseph. “He helped me,” she
whispered.

The situation was out of his hands after that. Still,
responsibility compelled him to stay. After brief words Sarah was taken away by
another maid. Mrs. Fitch stood, defeat and anger coloring her expression.

He fished a sovereign from his coin purse then pressed it
into her palm.

“Please, madam, fetch a doctor as soon as you can. She has
been abused and will need medical care. And if I may be so bold, if there is a
douching syringe and vinegar, she will require that as well. Please send word
to me at Harwell Hall near Little Bytham about her care.”

Mrs. Fitch held her hand against her mouth, nodding her
assent to his advice, tears pooling on her lashes. “Why oh why?” she gasped. “Such
an innocent.”

Joseph left to seethe in the depths of the garden.
Innocent
no longer
.

Sophia hadn’t seen Joseph since he had left her alone with
Geoffrey the night before. Well…not in real life. He incessantly filled her
thoughts and dreams.

He had left her in such a state, excited beyond measure and
with only Geoffrey to satisfy her. But Geoffrey was so willing, so malleable to
her wishes, going further than he had ever gone before, stroking, massaging,
nipping until she had reached a crisis and exhausted herself. Eventually they
walked back to the ballroom where Geoffrey left her with Mama and excused
himself, his face flushed, his hands quivering. Mama had commented that the
poor fellow needed a doctor.

But in the morning frustration still roiled within. She
needed to be with Joseph.

She walked briskly across the estate, a present for him in
her pocket. As the little iron studio came into view, puffy clouds skirted the
blue sky above. There would be no hope of a sudden storm preventing her from
leaving.

She walked in, looked around as casually as she could manage
while she took off her coat and bonnet. “Arthur’s not here?” she inquired as
she warmed her hands by the fire.

Joseph did not get up from his drawing table. “He’s with
your tenant, Mr. Cogges, as you well know.” He clipped his words with an
acerbic edge.

She flushed from his revelation and turned back to the fire.
“You left without saying goodbye last night.”

He fell silent for a minute. “There was an incident with a
servant girl,” he said quietly. “I helped take care of her. I left after that.”
He sighed. “I was no longer in a party mood.”

A curious statement. “A servant girl? What happened?”

“A guest abused her, injured her.”

She faced him, horror-stricken. “But that’s terrible! The
party should have ended after such an incident.”

“Servants are the playthings of the aristocracy, my lady,” he
bit out caustically.

His words stung, his gaze burned, stifling any comment she might
have had. Surely he did not think her or her family capable of such a heinous
act? They treated their servants very well. Why, she thought of her Anna as a
friend!

But Joseph never had servants, had in fact grown up thinking
he might be one himself. She swallowed hard.

“Joseph, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“No.” His voice was tinged with regret. “I know you did not.”

She held out her hand to him. “I missed you, that’s all.”

“Is that why you were kissing Peel last night?” he snapped.

His vituperation was unexpected. That he knew about Geoffrey
was mortifying. “I kissed him because you inflamed me. And then you left me.”
She stepped forward. “Joseph, I thought of you the whole time.”

He paled, his brow twisted, his expression distraught and
lost. “Sophie, forgive me. I’m…I…”

In two strides he was before her, swooping her into his
arms, taking her by surprise. His mouth descended upon hers, hungry, fervent, a
passion that wasn’t merely physical but pulsed with a deep emotional need. She
wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his, melting into
his warmth and strength, letting him take command.

His tongue sought hers, entangling in a sensual dance, a
dance that should have been theirs the night before. She moaned into his mouth
and he returned a growl of approbation. He clutched her to him more tightly,
pulling her off her feet, swinging her legs into his arms. He gazed at her in
admiration as he carried her across the room, tossed her onto a bed then went
to draw the studio drapes.

She looked around in surprise. She lay on a large, canopied,
four-poster bed, the wood carved in the Chinese fashion to emulate bamboo, the
spaces between the posts draped with faded silk curtains all around.

Joseph grinned at her curiosity as he flopped beside her. “It’s
the bed your ancestors the marquesses used with their mistresses,” he
explained. “The parts were all here. I set it up and managed to coax one of
Arthur’s maids into helping me furnish it with draperies and linens.”

One of Arthur’s maids?
“Jenny?”

He chuckled. “How on earth did you know that?”

“She stares at you when she thinks no one is watching.”

“So that explains it. She was easily persuaded with just a
kiss.”

A pang of jealousy shot through her. “And how did you kiss
her?”

“Like this.”

It was a nice kiss and if the girl was enamored of Joseph as
much as Sophia was, it was certainly enough for her to do anything for him. But
it was nothing to be jealous about.

He pulled back and looked at her longingly. “You don’t know
how much I’ve dreamed of this.”

She smiled. “Oh yes I do.”

Hunger cast his countenance as he delved in again, attacking
her mouth with such a fervor she giggled. She had never kissed Geoffrey lying
down before. They had always been standing, sometimes up against a tree, which
was sort of like lying down. But lying side by side with Joseph was heavenly,
his body next to hers, melding into all her curves as she relaxed on the
mattress.

His hands wandered freely about her, stroking and cupping,
at times squeezing with an energetic intensity. He gathered her skirts, lifting
them to explore what lay underneath, then stopped, feeling something in her
pocket.

His present.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Sophia pulled out the gift and handed it to him. “A present.
For you.”

He turned it over and over in his hands, surely knowing it
was a book from its rectangular shape, but not which one, his narrowed eyes
hinting he was considering the possibilities. He carefully opened the brown
wrapping paper, revealing the cover, and slid his hand slowly across the
buttery leather then traced the gilded title tentatively as if in awe.

“
The Iliad
,” he murmured with a touch of reverence.

“I thought because you were reading
The Odyssey
you
might like this one as well. It’s Alexander Pope’s translation with Flaxman’s
illustrations. It’s rather lovely.”

He opened the book and perused each page, his eyes widening
as he skimmed the text, a smile playing on his lips as he studied the plates.
“Yes it is,” he said softly, not looking up, seemingly lost to her in a moment
of contemplation.

He started, gazing at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “I
have a present for you,” he said and clambered off the bed. He returned holding
a very similar object in the same brown wrapping paper.

She opened it and stared, equally awe-struck but with a
little embarrassment.

Before her lay the copy of
The Lustful Turk
she had
flipped through at Mr. Jacobs’ bookstore. Her mind pulsed with scenarios as to
how Joseph could have possibly known,
if
he could possibly know about
how she had seen the book and thought it invigorating. She must have blushed
for he covered her hand in his.

“I saw you that day at Jacobs’. The book had been left by
the Earl of Thuxton. I saw you examine it with great interest.”

“And you didn’t say good afternoon?” She was mortified.

He chuckled. “Not after I saw you blushing over it. I had to
get it for you. I had to get it for us.”

Sophia was perplexed. “Us?” she asked hopefully. She and he…such
a notion was too sublime.

He kissed her once again, his lips soft and seductive
against her mouth.

“Us.” He pulled back just a little. “Sophie,” he began in a
serious tone, “if you and I are to embark upon an affair, these are the rules—”

“Rules? You make it sound like a game.”

“Ah, but my love, an aristocratic English lady and an
American commoner engaging in bedsport can only be a game.”

She had hoped that might not be the case but prudence forced
her to accept the notion. “All right, what are the rules?”

He drew a finger down her neck to her shoulder. “No marks of
any kind in any area that can be seen when fully dressed.” His finger traced
across her bosom where the deep neckline of her ball gown had been the night
before then circled around her wrists, one at a time.

A touch of fright fringed her curiosity. “Marks?”

He rolled her onto her side, swiftly unbuttoning the top of
her dress, then moved her back to face him and tugged down the bodice. “No
penetration in your privates.” His hand skated down to cup between her legs. “That
rule includes tongue, finger and prick. No matter how much you demand it.”

Tongue?
How thoroughly intriguing. “And?”

He removed her bodice with the expertise of a man who had
done such an act many times. Her heart beat furiously at his touch, so eager
was she to be naked before him. Her bodice removed, he began tugging on the
sleeves of her chemise. “We’re not allowed to fall in love.”

Certainly she had already broken that rule, if love made her
pulse rush and her breaths uneven, if love made her want to be with him every
single minute of every single day.

Her chemise off her shoulders, he worked steadily at the
fastenings of her corset then pulled the garment open and slid the chemise over
her breasts, exposing her utterly.

She gasped. He licked his lips as he stared at her bared
chest rising and falling rapidly. Her nipples crinkled from the chill of the
room, the anticipation of his touch sparking pleasure to coil in her belly.

He cupped her tentatively, his hand warm, trembling ever so
slightly. “Sophie…so…exquisite.”

He caressed her slowly, his gentle touch discordant with her
pounding heart. He hovered over her, his hot breath teasing her tender peaks
before he dipped his head and wrapped his lips around a nipple.

Arousal shot straight to her sex. She arched up in reflex,
holding the position, trying to comprehend the glorious sensation.

He sucked the sensitive peak, teasing it with quick flicks
of his tongue then bathing the areola with the warm wetness of his entire
mouth. He massaged the other breast, pinching and stroking the tip, adding a
tortuous confusion to the assault of pleasure.

She melted back into the mattress, his mouth, his hand
tormenting her, his body pressing into hers. She relented to his command,
letting him take her on the sensual journey, new in its path but familiar in
its goal. He knew how to control the lusciousness she found so elusive. He had
already mastered its course the night before in the ballroom.

She grabbed his head, holding him against her, not letting
him sever their connection as the sensual stirrings grew, warming her core,
flushing her skin, building to her climax in such a wondrous way.

She cried out her ecstasy, bucking up, wrapping her arms
around him as he slid up to kiss her neck, her cheeks, her lips.

She laughed, surprised, exhausted but rejuvenated. “Joseph,
darling, that was wonderful.”

He rolled to her side and pulled her to him to nuzzle in the
crook of his arm. “That is to tempt you, darling. You may find other acts that
pique your curiosity in that book. When we can find time we’ll do more
exploration.”

Sophia could not wait.

* * * * *

Arthur placed the pen on the blotter and stared at the
letter before him.
My darling Henny
. Whenever he wrote to her he felt
nostalgia and hope all at once. And when he wrote letters such as these he
ended up incredibly hard.

He had begun writing erotic stories to her, tales of what
they had done, fantasies of what he wanted to do next time he saw her. Last
night at the Fosdyke ball she told him she loved the stories, read them in bed
at night, that they inflamed her so much she would touch herself and cry out his
name at her climax.

They had made love twice last night, the first time quickly
in his overexcited state, the second time after he had collected himself. That
second time he had drawn out the act as long as he could, savoring every
moment, watching her expression slacken with lust, feeling her throb and clench
around him, her hips rocking urgently until she gripped with such force she
sent him over the edge.

He did not regret that every time they made love he spent
inside her. One day she would carry his child. That summer, he hoped. They
would be married in June, only three months away. If she were pregnant, she
would barely show, especially with today’s exuberantly full fashions.

Joseph had scolded him about not taking precautions with
Henny after their first night, the night she had come to the library, and had
even given Arthur some advice on prophylactic measures. Joseph was surprisingly
worldly for such a young man but he had seen and experienced a great deal in
his hard life. He was full of amusing stories and ready with practical
information, conveyed with a rough directness that eschewed niceties and
pleasantries, getting right down to basics. Arthur found that very attractive
in the man.

Perhaps a little too attractive.

It had been disconcerting at first when they were together
in New York, the easy rapport that sparked a deeper chemistry, the continued
magnetic draw, the flush of attraction. But Joseph was powerfully charismatic.
Anyone would feel as such when they were in his presence.

Surely the distraction was temporary. Joseph would return to
America, then he and Henny would live in wedded bliss, awaiting the birth of
their first child.

Except he would eventually join Joseph across the Atlantic. But
he would bring Henny and their child to counter whatever hold Joseph had over
him.

He chuckled. Joseph would probably insist Henny join them.

The click of the library door startled him to the present.
Joseph entered, greeted him distractedly then sat in an easy chair to the side
of the fire with a sullen sigh.

Joseph hated small talk and they could simply exist in the
same room without conversing but his sigh was laden with something akin to
anguish.

“What’s wrong? You left earlier today in quite a funk.”