Read The Seduction of Phaeton Black Online
Authors: Jillian Stone
The Seduction of Phaeton Black (18 page)
Exeter looked like he could use a few winks. Phaeton ladled up another spoonful of soup. “How is the Baron?”
“Comfortable, I hope. He is no longer conscious.” The doctor nodded a bow and excused himself.
The moment the door closed, Phaeton pulled her close. “Nurse Jones. I believe it is time to examine the wounds on your patient’s privates.”
“I see that playful smugness is back in your grin.” She returned the wicked glint in his eyes and left his wandering hands to wander. Without exposing any skin, she rattled off a report. “Bruising has gone from dark purple to pale green, and the scratches and bite marks are healed over. Wouldn’t want to open up any wounds by forcing too much blood down there, now would we?” America laughed and pushed away.
He smiled and pulled her back. “I can take a bit of pain with my pleasure.”
She easily read the sleepy sable gaze that perused her body. Shifting her eyes, a darker thought needled at her. She hadn’t planned to mention anything about last night. He had been injured, nearly killed by that wicked pythoness, but the question escaped her mouth. “Did you enjoy her?”
His eyes met hers before rolling upward and to the side. “The simple, honest answer would be yes, for a very brief period.”
Suddenly and most unexpectedly, she kissed him. His generous mouth opened and unleashed a hot tongue as he took control. How easily he made her body burn for him. She took his lower lip between her teeth and moaned softly. “Thank you for being honest.”
A small corner of his mouth twitched. “I didn’t know you cared, Miss Jones.”
She reached behind her and lifted his arm from around her waist. “I believe I promised you a sponge bath, Mr. Black.”
Phaeton’s head fell into the pillow, as his belly shuddered. “Do not stop, Miss Jones.” The washcloth sprang to life and began to wave. America caught hold of the dancing fabric and gently stroked the soapy cloth over his ready mast. Her hands soapy and slick, she abandoned the cloth and stroked the length of his shaft.
America had built up a fire in the hearth and removed his nightshirt. Carefully, she had washed every part, every appendage except the one he most wanted her to touch. She had taken her time, until the anticipation became unbearable.
Her fingers danced over his chest as she followed a narrow trail of hair past his navel to the proud member throbbing in her hands. “You are beautifully made.”
As his arousal edged upward, he sensed she wanted him badly, but would not press for her own pleasure. The quick-witted, affable side of Miss Jones had always made her a pleasant companion, but this recent kindness toward him moved Phaeton, inexplicably.
She kept her fingers wet and soaped, so that she would slip over cuts and scratches. His euphoric demands increased in a frenzy of peaking pleasure. “You may grip tighter, faster.”
The vixen purposely stroked slower, lighter. He opened his eyes and frowned.
She grinned. “A picture in the
Kama Sutra
comes to mind, Mr. Black.” She leaned over and kissed, then licked him like a stick of hard candy.
Kama Sutra
comes to mind, Mr. Black.” She leaned over and kissed, then licked him like a stick of hard candy.
He released a kind of trumpeting growl. For a moment, she must have thought she pleasured a bull elephant. When she jerked upright, her eyes were large and black with desire.
“You temptress, you—” He grabbed her up into his arms and lifted her skirts. “Lay on your side.” She wrapped a leg around his waist and he found the slit in her pantalettes. His fingers moved into the damp heat between her legs. The light tickling she received continued until he made her cry out and her body tremble. He fingered deeper to see if she would receive him. He was nearly mad with passion. “Oh, my dove, you are ready.”
He pressed into her. They shared a ripple, then a wave of fierce arousal, which moved directly through her body into his. He continually marveled at her ability to bring him such astounding pleasure. She answered each of his thrusts, and added more of her own, until she brought him to release. Sleepily, he used his fingers to play and stroke and circle until she tumbled over the edge of desire and into the Land of Nod.
The whining squeak of his bedchamber door roused him out of his own dream. A rustle of skirt and two sets of footsteps.
“Have you seen the way Mr. Black and Miss Jones look at each other, Oom Asa?” Phaeton very clearly heard Mia’s whispered comment.
Phaeton opened an eye and raised a finger to his lips. Mia and Exeter stood at the foot of his bed, well aware America lay fast asleep, nestled in his arms. And he did not imagine the subtle lift at one corner of the doctor’s mouth, even as he turned his wide-eyed charge away from the scene in his bed.
“Then”—the girl stammered—“have you any idea what is going on between them?”
“I believe I do.” The repressed amusement in Exeter’s voice was evident. “Come along, Mia.” Soft footsteps padded over the carpet and door hinges creaked open.
“Oom Asa, please do not nanny me.”
“I shall not and never will attempt to
nanny
you, my dear.”
nanny
you, my dear.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Phaeton smiled at the chit’s tenacity.
“In a year or two you’ll understand perfectly, Mia.” Exeter closed the door.
Chapter Eighteen
A
CHAMBERMAID PULLED BACK THE WINDOW DRAPERIES
and opened the shutters. A beam of sunlight traveled over her cheek, coaxing America to wake. She yawned and rolled over to enjoy the view, a rather splendid aspect of the deer park. The subtly striped tonal walls meant she was in Phaeton’s room.
CHAMBERMAID PULLED BACK THE WINDOW DRAPERIES
and opened the shutters. A beam of sunlight traveled over her cheek, coaxing America to wake. She yawned and rolled over to enjoy the view, a rather splendid aspect of the deer park. The subtly striped tonal walls meant she was in Phaeton’s room.
Phaeton’s room? She sat straight up.
“Good morning, my somnolent dove.” Handsomely attired, Phaeton stood at the foot of the bed looking refreshed, if a bit pale. He tipped his watch just far enough out of his waistcoat pocket to check the hour. “You have barely enough time to wash up and change if we are to catch the early train to Portsmouth.”
She rubbed her eyes. “You must not travel yet, Mr. Black. You need more rest. Doctor says—”
“Plenty of time to sleep on the train. Run along now, the carriage is waiting.”
She swept back the bedcovers. Dear Lord, she had slept in her clothes all night. Uncomfortably stiff and feeling a bit grotty, she made her way to the door before questioning his orders. “Do you always get your way Mr. Black?”
“Used to.” The man had the temerity to grin. “Before a certain young lady took up residence in my life. I barely remember what it was like to live the joyful unencumbered life of a bachelor.”
She slammed the door and opened another farther down the hall. Her trunks were packed and the boldly striped traveling dress and coat were laid out and ready for her to change into. It seemed Mr. Black could be exceedingly well organized when he set his mind to a task. Not that he was a frivolous man by any means. In fact, he had proven himself to be resilient and resourceful. She exhaled and yanked the bell pull. A large bowl of warm water and a quick wash up refreshed her. The kindly little chambermaid even thought to bring up tea and buttered toast slathered with wild strawberry conserve.
Growing up aboard ship, America had learned many useful things. How to ready herself in a wink, for instance. She was dressed and waiting at the carriage well ahead of Mr. Black, who exited the great house a few minutes later accompanied by Dr. Exeter. The doctor handed a lunch basket to a footman who packed the food stuffs inside the carriage.
“Some rare roast beef for Phaeton to build up his blood. And a jar of bouillon. I believe there are sandwiches and an apple tart as well.” She had come to know Dr. Exeter as a thoughtful and kind man, whose severe demeanor did him no justice.
Exeter turned to Phaeton. “The Baron has only hours left. He has asked to make a written confession. I should like to deliver it to Scotland Yard myself.”
Phaeton nodded. “A first meeting with Zander Farrell would be best. I’ll wire him from the station to expect you. My advice would be to hand over the confession, answer any, well ... I’m sure—”
“Yes, I am quite sure there will be questions.” Exeter coughed. “Will he have me arrested for—what do you call it—harboring?”
Phaeton tilted his chin and squinted. “I don’t believe so.”
Beads of perspiration formed above the doctor’s brow. America pressed her lips together to restrain a chuckle.
Phaeton grinned. “I wouldn’t land the airship outside 4 Whitehall. Might get you locked up as a flight risk.”
Once their carriage lurched off, she could no longer suppress a grin. “You weren’t much solace to the doctor.”
“I shall not lose a wink of sleep over Exeter. Scotland Yard will deliberate for weeks over that confession. I suspect, once the Baron is dead, which seems imminent, there will be no one left to arrest—no one they wish to admit to anyway.” Phaeton shook his head. “No, I predict the document will be burned and the case will go on unsolved.”
When she raised a brow, he grinned. “Can you picture Qadesh standing trial in the Old Bailey?”
“I suppose not.” She studied the ready upturn at the ends of his sensuous, masculine mouth. Sometimes, she had to fight off the urge to jump in his lap and kiss him. “You do a great deal of grinning, Mr. Black.”
Instantly, he turned the ends of his mouth downward, into a much exaggerated frown, which made her chuckle. “I confess you do have quite the charming smile, but—” She scraped a bit of lower lip under her teeth. “How is it I have never heard you laugh?”
He straightened up. “Because I never laugh, Miss Jones.”
“Never?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Ever?”
He exhaled. “I remember laughing as a child.”
A bit misty-eyed, she nodded. “Your mother died—when you were just a lad.”
He glanced out the coach window. “Fully recovered from her death years ago.”
Aware she had hit upon a subject that caused him some discomfort, she folded her hands in her lap and waited him out.
Several long minutes passed before his black hooded eyes shifted to met her gaze. “Mother was barely cold in her family crypt before my father remarried. Ghastly woman, but he was deliriously happy—for a time. They used to laugh constantly. I would hear their laughter laying in bed at night, coming from either bedroom, outside in the garden, at the dinner table. Even as my sorrow deepened, the evidence of their happiness was in the air, everywhere.” His glower grew darker still. “I vowed never to laugh again, and was greatly relieved to be packed off to school.”
Her heart broke to think of Phaeton as a young boy, losing his mother, the only one who understood the fey, darker side of his troubling, extraordinary faculties. How alone in the world he must have felt. She well understood that kind of loss. Her own mother often said it was like learning to live with a foot in two worlds. Many born with abilities beyond the everyday sensory were unschooled and therefore unable to interpret the otherworld. Often, they were deemed insane and subjected to ice baths and horrific treatments in the dreadful prisons otherwise known as asylums.
She remembered a cautionary warning from her mother. Standing on the pier, she buttoned her coat. “Mark my words, child. Keep your essence secret and never reveal your gifts to those who know only the temporal life. They fear the power of the unseen and will often attempt to harm a
vauda
witch.” She grabbed her shoulders. “Do you hear me, Síne?”
vauda
witch.” She grabbed her shoulders. “Do you hear me, Síne?”
“Oui, Maman.”
She glanced across the carriage cabin and found Phaeton also lost in thought. She cleared her throat. “My mother handed me over to my father when I was seven. How old were you when left motherless?”
His downturned eyes met hers. “Eight.”
She sighed, deeply. “Might I ask you how old you are?”
“Five and twenty.”
Years younger than she figured. In fact, she was quite taken aback. It made sense though, with regard to some of the immature behavior. He was also wickedly clever about disguising his youth.
The glint in his eye acknowledged her reaction. “I was pushed ahead in school. Got bullied by my classmates for being clever. Then, when I moved up a grade, I got bullied because I was still clever and a great deal brighter than the older boys.”
No wonder he was such a tough scraper. Brave as well as wicked smart. “I have no doubt of it, Mr. Black.” Her admiring gaze did seem to please him some as he eased back into upholstered squabs and resumed an affable expression.
“Since the sapphire has never left your hand ...” His gaze traveled to her ring finger. “I do recall we got engaged on the way to Roos House.” Phaeton reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a gold band. “Will you marry me?”
A heated flush ran up her throat and set her cheeks on fire. “You are joking, sir.”
Phaeton’s eyes crinkled. “Yes, of course I am, Miss Jones. Had you there for a moment, didn’t I?”
America smiled, and didn’t stop chuckling until Phaeton got the engagement ring and band on her finger.
She held up her hand. “Quite a lot of jewelry for one small digit.”
Phaeton leaned forward and nodded toward the coach window. “We have arrived at Waterloo station, Mrs. Black. Shall we get ourselves to Portsmouth Harbor?”
It poured rain and sleet in Portsmouth. “No cabs at the moment, but I have paid a baggage handler to procure us a lift at first opportunity.” Miss Jones sat on one of her trunks looking prettily rumpled and wonderfully content.
Their compartment had been empty for the last leg of the trip, and he had unmercifully teased, one hand under her dress, until she had nearly swooned from her semi-public climax. It had been hugely indecent of him, and unbelievably arousing.
“Any moment now, a stranger could walk through that door and discover us.” He whispered the words as his fingers coaxed her to the brink, her moans of release muffled by his kiss. Afterward when the dear girl could speak coherently again, he got up to stretch his legs and unlock the door.
He waited for her to clap her mouth shut.
She had appeared unable to decide on laughter or a flogging. He held onto the baggage rack above her, swaying to the movement of the train. Her gaze had traveled down to the evidence of his enormous physical discomfort. Her eyes narrowed. “You shall atone for this, Phaeton.”
“Slow and torturous, I hope,” he had replied.
Phaeton smiled at her across the station platform. She now regarded him with the kind of sultry-eyed air women gave men who knew how to attend to their pleasure. He loved that look. Especially hers. He had every intention of tossing Mrs. Black onto a bed at the Dorchester Arms and having his way with her, as soon as possible. He pictured her fully naked flesh and that wild mop of curls spread over counterpane and pillows.
“Phaeton!” Inwardly, he cringed at the recognition of Inspector Moore’s shout. He swiveled. “Thought I would check the afternoon train, just in case you made it.” Dexter nodded to America. “Very good to see you, Miss Jones. I take it the journey was not overly taxing?”
Phaeton used his flat-lipped grin. “Only the arrival.”
“How’s that?”
He shrugged. “No transport, I’m afraid.”
“Come along, I’ve got a hansom waiting.” He bowed to the lady. “Miss Jones, let me escort you.”
Peevish, but still well in control, Phaeton strolled after them, followed by porter and luggage.
“There’s another cab now, Phaeton. We’ll take the smaller bags with us, and you can follow along with the lady’s trunk.”
America feigned a pout and smiled at him. Dex offered his hand, and she climbed into the waiting cab. Phaeton glanced overhead. At least the rain had abated. The porter strapped the trunk to the back of the hansom and Phaeton soon followed along after his wife.
Alighting his cab at the Dorchester, a ready bellhop took care of the trunk, and Phaeton stepped into a small, well-appointed lobby in time to overhear the hotel clerk’s question to the couple at the desk.
“Will you be wanting a suite, then, or a room, Mr. and Mrs. Black?”
Phaeton cleared his throat and spoke up. “I think, perhaps, a suite with an ajoining bedroom for Mrs. Black’s brother.” He approached the desk clerk. “I’m sorry. You appear confused, and no wonder. I’m afraid I was busy outside sorting out the luggage. I am the lady’s husband.” Phaeton swiveled to the right. “This gentleman is my brother-in-law.” Phaeton squinted at the noticeable tension in Dexter’s jaw.
America spoke sweetly but stabbed him with her eyes. “A suite would be the perfect arrangement, dear.” She nodded to the clerk. “What might you have available?”
As the clerk sputtered, Phaeton removed his wallet from an inside coat pocket and laid several large denomination bills on the desk. “I’m sure something near to perfect can be arranged.”
“Very good, sir.” Immediately, the clerk tapped a bell, and they were escorted upstairs to a cozy suite of rooms. A pleasant-sized parlor sat between two bedrooms and featured a large bay widow. They waited for the bellman to stoke coals in the hearth.
“Since it’s nearly teatime, shall we have a little something brought up?” Phaeton nodded to America and Dex, who ordered a sampling of cakes and sandwiches with their tea. “A bottle of whiskey for me. Something distilled in Scotland, if you have it.” He handed the man half a crown. “And a glass.”
At the window, he pulled back a sheer drapery, careful to shade himself from anyone on the street below. A mist of light rain tapped gently at the glass. Past their quiet street, a vast expanse of harbor stretched out to an invisible grey horizon line. The bay was dotted with ships of all makes and sizes, including two huge battleships anchored far offshore. “So Dex, fill us in on what you have uncovered thus far.”
“Ten days ago, we received a wire from the Gibraltar office about the
Draakster,
bound for this harbor. The ship made port late last week. Extremely suspicious registry, manned by a Dutch crew.”
Draakster,
bound for this harbor. The ship made port late last week. Extremely suspicious registry, manned by a Dutch crew.”
America settled onto a camelback divan. “Yanky Willem?”
“A syndicated shipping company is the owner of record.” Dex removed a pipe and pouch from his coat pocket. “The Dutch are a cagey lot. We believe Willem is the owner of majority, but we can’t get them to confirm. Mind if I smoke?”
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