Cheryl Holt (13 page)

She went to the dresser and lit a candle, struggling to conceal how her hands were shaking. As the wick ignited and the flame grew, she focused on him. He was lounging in the chair, his legs crossed at the ankles. His coat and cravat were off, the top buttons of his shirt undone, so that his chest was exposed. He looked disreputable and dangerous—like a pirate or a brigand—and capable of perpetrating any nefarious deed.

His blue eyes glowed with a furious intensity, and they commenced a leisurely trip down her anatomy. Memories flooded in as to what had happened the prior occasion he’d stopped by, and on remembering her naked condition her nipples sprang to attention, throbbing and rubbing her corset. She blushed as his gaze dropped to her breasts. It was evident that he, too, was recalling every depraved moment of that misadventure.

He was drinking. He’d brought a glass and a bottle of liquor. What effect would it have on him? Would he be more aggressive? More angry? More passionate?

If he became any more amorous, there was no predicting what might transpire.

“I’ve been waiting for you for an eternity,” he stunned her by claiming. “Where have you been?”

“I was starving, so I’ve been pilfering your pantry.”

At her honest response, he chuckled. “Then we’re even. I’ve been snooping through your belongings.”

“How very crass.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“Have you stumbled on much that was interesting?”

“Many things.”

“Such as?”

“Who is James?”

She reeled, striving to recollect the contents of the letter she’d penned but hadn’t mailed. What had she written? “If you’ve been reading my correspondence, you’re even more rude than I assumed.”

“Is he your lover?”

“My lover?” He almost sounded jealous, and she laughed at the ludicrous prospect. “Oh yes, I have dozens of swains. They sneak in and out when Lydia isn’t looking.”

“You’re too pretty not to have a beau, and you’re too old to have never married. Why haven’t you?”

“I swear, Lord Stanton, every time you open your mouth, you say something more discourteous.”

“It’s a fair question. I see nothing impolite in my wanting an answer.”

“Not every female has the resources to wed.”

“So it’s been a matter of finances?”

“Of course it’s been finances. What would you suppose?”

“You don’t hate men?”

“Hate men? Are you drunk?”

“Would you take a lover if you had the chance? If you could be guaranteed that no one would ever know and that you’d never be caught?”

“No, I would not.”

“Why?”

“Just because you philander with every woman who walks by doesn’t mean that I would behave in the same indiscreet manner.”

He sipped his liquor and stared at her across the rim of his glass. “Who is James?”

“No one of any consequence.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Ellen.”

“You may not call me by my given name. It’s
Miss Drake
to you.”

“So, Ellen, who is he?”

She was exasperated by his annoying superiority, but she considered the pitfalls of various replies. Finally, she divulged, “He’s my brother.”

“You have a brother? Does he plague you—as mine frequently plagues me?”

“I’m sure mine is much worse than yours.”

“I’m going to inform Lydia that you need a raise.”

“What?” she stammered, thrown off guard by the abrupt change of topic.

“You have three dresses. One is suitable, but the other two are worn to rags.”

“I like my dresses very much,” she was compelled to protest. She’d earned them—every single stitch—by putting up with Lydia’s sniping.

“You have two decrepit pairs of shoes. One has a hole in it. You also have two pairs of stockings that are
scarcely useable from having been mended too often to count.”

“Have you tallied my undergarments, too?”

“Yes,” he confessed without a hint of remorse. “They’re entirely drab, provincially functional.”

Why would she want her unmentionables to be anything
but
functional?

She studied him, and she thought about chastising him for intruding on her privacy, but any reprimand was pointless. He was a petty tyrant, who reckoned he could act however he pleased, and he could.

“If you so much as whisper my name to Lydia,” she threatened, “it will be the last words you ever utter, for I will strangle you with my bare hands.”

“Wouldn’t you relish having a few extra pennies to spend?”

“If you talk to her, she’ll be aware that you have a heightened interest in me. How would you explain it?”

“I loathe that gown,” he said, rapidly switching the subject, once again. “Gray is horrid on you. It washes out your skin.”

“And you’d presume yourself to be an authority on feminine attire?”

“Yes.”

Naturally he would! He entertained himself by disrobing women! He was a veritable fashion expert!

“I like gray,” she insisted. She wasn’t about to clarify that Lydia picked and purchased her attire and it was the only color she would allow.

“If I bought your clothes, I’d choose a lavender, to match your eyes. Or maybe a red, to highlight the gold in your hair.”

“Do you actually think that I’m the sort of female who would parade around in a red dress?”

“I’d have you wear it for me—when we were alone.”

She gulped, besieged with images of the type of intimate relationship he envisioned between them. Her cheeks were flaming hot, and she could hardly resist the urge to fan herself.

“You suffer from the most insane flights of fancy. Is lunacy a recurring problem for you?”

“You have no possessions,” he noted, ignoring her insult. “Not a book, not any jewelry, not a picture tucked in a locket. Why is that?”

She’d cut out her tongue before she admitted that nearly every item had been seized and sold to reimburse James’s accuser. Many of the pieces had been part of her mother’s dowry, had been in Ellen’s family for generations, and that loss—coming on the heels of James’s arrest and her father’s death—had been too wrenching.

In the years since, with the exception of the last of her mother’s personal effects, she’d shunned ownership, her intent being to never become attached to anything or anyone.

“We’re not all obsessed with chattels,” she retorted, “as are the rich.”

“You told me that we’d met previously.”

“It wasn’t a
meeting
. Someone merely indicated who you were, and I saw you from a distance.”

“As a boy, I was acquainted with a family named Drake. In Surrey. The father was estate agent for a friend of mine. Are you related?”

“I don’t have any kin in Surrey”—which had been the truth for a decade—“so I’m positive I don’t know them.”

He scrutinized her again, evaluating her expression, sifting through all the lies she’d spewed, and his smirk apprised her that he hadn’t believed any of them.

“Why do you keep so many secrets?”

“If I had any secrets—which I don’t—why would I be stupid enough to share them with you?”

“Why indeed?”

He rose from the chair, and he crossed the small room in three strides so that they were toe-to-toe. As he approached, she experienced such a heady wave of exhilaration that she was dizzy.

She understood that she shouldn’t dally with him, but how could such fervent wanting be wrong? With her whole heart and soul she yearned to leap into the inferno he ignited. Through no fault of her own, her life had taken a dreadful turn. She had so few pleasures, so few reasons to celebrate.

Would the world stop spinning if she selfishly and impetuously reached out and grabbed for some happiness?

She’d always been dutiful, had been diligent and honest. She’d never pined for more than what she had, had never bemoaned her tribulations, and where had it gotten her? Nowhere! She was a poverty-stricken spinster, with no past or future worth contemplating.

Didn’t she deserve to have something good happen?

What if
. . . The fascinating prospect slipped in and took hold. What if she dared? What if she walked down the road he was encouraging her to travel?

Without a doubt, there would be misery and desolation when he was through with her. She never did anything halfway, so she’d probably fall in love, but there’d be no reciprocal emotion from him.

Even if he grew fond of her, he would never deviate from his plan to wed Rebecca, and Ellen wouldn’t want him to. In the end, Ellen would never see him again. She’d leave Lydia’s employ, and she would be on her own, cast about by the winds of fate, as she tried to establish herself elsewhere.

She’d be forlorn and despairing, but she would have memories of the time she’d spent with him, and suddenly those memories seemed worth any price.

He traced a finger across her lips. “Be my paramour, Ellen.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I’ll show you.”

“I’m afraid.”

“It will be wonderful between us,” he claimed. “I’ll make it wonderful.”

“Promise me that you’ll never hurt me.” There was no possibility of a satisfactory resolution, so it was a silly request, but she had to pretend that there could be one. “I couldn’t bear it if you did.”

“I never will,” he vowed. “I never could.”

He dipped down and kissed her, and she groaned with delight. Her body was afire with longing, fraught with pressures and torments that needed release, and she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer.

He deepened the embrace, his tongue in her mouth, his hands in her hair. He yanked at the combs, tossing them on the floor so that the lengthy mass tumbled down. He riffled through it, as he pushed her against the wall, as he gripped her bottom and lifted her.

Her legs were spread, her skirt rucked up, so that she was pinned to him, balanced on his thighs. His loins were
flattened to her privates, the rough nap of his trousers rubbing her, and he flexed his hips in a steady rhythm.

She was like a blossoming flower, opening just for him. Her breasts throbbed, her crotch wept with desire, and her own hips responded to his, imitating his movements thrust for thrust.

“Have you any idea,” he inquired, “of what men and women do when they’re together like this?”

“No. Teach me everything.”

He spun her and carried her to the bed, laying her down and coming over her. She could have declined, could have protested, but she didn’t. It seemed as if there was a line clearly drawn in the middle of the room. It was the line between right and wrong, between sin and morality. She’d crossed it with him and was so far on the other side that she’d never be able to return to how she’d been prior.

But she didn’t care. Not about her old character, or her old ambitions, or her old manner of keeping on. There was only now and how it would be after.

Once he’d finished with her, who—and what—would she be?

He was heavy, his weight forcing her down into the mattress, but she didn’t mind. He was welcome and familiar, and there was none of the strangeness or discomfort that she might have predicted. It felt so appropriate to be with him, as if she’d been heading toward this place her entire life without realizing she had been.

He stared down at her, and there was a fierceness in his gaze, but a tenderness, too, and she was thrilled by it. She could have dawdled into infinity doing nothing but watching him as his potent attention billowed over her.

“I’m so glad you said yes,” he murmured.

“I’m a fool to have agreed. You overwhelm my better sense. I can’t refuse you.”

“Why would you wish to refuse me?” he asked.

“Because you’ll bring me naught but trouble.”

“I’ll try my best to exceed your low expectations.” He smiled wryly. “We’ll go slow.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“I want to touch you all over. I want to kiss you all over.”

“Will it make me stop aching? On the inside?”

“Have you been miserable?”

“Yes, you bounder. Whatever is ailing me, it’s your fault, and I insist you effect a cure. Immediately!”

“All in good time, my little vixen. All in good time.”

He swept her away on a tumultuous tide of ecstasy, and she was content to follow wherever he led. His crafty fingers were busy, and before she knew it, her dress and corset were loose, and he was tugging down the straps of her chemise.

She braced with anticipation, her nipples tightening into painful buds. She was so impatient that she nearly embarrassed herself by begging him to hurry. Finally, her breasts were bared. He snuggled down and took one of the tips into his mouth, and she hissed with an agonized joy.

Driving her wild, he suckled her, and she wrestled and squirmed, striving to escape the onslaught but move closer to it, too. He was inching up her skirt, his hand trailing up her calf, her thigh. Instinctively, she recognized his destination, that relief was in sight, so she wasn’t about to call a halt.

“You’re so wet,” he said.

“Why am I? What’s happening to me?” He was brushing across her cleft, toying with her so that she writhed and moaned. “Please . . . have mercy!”

Without warning, he slid two fingers inside her, and they fit perfectly, as if she’d been designed for him to caress her in precisely that fashion. He stroked them back and forth, back and forth.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Relax.”

“I feel as if I’m about to explode.”

“You are.”

She had no idea what he was implying, but if something didn’t occur—and soon!—she worried for her physical safety. There was a stress building, the tension extreme, as her body worked toward a goal that remained out of reach.

“When will it end?” she pleaded. “I can’t stand any more.”

“Almost there.”

His thumb dabbed out and flicked at a spot she’d never noticed, and it seemed as if all the sensation in the universe were centered there. He jabbed at it—once, twice, thrice—and she leapt over an invisible precipice, her torso in free fall, her spirit soaring across the heavens.

Someone cried out, and she was quite sure it was herself, though she was too dazed to be certain. The rapture spiraled her up and up, to an excruciating level, until it peaked and began to wane.