Sexual Hunger (9 page)

“You would keep my secrets.
All
of them.”

“Yes! Yes! I
adore
your secrets, Miss Palladino!” The butler clasped her hands between his, beseeching her with his shining eyes. “I feel quite honored to serve in your household! And I sincerely pray it will
remain
your household even if—”

“Then
you
must look after
my
welfare as well, Quentin! Promise me you’ll do everything in your power to keep a roof over my head!” Maria stood taller, pressing every advantage she could think of. Deadly serious now, she lowered her voice. “If the Daringtons see me for my dirt—my soiled literary reputation, or the triangular arrangement I have with their sons—I’ll not only be out of a home, I’ll be out of an income. More at the mercy of their whims than you are! A woman left alone at the altar has nothing but loneliness and destitution in her future, Quentin.”

“Oh, I would never forgive myself—or Lord and Lady Darington—if you were left destitute, Miss Palladino! Miss Crimson is my idol!”

“Excellent! We have an understanding!”

They stood nearly nose to nose. Then Quentin coughed to cover his chuckle. “I should tell you something about the house that will ensure your privacy. Or at least delay Mrs. Booth’s discovery of your other identity.”

Maria raised her eyebrows. “She knows of Jude’s physical affections for—”

“When I saw him slipping in through the service entrance, and then coming from the wine cellar, I…I distracted Ruthie with, well—sex,” he confessed. “So she wouldn’t notice any unseemly noises coming from your room. She makes plenty of her own.”

Maria blinked. It was still inconceivable that
Ruthie
and this young man would—but what could she say? Quentin had just covered her bare ass!

“I doubt you’re aware of the whispering tubes.”

Whispering tubes? Many large homes had been constructed with a system for communicating with the help, wherever they happened to be. But in her room, she’d never noticed…

Quentin cleared his throat, smiling. “Knowing you were to occupy that chamber, Jemma and Lady Darington cleverly concealed those holes in the walls with a decorative piece that hangs beside your door. Therefore, anyone who cares to can—theoretically—eavesdrop on the activities in your room.”

“Which means the holes have been open since I moved in?” she demanded. The
nerve
of those meddling women! “And Dora and Jemma informed Mrs. Booth of this?”

“Of course. Because they cannot always be present themselves. Jason was most insistent that his mother and sister not intrude upon his newlywed state.”

She exhaled slowly, considering her options. “But if I cover those holes, Mrs. Booth will know I’ve discovered their little ploy to—”

He grinned engagingly. “Miss Crimson is resourceful enough to use such knowledge when it’s in her best interest.”

Maria snickered. Wasn’t it
fine
to be privy to a Darington secret, thanks to this confederate? He’d done her a huge favor—and oddly enough, she trusted him. She slipped her arm through Quentin’s again and they walked toward the house that was their home, yet wasn’t, really. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“My pleasure, milady. Nothing I want more than to see Jason return for you. And to see more of Jemma, of course. Much, much more.”

Ah, puppy love. She had to smile at his eagerness. “Miss Crimson
can
be very resourceful. I won’t guarantee Miss Darington’s devotion, but I can certainly…arrange things.”

A
few days later, Maria stepped inside the door and listened, as she always did. Except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the vestibule, the town house seemed unusually quiet for the middle of the afternoon.

Perfect.
She hurried up the stairs as the clock began the sonorous chiming that announced the hour, letting the stately
bong
…
bong
…
bong
mask her arrival. The muslin pockets hidden beneath her skirt bulged with Miss Crimson’s mail, and she hoped to spend the afternoon answering correspondence—composing future columns. Closing the door to her room, she smirked at the biblical needlepoint sampler hanging beside it:
A GOOD WIFE WHO CAN FIND? SHE IS FAR MORE PRECIOUS THAN JEWELS
, it declared in pink satin stitches. Maria lifted its bottom edge and stuck out her tongue at the three holes: whispering tubes that would carry any messages to the kitchen, the laundry area, or to Mrs. Booth’s quarters on the third floor.

“Oh, Quentin, you mustn’t lick me there! You
mustn’t!
What if His Grace returns and catches us in the throes of our passion?”

Maria blinked.
Quentin? His Grace?

“Ah, but you know how I cannot resist you, sweetling! Your nectar drives me wild for more! His Grace be damned!”

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. That was indeed Quentin’s voice, although he sounded like a bit player reading from a badly written script. Where might he and Ruthie be playing out their little melodrama? And why had she never heard their voices before?

Maria considered this while impassioned moans drifted into her room. Had Quentin turned the tables on Mrs. Booth? Had he opened the speaking tubes on their end, so Maria could eavesdrop? While the idea of the housekeeper seducing the young butler still seemed ludicrous, something about their game intrigued her. And who knew how
useful
such information might be in the future?

She slipped out of the cumbersome inner skirt containing her mail, removed her shoes, and then crept noiselessly up the service stairway. She paused to study the third-floor hallway, where she’d never ventured: Mrs. Booth could
not
catch her spying! Maria crept carefully past the two closed doors of the servants’ quarters, thinking it quite
convenient
that all the help was housed on this level. When she entered the small ballroom, the balustrade of another stairway assured her she had an escape route, if she needed one.

Tingling with curiosity—for wasn’t it Miss Crimson’s mission to seek out newsworthy behavior?—Maria tiptoed toward the hallway again. The shifting of furniture on a plank floor told her their little charade was being played out in the room nearest the service stairs. Holding her breath, she leaned down to peer through the keyhole.

She would not have believed it, had she not seen it herself: was that the venerable Mrs. Booth wearing a bridal gown? Veiled in white lace—probably so poor Quentin wouldn’t look upon her withered face—she sprawled on the narrow bed with her legs spread as her lover knelt on the floor beside her.

“Oh! Oh, my darling, you’ve ruined me for any other man!” the housekeeper moaned. She writhed and opened herself farther, clutching the gown’s voluminous skirts to keep them out of Quentin’s way. “Please, we have so little time before the duke returns to—”

The butler stuck out his tongue and teased the rim of Ruthie’s portal. She cried out, pleading incoherently as he rubbed and licked her into a frenzy. His hands splayed over the tops of her white stockings, plump thighs that shimmied with her excitement.

Maria clenched, shamelessly aware that she was getting wet. Jason had been gone for too long! Jude had stayed away because it would be too obvious if he stayed the night. As she felt the inner tremors intensifying, she focused on Quentin’s busy tongue. What a lucky girl Jemma would be if she encouraged this young swain’s attentions, for he knew how to satisfy a woman…in ways that would keep her chastity intact.

Not that she herself would encourage Quentin’s attention. He already knew too much.

But the little play went on—another exchange of heated endearments—until the housekeeper screamed and grasped her lover’s head. The narrow bed knocked against the wall, faster and faster, until Mrs. Booth let out a primal cry. As she lay panting, still spread-eagle with her gown thrown up over her head, Quentin rose to his full height. He wiped his mouth on a small towel and tossed it back to the nightstand.

Then he looked right at her. As if he
knew
she was watching through the keyhole.

Maria covered her mouth to keep from gasping. How could he possibly have sensed—?

But he was grinning. As though the joke was on Mrs. Booth.

Maria relaxed, yet the ache between her legs had become an itch needing to be scratched. She should retreat now, return to her room before the Daringtons’ housekeeper suspected her presence—

Except Quentin was unfastening his pants. Quite nonchalantly, as though he
wanted
to display himself to her, the young butler let his trousers drop.

He wasn’t wearing anything under them.

Maria’s eyes widened as he stroked himself to an impressive length. Slyly he turned toward the bed again, giving her a profile view, and then he loudly cleared his throat. “You know the rules, Ruthie,” he announced imperiously. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Assume the position—and be quick about it! If His Grace returns, I’ll swear you provoked me, you wicked thing!”

With a short laugh, the housekeeper rolled to her knees. White garters stretched down her thighs as she spread her legs so her backside protruded lewdly. While her attributes didn’t interest Maria in the least, it
did
fascinate her that these two had developed such a ritual…which implied a longtime arrangement. Quentin entered her without ado and began pumping, eager to relieve his pent-up energy. Ruthie had come first, after all.

Maria watched, chiding herself for spying, and yet…hadn’t Quentin set this up? Wasn’t he baring himself to
her
as much as finishing the script with Mrs. Booth? His dark hair swayed around his collar as his head fell back; his lean hips thrust and thrust and thrust—until he grimaced and gripped his partner’s hips. His entire body shook as he released his seed. A deep breath steadied him, and then he withdrew, almost businesslike.

“I can’t think Miss Palladino shall be gone much longer,” he announced. “We’d best freshen ourselves and resume our duties downstairs. And while you enjoy her veil, you’d best find another prop. Only a matter of time before we tear the delicate lace or leave an…unseemly stain on it.”

Maria’s eyes widened. That
was
her veil! She’d been so intent on watching the servants’ little game, she hadn’t noticed how the familiar headpiece shimmered when its seed pearls caught the light from the window. Mrs. Booth wiped herself with the towel and then dropped her white skirts over her legs: at least she was too short and stout to fit into Maria’s bridal gown!

Maria rushed down the hall on light feet and descended to her second-floor bedroom. She closed the door quietly and locked it. Checked her armoire: yes, the gown she’d worn for Jason still hung there, behind the dresses she’d worn since his mysterious disappearance. Should she follow Quentin’s cue by slipping outside to make her official entrance, after the two lovers had time to return to their posts?

She thought better of it. Still felt needy…with images of Quentin’s quivering hips and Mrs. Booth’s spread, white thighs flitting through her mind. And then it was Jason she imagined, just as he’d been in this very room, the last time she saw him. Jason, playing the pirate…growling lustily in her ear, telling her what he intended to do to her as she remained his captive, tied to the bed in her blindfold.

Aarrrrrgh! Naughty wench! There’s no help fer yer wicked soul save to tie yer pretty arse to the mast and spank it!

She suddenly had to have him back, if only in her mind. Maria reached into her nightstand, behind her lace handkerchiefs and the prayer book she’d had since her childhood…back to her fiancé’s favorite toy, wrapped in another of his bandannas. When she beheld the dildo of sleek ivory, she felt a jolt of passionate need. He’d brought her this oversize, rather lurid gift after one of his journeys to southern islands where Darington ships took on their cargo of cacao beans. While she loved the chocolate he provided her after such trips, she craved the handsome voyager’s touch even more.

And she needed it
now
. Placing a knee on the cushion of the window seat, she slipped the phallic toy, so suggestive of Jason’s bold, brazen cock, up her skirts.

There’s no help fer ye then, save to let Blackbeard have his way with ye. Plunder and pillage, it is! Assume the position, lass. I’m comin’ in!

Maria inhaled his masculine scent from the bandanna, working the ivory column against her inflamed folds, scratching an intimate itch. Her hips wiggled, fueling the flames she’d ignited while peeking through Mrs. Booth’s keyhole. She surged toward release, rubbing the nub that cried out for attention. Finally she plunged the thick phallus inside herself.

“Jason…Jason…” In her mind, he was pumping her from behind, moving his body against hers with the decisive power that swept her away with his fiery-bright passion. She hadn’t been able to see him that afternoon, wearing his eye patch and bandanna, but she hadn’t needed to: the pressure of his hands was forever emblazoned on her body, her memory. And the thunder of his low voice still rumbled in her ears.

You drive me mad with the hunger, woman…. It was all I could think of from the time I arose: your hot, sweet cunt swallowing my cock.

His intimate language, hot and crude, drove her over the top. Maria clenched and strained toward satisfaction, in perfect rhythm and harmony with her absent lover. As he moaned those love words again in her imagination and shot his warm honey inside her, Maria muffled her cries with his pirate scarf. She writhed against the dildo until the spasms ceased and her sexual hunger felt sated—for now.

My God, it felt so real.
His hands had pressed into her flesh and the coarse curls on his chest had tickled her back. She suddenly wanted him so badly, missed him so much…
needed
him. Maria rested her forehead against the wall as tears slithered down her cheeks.

There was no way around it. She had to find Jason Darington.

Her resolve rising, Maria freshened herself in the bathroom and put away her toy, one of the last things Jason had given her—

But this is not his final gift! He WILL return! We WILL be together!

Relieved and recommitted to him, she reached into the pockets of the muslin underskirt she’d worn to the post office. More than a dozen envelopes addressed to Miss Crimson…from readers asking to be noticed or advised, most likely. An unembellished script drew her attention to one of them, so she slipped her fingernail beneath its seal, which was a blob of red wax without any initial or insignia. The paper was coarse, and she saw no return address.
Having seen your plea in behalf of Jason Darington, Miss Crimson, I can no longer withhold what I know.

Maria’s breath caught. She skimmed the page of plain penmanship, sensing the answer to her prayers.

I cannot reveal my name or how I came upon this information, but I suspect the handsome, intrepid Jason Darington met with a twist of fate during his bachelor party on the pier. He is most likely aboard a ship. Most likely in the unwilling employ of its captain. I pray for his return, and for Miss Palladino as she awaits him.

Maria swiped at her eyes. Who could have written this? How did this reader
know
about Jason being aboard a ship against his will—and how had he gotten there? It fit with Rubio’s visions of endless water and a rocking sensation, didn’t it? And it coincided with what Yosef Polinsky had uttered, as well.

Frantic yet hopeful, Maria pawed through the remaining notes and instinctively plucked another one. It only made her pulse pound faster:

Miss Crimson: please inform Miss Palladino that her beloved, Jason Darington, was most likely shanghaied—

Shanghaied! Maria sucked in her breath. Who had done this to him? Had he been knocked unconscious? Taken hostage? How had this happened while he was among his friends—the very cohorts who’d come to his wedding the next day unaware of his fate?

Or had those three been covering their lack of vigilance? Covering a truth so horrible they hadn’t dared reveal it to her, or—more likely—to Jason’s temperamental father, Lord Darington?

Maria exhaled, trying to control her wild thoughts. Whom could she ask about this? It was a minor miracle that she’d received two responses to that impulsive plea she’d published in her column, but she’d written herself into a corner: if she asked just
anyone
about this matter, her identity as Miss Crimson would be revealed.

She folded the notes back into their envelopes. She stashed the muslin skirt and the rest of the letters in the bottom of her armoire and shut its doors. Down the stairs and out the front door she went, praying Quentin and Mrs. Booth were still putting themselves to rights. So intent on her purpose she was, Maria strode quickly between the passersby thronging the side streets—past the flower girls and street vendors—until she turned onto Regent Street. She entered the side door of the tall building that housed the LeChaud Soeurs couturier.

From the small waiting area, she heard her brother’s voice as he gave a reading in the back room. But she could restrain herself no longer.

“Rubio!” she cried. “Rubio, we must talk! Something quite urgent has occurred!”