Sinful in Satin (32 page)

“That is what I said.” Her voice faltered a bit, due to the distraction this washing was creating. Shoulders now, and back and bottom and—She startled, and looked over her shoulder at him. “You are being most thorough.”

“I would not want to serve you poorly.” He stroked again. A wonderful tremble traveled to every part of her. Deliberately now, he touched to arouse her, and standing made the sensations incredibly intense. He stepped closer then, and pressed his erection between her thighs and up against her heat.

She had to lean against him for support. Her body pulsed savagely around the pressure and she could barely breathe. He soaped his hands again, and slowly caressed her torso, and finally her breasts.

His chin rested against her temple while his hands moved in luxurious circles on her breasts. She bit her lip so she would not moan, but it was in her, so loud that the whole street would hear if it escaped.

“Whatever I want. Let me think.” He tortured and teased while she squirmed against his hardness. “I want you in one of those satin dresses. You should be in bed already when I come to you. With pillows. Lots of pillows. I want you already aroused when I get there. Like you are now.”

She closed her eyes and saw what he described, and herself waiting in erotic anticipation. His fingers squeezed her nipples gently, sending jolts of sensation down her body.

“And then?”

“Whatever I want, as you said.” He separated from her then. All of him.

She grasped the edge of the washstand to steady herself. “You aren’t just going to leave me like this!”

“I thought you had things to do today.”

He laughed. His arm circled her body, her feet left the ground, and she landed on the bed. He braced himself over her and thrust into her hard.

He lifted her leg and thrust again, deeper. Marvelous tremors came alive in response to the force of it. She bent her knees to her chest so it could be deeper yet, more filling, more complete. Rising above her on taut arms, his severe face angled so he watched what he did to her, he withdrew slowly and entered hard in a joining that left her gasping, frantic, lifting her hips impatiently.

It turned savage, and the force and power commanded pleasures she could not control. The tremors broke free and flowed all through her in a fast wave of perfect sensation. It did not end there, but happened again and again, in perfect echoes of fulfillment that made her body cry repeatedly. It went on forever, it seemed. Finally his own tremor broke so physically that it shook the bed.

He collapsed on her with a groaning sigh. She embraced him as closely as she could, sharing all that she could. She let her soul flow within the bliss, and did not care if it was reckless to allow herself to love him the way she did now.

 

 

“Y
ou plan on dallying every day until almostnoon?” Marian set the plate in front of Jonathan, then folded her arms. “I need to know, so I don’t bother cleaning the pans if I’ll be making breakfast again this late.”

He tried to appear chagrined. Celia caught his eye while she tended some plants near the window.

“I expect most days it won’t be quite this late. My apologies if I have disrupted the household.”

“Oh, you’ve disrupted this household plenty, Mr. Albrighton. Come fair weather when the windows are open, you may be disrupting the whole street.”

Marian went back down to the kitchen. Jonathan finished his food, then went over to Celia, who clipped weak leaves from a broad-leafed plant.

He embraced her from behind as she worked. “I have disrupted your day as well as the household. It was bad of me.”

“Very bad. Nor have we heard the last of it. Wait until Bella tells Marian about the mess we made with the water. There may not be enough rags in this house to mop it all up.”

There had been a lot of washing and caressing and soapy play besides his first service to her. Her screaming climax on the bed had been a beginning, not an end.

He tucked her warmth against him, and again felt the soft strokes of the cloth as she dried him less than an hour ago. He saw her golden crown lower, and his mind and body knew again the unbearable pleasure she had created with her mouth.

The memory made him harden once more against her. She turned her face so he saw her profile. “I would have thought you’d had enough,” she teased.

Not enough. Never enough. He noticed a subtle distraction in her, however, as if for all the intimacy of this embrace, her mind considered other things.

As would his own, when he permitted it. Eventually he must. He was glad for the morning’s joy, however, and the excuse to delay all that.

He released her. “Will you be going to Mayfair for these errands you must do? I will take you in the cabriolet, and tether my horse.”

“I think that I will wait until tomorrow for those errands, and take care of some household matters closer to home today.” She reached up and patted his jaw. “You have not yet shaved, anyway. If I am to accomplish anything today, I must leave sooner than you will be able to.”

He kissed her, and went up the stairs to shave and finish dressing, but he paused and looked at Celia through the doorway before the stairwell swallowed him. For all her luminous smiles and intimate gazes, she had left some of her fresh joy in her chamber. Now she pondered that plant while she snipped, as if it contained the answers to life.

C
elia stopped her carriage in front of a brick building in the City. A boy lingered near the front door, and offered to walk the horse while she was away. She gave him a few pence, and approached the door while the carriage rolled away.

She plucked a letter from her reticule. It had been waiting when she came down from her bedchamber today. It had arrived in the morning mail, and had been lying there in her house, waiting to ruin a day begun gloriously.

She entered the building and found the chambers of Mr. Harold Watson, Solicitor.

Mr. Watson had requested she call at his chambers at one o’clock. It was now beyond half past one. She rather hoped that she had come too late. She would not mind a few days to prepare for this, although she doubted there were any way to do so.

What was going to happen was inevitable. Jonathan had made sure it would when he seduced her, hadn’t he? And she had allowed it, for all her drama in making her big decision. Now, instead of a life of security, she would have the memories of a wonderful passion that gained her nothing, enjoyed for a few weeks when she was young.

Ten years hence, what would she think of the trade she had made, and the affair that resulted? That she had forgiven Jonathan his deception too easily, in order to enjoy the power and excitement? That pleasure had so ruled her that she forgot to be sensible? When she was with him, she set aside thoughts of their inevitable parting so that would not ruin the joy, but she was not so stupid as to ever really forget it.

A clerk ushered her into Mr. Watson’s private chamber. She stood there in shock while the door closed behind her. She barely heard the greeting of Mr. Watson, who was a wiry, short man with graying hair and an unfashionable beard. The guest who had been sitting with him commanded all of her attention.

“You did not say in your letter that Mr. Dargent would be here, Mr. Watson.”

“I advised him to attend, Miss Pennifold. As his solicitor, it is my duty to attempt an amiable solution to the disagreement about the property.”

“There is no disagreement,” Anthony said, impatiently. “I keep telling you that. You have seen the papers, Watson. You know my claim is solid.”

“Mr. Watson is trying to spare you the scandal if full meaning of that indenture becomes widely known, Anthony. Is that not true, Mr. Watson?”

Mr. Watson’s expressive tilt of his head was more acknowledgment than agreement. “It is my experience that if two parties in a dispute speak fairly, a brief can be avoided.”

“I don’t need a damned brief,” Anthony blustered. “I need a damned bailiff to collect a damned debt.”

The outburst dismayed poor Mr. Watson. He appeared confused at what to do, now that his sensible strategy had turned out so badly.

“Leave us,” Anthony snarled at him. Mr. Watson was only too glad to obey.

“The poor man,” Celia observed, once she and Anthony were alone. “He meant well. Did you tell him everything, Anthony? I suppose not. And yet he learned enough to want to spare you embarrassment.”

Anthony’s jaw twitched. His eyes burned. He was the picture of a man holding on to his temper by one frail thread. “One week, you said. One week and you would let me know. And I have heard
nothing
.”

“That was wrong of me. However, surely, when you heard nothing, the answer must have been obvious. If I had accepted your arrangement, I would have hardly kept it a secret from you. The bills from the dressmakers would have been arriving by now.”

He strode around the room in a fit of vexation. “You are being rash, and stupid.”

“No, Anthony, I am being honest, with myself as well as you. I could take your money and that fine house. I could play out the drama you envision of a great, if disreputable, love affair. It would be a lie, however, because I do not love you now. Perhaps I did once, but not now.”

“You are punishing me; that is all. For not marrying you. For not flying in the face of all that was expected of me, and giving up everything for you.”

“I do not blame you for that. I know how it had to be.” How it still had to be. The funny ache in her heart and tightness in her throat had nothing to do with Anthony. She conquered the surge of emotion. There would be time enough for that when the time came.

“There is something I must tell you, Anthony. It will perhaps explain what I mean about not lying to you. You think to begin again where we ended five years ago. That is impossible. You have asked about my innocence with unseemly interest since we met again. You should know that it is no longer mine to give you.”

He stared at her. She felt a little sorry for him, but his amazement did not speak well for his intelligence. He had not been able to marry her because she was supposed to be that sort of woman, after all. Was he now surprised that she indeed was that sort of woman?

His shock gave way to anger. A very special kind of anger. That of a man jealous when he does not even know his rival’s name.

He turned away from her abruptly.

“We should part as old friends, Anthony. Not as two characters in a bad operatic comedy.”

He refused to turn around. “We do not have to part at all. You have refused my protection, and I will accept that if I must. You have squandered your innocence on some fool, when I would have taken care of you for life, but it is something that cannot be undone. If I must settle for less, I will eat my pride and do so. Just tell me what you expect for it.”

Good heavens, he was asking how to buy her favors, only in less exclusive ways. He wanted to know how to join the queue.

“You will have to settle for nothing, Anthony. I am sorry if I did not make that clear.”

He did not move for a long count. Then he abruptly walked to the door and called for Mr. Watson.

“You are to send Mrs. Northrope’s executor the claim on that property,” he instructed the solicitor. “I expect an inventory of its contents within a week.”

 

 

“H
ello, Uncle.” Edward startled so badly that Jonathan saw the back of his head rise in a little jump. Then Edward twisted his entire torso and looked over the back of the library sofa to the garden doors where Jonathan stood.

“What the—? What are you doing, sneaking in through the garden like that?”

Jonathan strolled over and looked down. Edward’s frown faltered. He glanced to the windows and door, and the bell near the mantel that was used to call the servants.

“I wanted to see you, very privately,” Jonathan said. “I think it is time for an honest conversation, about this odd mission you gave me, and about that list that you sought.”

“Do you have it?”

“I have it.”

Edward thrust out his hand. Jonathan walked around the sofa and sat in a chair.

“I don’t have it that way. I have seen it. I know the names. I know the dates.” He tapped his temple, to indicate where it was all stored. “It does not exist as a normal list or accounting, and it is doubtful that anyone would even know what they had if they chanced upon it.”

“Does the daughter know of it?”

“Celia, Uncle. Miss Pennifold to you. I would appreciate it if you finally remembered her name.”

“Does your Miss Pennifold know of it?”

“No. She is ignorant.” He lied without hesitation. He had done so often enough in his life, and this lie had as good a reason as any other.

Edward visibly relaxed. He peered over, looking for something. Waiting.