Outrageous

by Minerva Spencer

  “My fall, Eva, straddle my thighs and unbutton it.”

  She had no smart retort for that.

  When she lowered herself onto his spread thighs he just about lost consciousness imagining what she looked like. Her hands shook and she fumbled with the buttons.

  “I don’t want to waste time untying my hands, darling, so you’ll have to do all the heavy lifting.”

  She made a gulping sound, her fingers froze for an instant, and then she resumed her labors. “So,” she said in a tone of strangled bravado, “that’s how this marriage is going to be?”

  Godric laughed; his Eva.

  He stopped laughing when she pushed open the flaps of his breeches.

  “Push them down a bit, just a—oh, yes, that’s good. Now, take—urgh.” A small, warm hand wrapped around him and he had to bite down on his lower lip to keep from shouting something vulgar.

  “You just hush, now,” she murmured in a voice that shook, which made her audacity all the more impressive. “I’ll take care of the heavy lifting.”

  * * *

  Eva marveled at the size and heat and feel of him. She also marveled at the things she could make him say—the way she could make him sound with just the smallest—

  “Good God!” he shouted as she squeezed him just the slightest bit.

  Eva grinned.

  “Now, darling,” he said, and it was his turn to have a shaky voice, “if you don’t want to humiliate your betrothed . . .”

  Eva knew what he wanted—she’d spent the last week watching horses mate, for pity’s sake—but it would be something of a trick with his hands still restrained. Still, where there was a will, and all that.

  She sat up high on her knees, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other holding him between her legs as she lowered herself slowly over him. Which was when she realized how easy—and rewarding—it was to make him beg.

  “Please, Eva.” His breath was hot against her chest as his head rested against her.

  “Please what, my lord?”

  He gave a breathy, demented laugh. “Have mercy, darling. Please, take me inside your body.”

  His words rocked her to her core and she lowered herself onto him, taking his thick length all in one, long slide.

  The noises they made filled the carriage while he filled her, his size momentarily shocking her, the pain of the stretch a familiar, lovely, surprise.

  “All right?” he gasped against her throat, and then he laved the exposed skin, humming his pleasure. “Salty.”

  She swallowed convulsively at the raw desire in his voice, her sheath contracting around him and making them both shudder.

  “Ride me, Eva, hard. I want you to use me and—”

  His words broke off with a guttural moan as she lifted almost all the way off, and then lowered again, grimacing slightly as he touched some exquisite place deep in her womb, where their child was growing. She tightened at the thought, the pleasure causing his rod to jerk inside her.

  Once again he begged. “Please.”

  Eva responded to his ragged whisper, and she began to post. On the third or fourth stroke she discovered something magical. If she tilted her hips just so, she could rub her—“Oh, Godric!”

  After that it was a blur of exquisite friction, raw gasping, and deep, glorious penetration. When Eva began to lose control of her hips, Godric took over, lifting them both off the bench with the force of his thrusts, mashing her head against the roof of the carriage as he drove into her with a savagery that detonated an explosion of pleasure, sending shock waves through her body.

  Still he did not stop, pounding her ruthlessly until, “Eva,” he hissed against her shuddering body. “I’m going to—”

  He grunted and hilted himself, his hips still raised off the bench as he spasmed and jerked and emptied himself deep inside her body.

  * * *

  “Are you asleep?”

  “No. Are you?” She shifted slightly, the movement jostling his sensitive, softening prick, which was still inside her.

  He kissed and nuzzled the damp, hot skin of her throat. “Darling?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you ever going to untie me?”

  Eva laughed. “Perhaps.”

  Godric grinned, in spite of himself. He lifted his hips suggestively. “Didn’t I just earn my freedom?”

  “Oh, no. That was all my work, if I recall correctly.”

  “If you were to release me, I might be able to settle my debt.”

  “Ohh, that sounds promising. But I think I’d like to hear you beg. Again.”

  He felt her smiling lips as she nuzzled the sensitive skin beneath his ear.

  “Please, my darling, my only love?”

  She shivered. “I love hearing you call me that.” The humor had gone from her voice, replaced by a fierceness that wrapped around him like a fist.

  “I love you,” he whispered, and then added, “If you untie me, I can show you how much.”

  She laughed and slid off him, both of them making interesting noises when they uncoupled.

  “All right, you are most persuasive. But first I am putting on my clothing.”

  “That is an excellent idea,” he said. He felt a lingering concern at the back of his mind that the carriage could stop anytime, the door could open, and—

  “Where do you think they are taking us?” she asked as the sounds of boots sliding and scuffing filled the coach.

  Godric closed his eyes and imagined what she would look like. “I haven’t the faintest idea, nor do I care.” And then something occurred to him. “But do you need to go back? I know the letter I read”—his face flamed at the admission—“said you were hiring a stud. I know it’s the tail end of breeding season. Do you need to get back?”

  There was a long pause before she said. “Thank you.”

  Godric squinted into the darkness, as if squinting would improve comprehension. “Sorry, darling, but what are you thanking me for?”

  “For caring about my business.”

  “Oh. Well, of course I care. I know how much you wanted it.”

  “And you don’t find my interest in breeding and training horses, er, unfeminine?”

  Godric grinned. “Believe me, sweetheart, I heartily approve of your interest in breeding of any sort.”

  Something hit him in the shoulder. “Did you just throw something at me?”

  “Yes, my hat. Now, scoot to the other side and turn.”

  Godric complied and she went back to work on the Byzantine knot.

  He recalled something she’d said earlier. “You said you thought the two boys wouldn’t have come up with this on their own?”

  She snorted. “No. I smell the work of my stepmamma.”

  Godric’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? But I thought she hated me.”

  “But she loves me and wants me to be happy.”

  “And I make you happy?”

  “Funny how you can still fish with both hands tied behind your back.”

  He laughed. “What a shrew you are.”

  Eva didn’t dispute the accusation. “I have to admit,” she said, her finger now able to fit between one of the top strands, the one cutting into his forearm, “that I wouldn’t be surprised if they were taking us—” Both her words and fingers paused as the carriage began to slow, the sound of the wheels changing with the change in road surface.

  Godric cocked his head; that sounded like cobbles, not road.

  “You wouldn’t be surprised if what, Eva?” he asked as the carriage rolled to a stop and then dipped with the weight of somebody jumping off the back.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were taking us right back to where we started,” she said.

  The door opened and her young henchman stood in the opening, his face wearing an amusing expression of terror. “We’re home, my lady.”

  “Well, look at that,” Godric said, smiling at Eva, “you’re right yet again, darling.”

  Her groom gave him a sheepish
grin. “Aye. Reckon you’d better get used to that, my lord.”

  Godric threw back his head and laughed.

  Epilogue

  Later ...

  Adam sat on the thick blanket, Mia leaning against his side, both of them staring out at the last revelers enjoying the remnants of the lawn party.

  Gabriel and Drusilla had rounded up Gabriel’s son, two of Ramsay’s children, and Lord Salford’s little boy—a quiet, sad child who seemed to have taken on the aspect of his moody parent—and were attempting to teach the unruly group that croquet mallets could be used for something other than weapons.

  Lord and Lady Ramsay had disappeared into the small spinney on the far side of the lake, no doubt happy to enjoy some time to themselves while their children were being entertained.

  Lady Ramsay’s twin sons—remarkably similar not only in looks but in posture—were standing on either side of Mel, who was basking in the glow of so much undivided male attention.

  The sight made Adam look for Lord Byer. The viscount was leaning against the ravaged banquet table, his arms crossed over his chest as he regarded Melissa and her coterie with a slight, perplexed frown on his handsome face.

  Eva and her new swain were seated on one of the benches inside the folly, looking out over the lake as the sun dipped low. They were not touching, but their heads were close together and they appeared to be engaged in a conversation that required copious hand gestures from both parties. Adam’s mouth twitched at the sight. Visel had better like arguments, heated and otherwise.

  “Adam?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you angry at me?”

  His lips curved into a genuine smile as he contemplated how she was going to weasel her way out of this. “And why would I be angry with you? Because you kept Eva’s condition from me? Or because you conspired with another man’s servant and one of my own grooms to abduct our daughter? Or because you organized a wedding, knowing full well it was not going to occur? Or because—”

  Her hand, which had been lying beside his, crept closer, until she’d laced their fingers together. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”

  Adam couldn’t hold in his snort of disbelieving laughter, which of course told her that she’d won. Yet again.

  “But you’re not entirely correct, Adam.”

  He laced their hands tighter. “Oh?”

  “There is going to be a wedding.” She sat up and turned to him, looking up at him through those catlike green eyes that could still stop his heart. “You were so wise not to have disposed of that license you took up north with you.”

  He narrowed his eyes at the love of his life. “I suppose it helped that I couldn’t seem to locate the license to dispose of it.”

  Her wicked lips curved into a smile that made him shockingly hard. “Yes, well, you know how careless I can be with my correspondence, leaving it on your desk, my desk—”

  “In locked drawers to which only I have the key,” he finished for her. “Or to which only I should have the key, I suppose I should say.”

  She brandished her dimples at him, and that, as they say, was the end of that.

  “Well,” he said in a voice that was mortifyingly gruff with desire. “I suppose it all worked out for the best.” He glanced at Byer, who’d switched his brooding gaze to Eva and Visel now that Mel and the twins had wandered down to the lake and were messing about with the rowboats. “I suppose not the best for everyone,” he amended.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Mia mused, following his gaze. “I think Tommy only believed himself to be in love. I think the reality of Eva frightened him. You saw how much they argued once they became betrothed.”

  Adam gestured to Eva and Visel. Eva was now standing, one hand on her hip, shaking her forefinger at her betrothed.

  Mia dismissed the bickering not-yet-newlyweds with an airy wave. “Oh, well that’s different.”

  Adam snorted.

  “I’m serious, Adam. It is obvious Lord Visel adores her spirit and he, himself, is not overly concerned with appearances or the opinions of others. Tommy, on the other hand . . . Well, I think he was drawn to Eva’s independence, but he really craves a more steady, conservative woman.”

  Adam watched with horror as his wife’s eyes slid down to the lake. One of the twins was in a boat with Mel, the other in his own boat, and the three young people were slapping the water with oars and soaking each other while trying to tip the other boat over.

  “I wonder,” Mia mused. “Young Richard is too serious, but Lucien might just—”

  “If you even consider meddling with Ramsay’s family, I will beat you and then lock you in the dungeon.”

  She gave him a melting look. “Oh, Adam, you say the sweetest things.” She lifted their joined hands and stared up at him with hot eyes as she gave him a lingering kiss that employed both lips and tongue, the gesture more erotic than another woman stripping down to the skin.

  Adam shook his head at her and she grinned.

  And then, inexorably, her eyes moved toward the gloomy viscount and then back to the activity on the water, her expression that of a general surveying his troops.

  Adam gave a weak laugh of surrender and fell back onto the blanket. Well, at least it wasn’t him she was turning her formidable mind toward.

  Still, he thought as he sighed, closed his eyes, and listened to the sound of his family and friends talking, laughing, and, yes, arguing—he couldn’t help pitying the four young people who had inadvertently captured his devious wife’s attention.

  Adam’s lips curled into a grin. Those poor children had no clue what was in store for them.

  Author’s Note

  In order to maintain timelines between the first two books in the Rebels of the Ton series, I’ve taken liberties with dates for the thoroughbred breeding season.

  The natural season for horses to conceive is roughly April to August. However, the growth of thoroughbred racing has had a tremendous impact on horse breeding cycles and the breeding season has been artificially manipulated to ensure that horses foal as close to January 1st as possible.

  In the interest of historical veracity, I’ve chosen to portray the public’s perception of mental illness closer to what it would have been in 1816, rather than what it is today.

  Keep in mind that Western society used extreme procedures such as lobotomies—the majority of which were performed on female patients—to treat some forms of mental illness as late as the 1970s and ’80s.

  Not until the later part of the twentieth century has society begun to approach mental illness with a degree of humanity.

  Please read on for an excerpt from Infamous,

  the next Rebels of the Ton novel by Minerva Spencer.

  Chapter 1

  A Ballroom in London, 1818

  “Quit yanking on your cravat, Richard—you look as though you’ve been mauled by those rats you’re so bloody fond of,” Lucien said under his breath.

  Richard laughed. “Thank you, Luce, I can always count on you to give me the words with the bark still on them.”

  Lucien’s cheeks darkened. “Sorry.”

  Richard couldn’t help noticing that his twin’s eyes were in constant motion as he searched the swelling crowds for something. Or someone.

  And Richard could guess who.

  “I don’t mean to be an arse, Rich,” Lucien said. “It’s just—”

  “I know, I know. It’s a burden to have a barnacle like me stuck to your side.” Richard patted his brother’s shoulder.

  Lucien snorted. “Idiot.”

  “Fool.”

  They both grinned.

  Richard squinted around at the multitude of people packing the receiving area of the Duke of Stanford’s town house. “Remind me why I’m here again,” he asked his far better dressed, more attractive, and more gregarious identical twin.

  Well, identical in theory.

  In addition to the spectacles Richard wore and his brother did not, Richard was a good stone and a
half lighter than Lucien, who’d filled out in the chest and shoulders in a way Richard hadn’t quite managed yet.

  And then there were the spots that had plagued them both from age fourteen. Lucien’s had magically disappeared when he’d turned seventeen, but Richard’s had only gone away this past year.

  So, identical, but different. Richard smirked at the thought.

  “You’re here for the girls,” Lucien reminded him, somehow able to speak while smiling, a new skill and something that must have been on the curriculum at Eton his last year—the year Richard had skipped, instead going straight to university.

  Richard snorted. “Yes, because all the girls were so impressed by the way I trod upon—” he made a frustrated tsking sound. “The devil! I can’t even recall the poor girl’s name.”

  “Nobody remembers that incident except you,” Lucien said. “Well, and likely her. I don’t recall her name, either. You need to stop thinking that nobody likes you, Rich. If you just put yourself out a bit, you’d see.”

  He could not believe his twin could be so oblivious of the insults, mocking names, and even an ode, that had circulated about Richard this Season. He could only think that Lucien was so insensible because he was falling deeper in love by the day and could see nothing other than one spectacularly beautiful face. Whether she was in the room or not.

  “And,” Lucien added, “if a roomful of pretty women isn’t enough reason to be here, remember your promise to Mama.”

  Oh, that was hitting below the belt.

  Unfortunately, it was true. If Richard hadn’t—in an extremely weak moment—promised their mother to stick it out for one Season, he could have been tramping the Fenlands and adding to his already considerable beetle collection.

  But their mother, Baroness Ramsay, had approached him just after he and Lucien had returned from a year of unfettered hedonism on the Continent, and he had foolishly capitulated.

  So, here he was. Thank God it was getting near the end of the Season because he wasn’t sure how much more tomfoolery he could bear. In Richard’s opinion, a London Season was remarkably like a term at Eton, but with girls to join in the mockery.