His hands seemed to be everywhere, stroking and teasing. His mouth, too. She stood, her eyes closed, as he commanded responses from her she didn’t think were possible when one was fully clothed.
Then her dress loosened around her shoulders and she understood the tugging she had felt as he kissed her. He had unhooked her dress and untied the small bustle beneath. The padding and her petticoats dropped to the floor. He pushed the dress down her arms and pulled her arms from the sleeves.
Then with a growl, he lifted her and carried her backward.
Startled, she clung to him. Her knees connected with the potting table and understanding flared in her. Peter laid her on her back, her dress beneath her shoulders, and kissed her, briefly. Then he put both hands around her upper torso and squeezed.
The hooks of her corset popped undone with little snicking sounds, revealing her camisole. She had not bothered with a corset cover today—it was too hot.
With another soft, low sound, Peter slid his hand inside her corset and cupped her breast.
Annalies rolled her head back, as his touch made her moan. This was such sweet agony! Oh, she wanted so much more.
Peter’s thumb hooked over the lace tie of her camisole and tugged. The ribbon tore and the camisole sagged. He pulled it down with a sound of deep satisfaction, revealing her upright, tight nipple. He bent over her.
Annalies gave a gasping cry as his mouth and teeth fastened on the tiny nub and scraped over it and tugged it. The sensations speared directly between her thighs, making her writhe and moan, the sound tearing from the back of her throat and from deep in her belly.
The sounds she made, which she had never heard herself make before, seemed to drive Peter onward. He pulled her corset and camisole aside to reveal the other breast, and bathed it with the same delicious nipping and stroking as the first, while his beard stroked and tickled the rounded flesh beneath. She found her hands were buried in his hair, encouraging him and uselessly trying to direct his efforts.
Peter straightened enough to reach between her knees and push the skirt of her dress onto her belly. He spread her legs and separated her drawers, studying her in a way no gentleman should. The feral look in his eyes, as he looked at her, made her shiver.
Then he drew his fingers through her folds, with a lingering pause to stroke her inner nub.
Pleasure slammed through her, quick and hot and fizzing. She gave a choked cry. She felt as though she could melt, with just a little more of such delight.
He pushed his fingertips inside her, and Annalies gripped the edges of the table, squeezing the wood, as the wickedness and pure pleasure swamped her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Peter thrust his fingers in and out, as her body tightened and tightened, and the tension built in her. She rolled her head, her breath coming in hard little pants.
Then Peter stroked her nub with his thumb, caressing the sensitive flesh with a knowing touch. It was just the right amount of pressure. It was exactly what she needed.
Annalies screamed. She couldn’t help it. The pleasure shot through every nerve end like super-heated steam, scalding her nerves, shredding her mind and making her body bend in a taut bow, as it throbbed and pulsed.
Even as she hung in the delicious sea of pleasure, she felt heat against her flesh. Peter gripped her hips and rammed his thick length into her, with a deep groan. He paused, just as Annalies’ pleasure seemed to check in shock, adjusting to the most welcome addition.
It felt so very, very good.
He wrapped her knees about him, and propped himself upon the table with the other hand, and drove himself into her over and over again, making the table protest with squeaks and groans.
Annalies’ pleasure barely halted. She spiraled up toward another peak, her breath unable to keep up. She shuddered, her innards rippling, as he took her in hard, deep thrusts.
She cried out weakly this time, for she had no voice left. Her throat strained, everything snapped taut, as the pleasure thrummed through her.
Peter groaned, a deep, hard sound, as he spilled himself inside her. His body quivered. His eyes drifted closed.
When he opened them again, his dark eyes contemplated her.
Annalies’ breath deserted her again. She recognized the heat in his eyes.
“More…” she breathed.
“More,” he agreed. He bent and lifted her, their bodies still connected, and pulled her up against him. She held on to him, as he carried her through the house, her dress tangling with his knees.
On the top floor, he carried her into the front bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them. He lowered her to the bed carefully, so he was not jolted out of her, then lifted her knee and settled himself over her. “Once more, with feeling,” he breathed, and thrust deeply into her.
Chapter Eleven
It was as if she had broken down a dam. Peter was indefatigable. After taking his time to please her once more, he paused to strip away the clothes she still wore. He explored the flesh they exposed with his mouth and hands, crooning his satisfaction and pleasure, in his deep voice.
Everything he did made her yearn for more. Everything he did stroked her nerves and drove her lust even higher. Each time she reached the pinnacle of sweet intensity, that Peter called a climax, Annalies was sure it would be enough, that this last peak would subdue her hunger.
Only, when her breath recovered, she learned her body was not appeased at all and she would turn to him again. Peter was happy to oblige.
He did things to her which she had not thought possible. Not an inch of her was beyond his reach. He kissed her toes and the top of her head and every inch in between. He took his time, licking and nibbling if she twitched at all in reaction, until she writhed and called for him to finish her in a hoarse voice.
As the day drifted into the afternoon, their energy lulled, but did not die away altogether. Peter pulled her against him and settled her on top. He rested her head against his shoulder. He stroked her back in soft, long caresses, while she listened to his heart against her cheek and felt for herself the softness of his flesh and the hard muscle beneath.
After a while, his stroking turned to teasing. His fingers ran along her flanks, finding every sensitive inch, then fluttered at the sides of the flattened mounds of her breasts, making her shift, her body stirring.
He lifted her hips, shifted his, then slid inside her, taking her where she laid.
Some time later, when the heat of the day was intense, despite the open windows, Peter pulled on trousers and went downstairs. He returned with four full buckets of water, two in each hand, and poured them into the tin bath in the corner.
He settled in the five inches of water and pulled her in after him. He bathed her, as she sat over his hips. Then, when the sliding of his hands over her wet flesh had driven her sufficiently mad, he guided her hips, so he could push into her once more. Only, not to take her as usual. He made her sit still as she straddled him, while his soapy hands slithered over her, making her moan and wriggle. He pushed his fingers into her folds, to tease her nub, stroke and pet it, so she squeezed his shaft and pounded his chest with her fist as she came.
Afterwards, he dried her, his own body damp and dripping. He took his time, making sure of his work, going down on one knee to be sure he caught every last drop of water.
Then he held her hips and brought his mouth to her mound and thrust his tongue between the sensitive folds, to find her nub and tease it.
Annalies could do nothing but cling to his shoulders to hold herself up, while she trembled and shuddered in another climax.
The torrid day ended with a thunderstorm, just on dusk. It announced itself with a crash and violent renting of the air, followed by knocking, rattling raindrops which thundered upon the roof and against the open window.
Annalies jumped, startled.
Peter raised his head from what he was doing to her navel and glanced at the window, as thunder rumbled in the distance. “I know how it feels,” he said in
agreement, and returned his mouth to her flesh.
It was fully dark when for the first time Annalies thought she might possibly bear it if Peter let her go for now. Her body ached in a pleasant way. Tiredness tugged at her.
Peter sensed her flagging attention. He turned her onto her side and pulled her up against him, so she was tucked into the curve of his body. His arm came over her waist. Heat registered against her back.
He pulled the coverlet over them. “Sleep for a while,” he murmured, his lips pressing against the side of her throat.
She didn’t have the energy to reply. Her eyes closed by themselves.
…only to flutter open as the dawn chorus chittered beyond the windows, louder here than anywhere else she had ever slept. The green growing things beneath the window beckoned them. The sky was pale, promising dawn soon.
It was not what woke her.
Peter’s fingers tugged at her breast, drawing out the nipple. His lips were on the nape of her neck, exactly where she liked it most, making her body ripple.
“Mmm… Now you are awake,” he breathed. She could feel his voice against her back, too.
He pushed her knee forward, gripped her hip and slid into her. His hot, thick shaft of satiny flesh separated her and filled her in a way which made her moan and her insides to squeeze.
He rocked in and out of her, as her pleasure built in a slow, steady way. It was not a frantic taking, yet a profoundly deep and moving one. As Peter came, his mouth pressed against her nape and his arms tightened.
And for once, he just held her, while her heart slowed and her breathing calmed.
He didn’t seem to want to let her go. He kissed and stroked, not rousing her, instead keeping her aware and alert, as the daylight lengthened.
Then, at last, he turned her so she looked at him as they laid on the pillows together. He tried to smile. Only one corner of his mouth lifted. “The first train to London leaves at eight o’clock.”
Annalies drew a breath. Let it out. “You’re sending me back…”
He brushed her hair from her face. “You made that choice,” he said gently. “And even though it slits my throat to say so, you made the right choice. You cannot abandon him now. I have only to put myself in Blackwood’s shoes to know how it would destroy him if you did. It might possibly even…”
“Kill him?” she whispered. Her eyes ached. Her heart, too.
Peter picked up her hand and kissed her fingers where they curved over his big, square palm. “We have had this time. For now, that will be enough. It must be enough.”
Annalies bit her lip. “I don’t know how I can leave you. I am not that sort of woman, either.”
Peter touched her nose. “What painting sits upon your easel right now?” he asked, his voice deep and rumbling.
She frowned, trying to recall what work she was now doing. Then she remembered. “Oh! It is a portrait of Emma and Blanche, from the highland ball in Kirkaldy…years ago now. They were still quite young. I saw them giggling together on the stairs while they watched the dancers, completely uncaring about the life ahead of them, of the pressures to meet expectations.” She frowned, returning once more to the knotting issue of how to make Emma’s lovely deep brown hair shine the way it had in the candlelight…
Peter lifted her chin, drawing her attention back to him. “That is how you leave me,” he told her softly, his dark eyes warm with knowledge. Then he sat up and threw the bedclothes aside. “A hot bath, tea and toast, yes?”
“Oh, a hot bath…!” she sighed.
Just like that, Peter eased her into preparing to leave. Annalies was on the train to London before the cold realization occurred to her that he had been able to help her leave only because he’d had so much practice at easing ladies out of his life.
With deliberate movements, Annalies withdrew her sketchbook from the satchel she now carried with her everywhere. She sharpened her pencil and drew, filling her mind with capturing the exact angle of the little girl’s head, as she turned to peer curiously at Annalies through the windows of the compartment, as she passed.
Two hours later, when she stood before her easel once more, Annalies peeled off her gloves and picked up the brush and palette, for she had solved the riddle of how to make Emma’s hair gleam exactly the way she wanted it to…
Chapter Twelve
Mayfair, London. March 1874. Seven months later.
Annalies found most society events tedious, these days. The Sweet Pea Ball was a rare exception. She enjoyed dancing, and the annual ball was a grand affair at the beginning of the season, before too many buffoons and catty women had worn away her endurance.
As she had for some years now, Annalies arrived at the ball by herself. Tobias, naturally, did not attend with her. Today he was particularly weak and had spent the day on the chaise longue in her studio, watching her paint and dozing.
The painting had gone well today, even though her concern about their dwindling income lingered in the back of her mind. The concern was growing stronger with each passing day, for Tobias rarely had sufficient energy to visit the galleries and clients who had acquired her work in the past. As the stacks of paintings built in the storage room, her worry grew. If Annalies had understood how to approach the galleries and clients herself, she would have.
Instead, she buried her worry with work.
And now, this rare occasion amongst society’s upper classes.
Annalies handed over her cloak and adjusted her ballgown. It was last year’s design, a copy of a Worth gown, although it was so well made it was impossible to tell it was not French. The purple satin and lace exactly matched, which gave her a monochrome appearance. She offset the single color with a tiny spot of different color—the satin roses on the edges of her shoulders were red, and the draped satin garlands beneath were green.
The dress was plain and the bustle minimal, in comparison to the draped, poufed, pinned and billowing gowns around her. Annalies didn’t mind that her appearance was remarkably different from everyone here, as she felt considerably different inside. She had grown up among these people and had known many of them all her life, yet they were strangers to her now.
When she did see two faces who were not strangers in any way, Annalies was deeply pleased. She moved through the throng and touched Mairin on the elbow.
“Lisa Grace!” Mairin cried and hugged her, which earned both of them a few scowls and drawing back of skirts from people around them. Then Mairin reached for Iefan’s sleeve and tugged on it. “Iefan.”
Iefan turned, his coat tails spreading a little. “There you are!” He hugged her, too, which earned Annalies even more throat clearing and tsk’s.
“You are a delight to look at, Lisa Grace,” Iefan declared, his gaze sweeping down her figure. “Such simple sophistication…beautiful.”
Mairin laughed. “A few years in Paris and he is a critic,” she declared.
“You were looking for me?” Annalies asked.
“We were hoping to run into you here tonight, sister, although you are not the only reason we are here,” Mairin admitted. She drew Annalies to one side as the dancers for the first waltz took their places on the dance floor.
The orchestra swung into the lilting waltz.
Iefan curled his hand around Mairin’s arm, to draw her attention. “I will collect champagne for all of us. It will give me a chance to see who is here.”
“Thank you, yes,” Mairin replied. “You and I should find a quieter corner, Lisa Grace.”
They squeezed their way between the feet of attendees watching the dancing, and the dancers themselves, to the nearest corner where it was not so congested. Mairin smiled at Annalies. “Iefan is correct, though. You look quite lovely, and very…” She tilted her head. “Wise,” she finished.
Annalies hid her dismay. Had the experience and knowledge her private affairs had given her been painted upon her face for the world to see? “Perhaps it is because I am older now,” she replied with a light, amused tone, to d
eflect Mairin from further probing.
Mairin was her sister, though, and one of the family. Direct questions, to encourage the sharing of intimate matters, was the norm for the family. It was how they supported each other. It was why Annalies rarely risked visiting anyone, for lying to the family made her uncomfortable, and too much of it made her ill for days.
So Mairin did not politely change the subject as anyone else would have. She tilted her head. “No, I don’t think it is simply your age,” she said, her tone contemplative. “There is more to it than that. Are you still determined to never marry, Annalies?”
Annalies jumped, for she had nearly forgotten that youthful declaration. She had uttered it before meeting Tobias, while observing society wives abandoning their budding careers in favor of hearth and home and children.
“I’m not sure I’ve given marriage any thought at all, lately,” Annalies said truthfully. “I am so busy with my work, there is little room for anything else.”
Mairin’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! That is why we wanted to find you, tonight!” She touched Annalies’ wrist, where the ribbon of her dance card hung, as if she were trying to impart her excitement. “There is a family from the north we know, whom Iefan has had dealings with for a year or more, now. Merchants—they have mills everywhere.”
Annalies grew wary. “And the name of the family?” she asked, her heart thudding, for Tobias’ father had made the family fortune with a great many mills and factories.
“Newman,” Mairin said. “Archibald Newman is the head of the family. There is a brother and three sons, and two daughters, and even a grandson now.”
Annalies relaxed. “I have heard of this family,” she admitted. “They’re from Carlisle, yes?”
“Yes, that is the family,” Mairin said. “Oh, Annalies, they have been looking for you for weeks now!”
Annalies blinked. “Me?”
Iefan arrived, carrying two glasses of champagne, and a brandy balloon, juggling all three carefully.
Annalies rested her fingers against her chest. “You’re not using your walking stick!” she breathed, delight warming her.
Risk of Ruin Page 12