Bastian's Surrender (Regency Club Venus 1)

by Carole Mortimer

  The doctor, who was indeed a very handsome gentleman, had examined her intimately, but surely it had been her own uninhibited response to it that was the most scandalous?

  As shocking as Bastian having admitted to feeling jealousy of the other man having touched her in that way?

  Abigail was given little time to dwell on either of those questions as she heard her name mentioned again. At least, the name she had given the duke when he interviewed her with a view to offering her the employment she was so badly in need of.

  Giving her true name had not been an option during that conversation, mainly because the duke’s suspicion was a correct one. Oh, she was not of Society, nor even on the fringes of it, but neither was she the poor country girl, abandoned and alone in the city, she had told the duke she was.

  A claim, and a name, the duke now stated he intended to investigate.

  Leaving Abigail with no choice but to leave Club Venus as quickly as possible.

  Tears fell softly down her cheeks at the thought of once again stepping out into a world she had discovered to be cold and unforgiving since her mother died five years ago, leaving her to the less than tender guardianship of her stepfather. She already knew him to be a man who had quickly spent the little money his wife, the widow of a soldier and aged only three and twenty, brought to their marriage. Her stepfather had not been unkind to either Abigail or her mother, but he had not been particularly attentive either, and within months of their marriage, his young wife was forced to take up sewing again for the aristocracy.

  Being guardian to a stepdaughter aged only thirteen, after his wife had died, had not been in his future plans. But as Abigail had the same skill with a needle as her mother and was able to bring in some coin each week, he had begrudgingly kept her with him.

  As Abigail aged and matured, he had begun to look at her in a different and assessing way. Oh, not for himself, but if he had not died so suddenly, Abigail had every reason to believe her stepfather would eventually have sold her to the highest bidder as a means of making more of the money he both coveted and instantly gambled away.

  Instead, he had been attacked and killed three months ago by the men sent to collect on a debt he owed.

  By the Earl of Shaftesbury’s men.

  Chapter Eight

  Abigail had never felt so cold and ill in her life before as she did after spending three days walking the snowy streets of London during the day, as she once again attempted to seek employment and failed, and an equal number of nights trying to keep warm and out of danger on those same streets.

  The latter had finally proven to be the most difficult, and last night, she had barely escaped with her virtue, possibly her life, when three bedraggled men had taken umbrage at her huddling in a doorway they considered their own.

  Once their dominance of ownership of the doorway had been firmly established by manhandling her out onto the snowy street, wetting her clothes even further, those same men’s thoughts and actions had taken a sexual turn. Two of them had held her down as she kicked and screamed, while the third had thrown up her skirts and ripped off her drawers before unfastening his ragged trousers to let loose his rampant and reddened cock.

  Abigail had fought in earnest then, managing to free her legs and kick at the men as she bit the filthy hand that had moved to cover her mouth, and began to scream again until her lungs hurt. The appearance of a shadowy figure at the end of the alleyway had sent her three attackers into a panic, the third man trying to push his cock back into his trousers while he ran.

  As it turned out, that figure at the end of the alley was merely another scruffily dressed man wanting to join in the fun. A fierce and feral growl from Abigail had caused him to back up, hands raised in surrender, before he disappeared whence he had come.

  But the experience had frightened Abigail so much that she knew she could not continue to live in that precarious fashion for another night.

  Which was how she came to find herself standing outside the front door of the Earl of Shaftesbury’s London town house this morning, waiting for her pull on the bell to be answered.

  After last night, she had decided better the devil I know…

  She would have conditions for becoming the earl’s mistress, of course, the main one being that the arrangement must remain a secret from the Duke of Blackborne’s investigation into her background. But circumstances had now shown Abigail had no other option but to accept Shaftesbury’s offer. If, indeed, he still wished to make her that offer. There was a chance that, after their last conversation, he might not.

  The middle-aged man who opened the door, obviously the butler from the manner in which he was dressed, looked down the length of his haughty nose at her. “We do not countenance beggars here,” he informed her loftily before he made to close the door in her face.

  Abigail stuck her booted foot inside before the door could close completely.

  She was well aware of the sight she made, her clothes all wet and clinging to her equally damp limbs. She had tidied her hair as best she could without the use of a mirror and very few pins left to work with after the attack the night before. But she knew from the wispy tendrils about her nape and against her cheeks that gravity was causing those curls to escape and fall from beneath her wrinkled and crushed bonnet. The bag she had taken with her when she left Club Venus, containing her few belongings, had been left behind in the coveted doorway the previous night when she’d made her escape. She had not dared to go back for it for fear of those three men deciding to return and finish what they had started.

  “Remove your foot, if you please,” the butler instructed coldly.

  She gave him her haughtiest stare. “If you could tell his lordship that Miss Abigail Brown is here to see him,” she announced with more confidence than she felt. And in the sincere hope that the earl was even at home.

  Abigail had waited until it was what she considered to be a decent hour to call, but it was quite early in the morning still. From the little she knew of the earl’s habits, he would either still be out carousing or be fast asleep in his bed after a night of debauchery, possibly at Club Venus.

  The butler’s eyebrows rose to his hairline at her temerity. “His lordship does not receive visitors at this hour of the day.”

  Abigail was going to use some of the very bad language she had heard the ladies use at Club Venus if this snob of a man did not cease putting obstacles in her way. “I assure you he will receive me,” she stated with an imperiousness the pounding in her head and the trembling of her legs told her she was far from feeling. Indeed, with the lack of food these past three days, along with the wet and cold and the attack the previous night, she was now feeling decidedly ill. “In fact, I have reason to believe that he will be very angry with you when he learns you have turned me away.”

  Whatever the butler saw in her expression caused him to give an abrupt nod. “I will inform his lordship of your presence but it will be for him to decide whether or not he wishes to see you.” He easily kicked her foot from inside the doorway before closing the door in her face, as had been his intention a few minutes ago.

  Abigail felt herself sway as she stared at that huge wooden door, wondering if the butler would even inform Bastian of her presence. Or if, now that the door was closed against her, the man would simply go about his business of the day and forget all about her.

  She was at the lowest ebb of her life, so tired and hungry, and totally without resources, that the very thought of being ignored caused the tears to fall hotly down her cheeks. Black spots appeared in front of her eyes before the world tilted on its axis and she collapsed on the doorstep.

  * * *

  Bastian stared at the pale-faced young woman lying so still beneath the covers on his bed.

  Having spent the past three days looking for Gail once it was discovered she had left Club Venus, the last thing Bastian had been expecting this morning was for Richardson to inform him a Miss Abigail Brown was standing on his own doorstep askin
g to see him.

  Wrenching opening the front door to find Gail lying in a bedraggled and unconscious heap had sent Bastian into a flurry of activity as he swept her up into his arms and barked out a string of orders to Richardson before carrying Abigail up the stairs to his own bedchamber.

  He had spent the past twelve hours sitting at her bedside waiting for her to wake up, after calling in his own physician to examine her. He had no intention of allowing Benedict Winter to come anywhere near her again.

  Dr. Chivers had announced Gail to be suffering from exhaustion, the extreme cold and dehydration, and a lack of food. Nothing that sleep, warmth, and sustenance would not cure, he had assured Bastian.

  The warmth and sleep were easily taken care of. But Bastian was becoming increasingly concerned, as Gail had not yet woken, as to her body’s need for food and liquid. If Gail slept for much longer, he would have no choice but to wake her and insist that she partake of both.

  He also required an answer as to why she had left Club Venus so suddenly and where she had been since then. The condition of her clothing and Gail herself would seem to indicate it had not been anywhere that had provided her with proper shelter and food, or water to wash herself or her clothes.

  Bastian also wanted to know why she had not been wearing any drawers when he removed her wet clothes this morning and then dressed her in one of his own soft silk shirts. He did not have any other clothing which would fit her much smaller frame.

  So far, he had kept his knowledge of Gail’s whereabouts to himself. Blackborne had sent out his own security men from the club to look for her, to no avail.

  Blackborne had reasoned to Bastian that Gail was an adult and had left of her own volition, and the fact that she could not be found meant that she did not wish to be.

  Bastian had reasoned that whether Gail wanted to be found or not, he intended to track her down and demand to know the answers to his own questions, at least.

  As soon as Gail woke up, he still intended to demand answers to those questions.

  “My lord?”

  Bastian instantly jumped to attention at the husky sound of Gail’s voice. He sat forward in his chair to take one of her hands in both of his as he gazed into shadowed green eyes. “You are safe and warm and here with me now, Gail,” he soothed at the confusion in her expression.

  Abigail, fully awake now, ruefully questioned the extent of that safety, when she had come to Shaftesbury House for the sole purpose of offering to become Bastian’s mistress.

  For the moment, it was enough that she did feel safe and warm.

  Chapter Nine

  “How did I get out of my clothes and into your shirt?” Abigail prompted shyly.

  “I took off your wet clothing, which is currently being laundered, and replaced it with my shirt,” Bastian dismissed as he watched her eating the buttery scrambled eggs and toast and drinking the tea he had ordered be brought up to her. “The two of us shall talk once you have finished your refreshments.”

  She eyed him warily. “About what, my lord?”

  “As I said, we will talk once you have finished eating.”

  To realize, once the earl had helped her to sit up against the pillows, that not only was she in Bastian’s own bedchamber but that she was dressed in one of his shirts, had been unnerving. To learn that she had been asleep for over twelve hours was even more so.

  For obvious reasons, she had been in dire need of the sleep. But the other things, being in Bastian’s bedchamber and wearing his clothes, brought about a self-conscious return of that physical awareness. Not helped by the fact her breasts were completely bare and tingling beneath the soft caress of the white silk. That between her bare thighs was hot and wet, and the nubbin swollen with that now familiar arousal.

  The bedchamber was…opulent, to say the least. There were rich velvet curtains hanging at the two bay windows facing out onto the avenue in front of the house. A dark-and-light-blue carpet she recognized as being Aubusson, covered the wood floor. The huge mahogany four-poster bed she now sat in had the same rich velvet drapes as the windows. The walls had carved panels decorated around with gold filigree. The ceiling above was painted with nymphs and shepherdesses either frolicking naked in fields or lounging beside streams in clothing that revealed more than it hid.

  But it was the man, Bastian, who dominated his surroundings and made everything appear smaller than it was against his muscular frame and sheer presence of will. A force of will that was so much more apparent here in his own surroundings.

  The same man Abigail had come here to convince she wished to become his mistress, after all.

  But first she needed to divert Bastian from asking her the questions she could see in his quizzical blue eyes. Questions which, if she answered them honestly, would probably result in her being returned to the unforgiving London streets. Bastian would certainly not want the stepdaughter of a man he had obviously despised to become his mistress.

  She removed the tray table from over her thighs and placed it on the bedside cabinet before throwing back the bedcovers and swinging her bare feet onto the thick carpet. “I am feeling so much better.” And she did. The sleep, food, and tea had now restored her depleted strength and determination.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Bastian leaned back in his chair to stare at Gail—Abigail?—as she rose to her feet before moving to straddle his thighs.

  The shirt rode up her legs, just short of revealing her bared cunny. Her unconfined breasts, once pressed against his chest as she leaned forward to drape her arms about his shoulders, were warm and soft, and tipped with what he could feel were hard and engorged nipples.

  She gave a throaty chuckle as she lowered her head to graze warm lips down the length of his throat. “I am seducing you.” Her tongue licked the sensitive skin beneath his ear before tiny teeth bit the lobe.

  Well, yes, Bastian had guessed that much. His question was, why was Gail seducing him? Out of gratitude for his having taken her in or because she really wanted to?

  His cock didn’t care which of those it was, fully rampant inside his pantaloons and already leaking pre-cum. Bastian had little resistance to those warm and caressing lips after days of worrying as to whether Gail was still alive or dead in an alley somewhere.

  Even so, he attempted to keep his wits about him, even as his arms moved about her waist to hold her tightly against him. “You are not well enough for this.” His throat arched as that rasping tongue stroked over his Adam’s apple, all while her fingers were busy unfastening and discarding his neckcloth before pulling open his shirt.

  “I was not ill, merely fatigued and hungry, which I no longer am, thanks to you. And you have far too many clothes on.” Her eyes teased him as she helped him out of his jacket and waistcoat before pulling the shirt from his pantaloons and lifting it over his head to join the rapidly growing pile of his clothing on the floor. “Mm.” She scooted back to his knees, giving her the space necessary to unfasten the fold on his pantaloons.

  Bastian drew in a ragged breath as sharp little teeth latched on to one of his nipples, biting just enough to hurt before Gail soothed that hurt with the moist sweep of her tongue. His cock sprang free of its confinement at the exact moment Gail turned the attention of her teeth and tongue to his other nipple.

  Her breath was hot against his damp flesh as she moved lower still. “You are so big,” she breathed as the tiny fingers and thumb of one hand curled about his straining cock but failed to meet around it. “And wet,” she noted with satisfaction as the soft pad of her thumb swept across the slick and bulbous head.

  Bastian gave a groan as he slid farther down the chair and leaned back to watch as Gail now used both her hands to grip him, lashes lowered as she also watched the movements of her own hands.

  A stroke up.

  A pull down.

  A gush of pre-cum appeared at his cockhead.

  A stroke up.

  A pull down.

  Another gush of pre-cum bubbling to t
he surface before dribbling over her tiny fingers.

  Bastian’s sac was drawn tight beneath his jutting cock, his breathing more ragged than ever, even his eyes feeling hot and fevered.

  He should call a halt to this, should demand the answers he required from Gail. But as she slid down to the carpeted floor onto her knees between his parted thighs, before lifting herself up and taking the whole of his cockhead into the heat and moisture of her mouth, Bastian defied any man, saint or sinner, to care at this moment what the answers might be to any number of questions.

  Abigail inwardly thanked the ladies at Club Venus for having given her that book to read and look at the pictures, along with their verbal instructions as to “what a gentleman likes you to do with his cock.”

  Bastian’s cock was so much wider and longer than any in those illustrations. His skin also felt soft as velvet over steel. A prominent blood vessel ran along his cock’s length, and there were copious amounts of delicious nectar leaking from the slit in the cockhead.

  It tasted so delicious, Abigail swallowed it down greedily as she sucked that long length to the back of her throat, before lifting up and then sinking down deeper still. Her fingers were gripped as tightly about the base as she was able, just as the ladies had shown her, in order to delay and eventually prolong and intensify Bastian’s release.

  She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes as she continued to suck and lick his cock. Bastian’s lids were closed, a flush high in his cheeks, his jaw tight as he breathed erratically through his clenched teeth.

  Abigail sincerely hoped those things meant he was enjoying her ministrations.

  Bastian felt poised on the edge of a precipice which, once he toppled over the edge, he knew would leave him both weak and gasping for air.

  Gail’s mouth on his cock felt as hot and smooth as melted butter, the tightness of her fingers about the base preventing him from releasing. He could feel the hot cum churning like molten lava inside him, demanding release, and could no longer hold himself back from thrusting, hard and fast, into that heat.