Mrs. Sartin's Secretary

by Wendy Lacapra

  He wished he could so easily mend the parted seams in his heart.

  He’d admired Amelia from the first, next had come trust, then awe, then loyalty. Without him being able to pinpoint the moment, all the above had coalesced, and he’d plunged over the waterfall into consummate devotion.

  He loved Amelia Sartin. And, what was more, he didn’t want to part. Ever. He wanted to make her his wife.

  His presumption should shame him.

  He had no right.

  Matthew leaned over his desk as memories of his mentor, Mr. George Sartin, gut-slogged him one by one.

  Mr. Sartin, clapping him against his back with heart-felt pride.

  Mr. Sartin, laughing so hard, he’d had to remove his pipe.

  Mr. Sartin, gazing in fondness at his wife.

  Mr. Sartin, at the end, breath crackling as he pleaded with Matthew to stand by his darling Amelia.

  Matthew groaned.

  Certainly, Mr. Sartin’s entreaty had not included stripping her bare and pleasuring her on the attic cot.

  He swished the quill, fanning his heated skin.

  Matthew still couldn’t believe he’d convinced Amelia to give him more time. Time to seduce. To beguile. To overwhelm her objections before they were fully shaped.

  Deception. Cinderella had nothing on him.

  Is this a trick?

  Amelia had, of course, seen through him at once. Thank goodness she’d also been too weary to realize he’d answered her question with a question of his own. The truth was, he hadn’t been deceptive, coercive or prone to flights of fancy…at least not until he’d seen her in a blue ball gown the night of Lady Darlington’s soiree.

  Since then, however, his desperation had grown, driving him wild. Emotions beat at the gates of his heart like Visigoths intent on sacking Rome. Or Romans intent on sacking…well, everyone else.

  He stood and then wandered over to the bookcase. The company’s ledgers were bound and organized by business, then by year, and then by quarter. Together, they represented years of his toil. Hundreds—no—thousands of hours.

  Soon they would be Jeremey Pritchett’s to tend.

  But who would tend Amelia?

  A chill tripped down his spine, as his purpose came into focus.

  While employed by the Sartins, he’d done more than elevate their company’s interests. He’d served as Amelia’s sounding board, her confidant, her friend.

  Leaving Sartin Trading Company marked an end—a change to the way they interacted—but leaving need not be the end.

  Not if he were bold.

  Not if he pursued his desire.

  The tingle increased.

  He was eminently eligible to wed. He’d already settled on a house to let in town. He was close to purchasing the cottage by the sea. He fully intended to form a company of his own. Who better to advise him than Amelia? And who better to care for Amelia than him? And what better way to cement such a covenant than marriage?

  Presumptuous, perhaps.

  Then again, she’d said no one could take his place.

  She was right.

  His long-tended blend of admiration, loyalty, friendship and love would only deepen with age, mellow with the patina of something true and lasting and good.

  He could leave Sartin Trading Company and still stand by Amelia.

  If she would allow.

  She’d given him time. He intended to use every moment to convince her marriage between them was the best possible solution.

  Because he did love Amelia Sartin.

  He loved her with all of his heart.

  Chapter Eight

  AS THE SUN DIPPED LOW in the early Saturday evening sky, Amelia exited her third hackney carriage since leaving her home. For added anonymity, she kept herself veiled.

  Odd feeling, sneaking into one’s own offices.

  Then again, when one found oneself midway through an intractable, colossal mistake, what else could one do but enjoy the journey?

  Excited, anticipatory tingles cascaded down her spine.

  For the first of two more nights, she and Matthew Bellamy would once again form a magical world of their own. And, unlike last time, tonight she would make sure he received his fair share of sensual pleasure.

  She climbed the stairs and inserted her key into the padlock. Iron squealed as the arm broke free from the base and turned. She removed the lock, but before she could push open the door, she found herself pulled into the dim interior.

  Matthew.

  He closed the door, took the lock from her hands and fixed it to the inside. Then, he tucked her head beneath his chin and held her close. He was warm and solid and real, yet she floated against his chest to the rhythm of his heart’s steady thud.

  Could any other man transform a simple cuddle into something so completely transportive? Magic was the only explanation.

  Somewhere, she must have a fairy godmother.

  “I’ve been imagining this moment all week. Imagining you.” He swept aside her veil, and then trailed his lips along her hairline. “Imagining this.”

  He lifted her chin, and then stole her mouth with a kiss that advanced into a seemingly endless coil of pleasure and breath.

  “Me, too.” Pointless to deny. Impossible, in fact, while his hands roamed from her hair, to her jaw, to her waist.

  He walked sideways up the stairs, pulling her along with him. “How were your warehouse visits?”

  “Well-received.”

  “And Pritchett?”

  She sighed. “More enthusiasm than form, I’m afraid.”

  He opened the door to her office and then motioned for her to enter first. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Jeremy is bright. Eager. But until recently, too consumed with putting on the outward affectation of a gentleman than learning to hold his own.”

  “In other words, he did well, but you don’t trust him.”

  “Yet.” She had to admit she was somewhat at fault.

  She’d neglected training Jeremy because Matthew had been so efficient. And—her gaze roamed over Matthew’s form, so robust, so vibrant—because she’d liked things just as they were.

  “Have I left him too long, do you think?” She removed her gloves and hat.

  “Not at all.” He hung her things on a hook. “Give him time.”

  She nodded. She’d needed Matthew’s reassurance. She hadn’t realized how much.

  So many times this week, she’d instinctively turned, expecting him to be there at her side as always. Countless times she’d thought—wouldn’t this interest Matthew? Wouldn’t that make him laugh?

  Matthew rubbed between her brows. She’d been frowning again, she supposed.

  “Enough about Pritchett,” he said. “We agreed to borrow magic for a few days.”

  Her lips turned up in a rueful smile. “I fear the stroke of midnight.”

  He returned her expression, crooked, endearing. “Come now. If the worst happens, surely we can find some practical use for a stray glass slipper.”

  “I didn’t tell you the part about the slipper.” She closed one eye. “You said you hadn’t read the story.”

  “I hadn’t. But I have, now.”

  She lifted a brow. “How?”

  “How else? Lending library. Both the original French and Samber’s translation.”

  My. He was thorough. “But why?”

  He shrugged. “Because you enjoyed them.”

  Darling. The endearment she used liberally with all her acquaintances stuck in her throat. Matthew did not belong in a category occupied by anyone else. She wasn’t sure what she should call him. Still, she was touched. Ridiculously so.

  She cupped his cheek. “Thank you.”

  He searched her eyes. “Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?”

  Stay, then. Be mine. Tonight. Forever. She had no right to ask. A soft, “Matthew” was all she could manage.

  She took his warm hand and led him through his office and up the attic stairs.
>
  The bed had been neatly done up and a late fall rose, its petals brownish pink, sat askew in a vase on the bedside table. A sheet had been artfully draped over the window in such a way that the fabric appeared to be a real curtain. In all, Matthew had transformed his simple bachelor chamber into a cozy nook for a discreet assignation.

  Thoughtful, again.

  Although, unlike last night, the room was well lit. Bright, in fact. Two Argand lamps were burning, and a coal fire glowed in the grate. In shadow, she’d opened with abandon. But to do so now that he’d be able to compare her flesh to his youth?

  She forced a swallow. “You’ve tidied.”

  “Yes, well. Tidying happens to rank among my many talents.”

  Despite herself, she smiled. “Do you cook, too?”

  He folded his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Well, I’ve been known to brown toast.”

  She laughed.

  “Speaking of food, I’ve arranged to pick up a late supper from the public house down the way—will that suffice?”

  “Food!” She blushed. “I hadn’t considered meals.”

  “As always, you may rely on me.” He lifted her hand, kissed her fingers and then held her palm against his face. “And you didn’t come here for that kind of indulgence, did you?”

  The air between them thinned. “No.”

  Her answer puckered her lips. Matthew took full advantage.

  “Last week,” she said between kisses, “I was terribly selfish. Tonight, I want to concentrate on your wishes.”

  “Well,”—his warm fingers spanned her neck—“to start, I wish you hadn’t worn so many clothes.”

  “I beg your pardon!” She gurgled as he nibbled her ear. “As dresses go, this one is simple.”

  Hopelessly outdated, and more suited to remote country places—not that Matthew had seemed to notice. He found and pulled each of the ties securing the dress until the coarse linen slid from her shoulders. Heat pulsed between them, yet she shivered, her nipples already fully peaked beneath her shift.

  “No stays?” he asked with a wicked grin.

  “Only for you. And only this once. I feel naked without them. Far too exposed.”

  “You feel naked.” He grasped her by her waist, and slowly began to pull up her shift. “And, dare I hope, indecent?”

  “Oh no you don’t!” She stopped him. “I’m not letting you distract me out of all my clothes while you remain buttoned up. Not again.” What she was going to do was employ every trick of pleasure she’d learned. She slid her hand between his trousers and his waist. “This time, for every article of clothing I lose, you will lose one as well.”

  He spread his arms wide and lifted a brow. “Consider me at your disposal, ma’am.”

  Disrobing him was less the challenge he believed it to be and more a delicious gift. She worked his buttons free and then pushed his trousers down over his lips. His shirt concealed his manhood, but not the fact he was fully erect.

  “Why, Matthew Bellamy!” She scolded as she wrapped her arms around his waist and hummed. “You are in quite a state.”

  “Yes,” he replied, all seriousness. “Clearly, I want to bed you.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Can you?”

  She nodded. “I can feel it, too.” She cupped his buttocks and then dipped her fingers between his legs, gently stroking the sensitive, tightened place between his legs.

  His eyes rolled back, and he moaned.

  Her lips curled into a smile and she went back to work. “You see?” She untied his cravat. “Isn’t it better when we are both pleased?”

  “I can’t yet say.” He removed his waistcoat. “I think I’ll need a more detailed demonstration. Touch me there again, won’t you?”

  She tugged on his shirt. “Later.”

  “Just a moment! We skipped your turn.”

  “In theory.” She pursed her lips as if considering. “However, since I didn’t wear stays, I think I deserve an extra article.”

  He smirked. “Impudent lass.”

  “Too late now.” She shrugged.

  “Is it?”

  She shrieked playfully as he made quick work of removing her shift.

  “I’ll not pardon you for that!” She folded her arms over her breasts.

  “Not even if I give you my shirt as penance?”

  She held out her hand. “I’ll take it with due consideration.”

  His face disappeared into a cloud of linen, exposing everything from thighs to the smattering of hair across his chest.

  Her laughter died in her throat.

  In the darkness, she hadn’t properly appreciated his physic. A vertical indentation spanned from his chest to his groin. How had she not seen—and felt—that power? For goodness sake, even his stomach was muscle.

  Matthew wasn’t just beautifully made…he was a damn specimen of the species.

  He tossed his shirt over her shoulder, nonchalant in total, fully aroused nakedness. Then, he frowned. “You look angry.”

  “How dare you call me lovely?” She waved her hand. “When you—you’re perfect.”

  His gaze softened. “Hardly.”

  “Pfft.” She placed her hands on her hips and studied him toe to top. “No. I’ve changed my mind. I cannot compete,” her eyes rested on his manhood, “with that.”

  He blushed. “Amelia, sweet …”

  “Don’t pretend you’re embarrassed! Why, every woman you’ve bedded must have told you—”

  “They haven’t. Or, more accurately, there haven’t been…” He went silent. A lock of hair fell across his brow as he shook his head. “What—what I mean to say is… I haven’t…not with any other woman.” He swallowed. “Not once.”

  His shirt slipped out of her grip as her hands dropped to her sides. “Matthew? What are you trying to say?”

  He hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

  “Amelia.” He touched his temple to hers. “I’ve never been with anyone else.”

  He made no sense. “After what you did to me last week…you expect me to believe you?” She blinked. “Well, I don’t.”

  “What can I tell you?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re a good teacher.”

  Guide my hand. He had been inexperienced. Emphasis on the past tense. She placed her palms over her eyes. The warmth in her hands soothed, but not enough.

  “Nothing’s changed.” He pulled away her hands. “Nothing at all.”

  He grasped her cheeks, claimed her lips and incinerated her questions, leaving her blank to everything but the urgency in his lips.

  This was a kiss.

  A kiss of hunger. A kiss of entreaty. A kiss so deep and probing, she feared he’d devour her whole.

  Then, he broke away. “Be my first. Please?”

  She focused on his mouth.

  She’d had objections. Multiple objections. But her turncoat hands rapped around the swell of his hips, and, “Yes, yes, yes ,” toppled out of her mouth haphazardly.

  His eyes, now glassy with desire and something more, stayed on hers while he lifted her onto his bed. She didn’t breathe as he arranged her hair on the pillow and then braced his palms on either side of her face. He bent to feast on the most sensitive places on her neck, biting and suckling as if pleasuring her was second nature.

  She sighed into his feathery locks. “Are you sure you never did this before?”

  “Never. I should warn you, though.” He parted her legs with his knee. “I intend to make up for lost time.”

  He dropped his attention to her left nipple. And she closed her eyes, and flashes of white light billowed on the back of her lids. She whimpered softly, and he turned his attention to her other breast.

  The shock of his admission dissolved, leaving the raw need that had drawn her into his arms. He was beautiful, he was hungry, and, for the moment, he was hers.

  He’d chosen her, and she refused to let him down.

  “If we are going to”—she ut
tered a filthy word—“you needn’t be restrained.”

  His groan rumbled in his chest. “You’ll be my death.”

  “Your little death, I hope.”

  “Little death?” he asked.

  “The feeling that happens when you spill your seed.”

  “I can’t wait.” He raised his gaze, pupils wide, as he dipped his fingers into her folds. “You’re wet.”

  “I’m ready.” She’d been ready. All week. But now that he’d shed his clothes and his secrets—now, she was on fire.

  He stroked her slowly—too slowly. When she tried to grab his hand, he pinned her wrist to her side. Her deferential secretary disappeared, replaced by a bold, confident man.

  “Please.” More hiss than entreaty. “I want to touch you.”

  He raised a brow.

  “I need,” she corrected, “to touch you.”

  He caressed the center of her palm with his calloused thumb as shrouded thoughts flitted behind his eyes. Then, he released her, settling back on his haunches with an arrogantly pert half-grin—budding confidence wrapped in the seed of innocence.

  “Be my guest.”

  Perhaps he didn’t know that a gentleman would never boldly present his manhood—not to a lady. Then again, from the challenge in his expression, she suspected he did know…and didn’t care.

  She didn’t feel like a lady, and she didn’t want a gentleman.

  She indulged her wanton need to stroke him, vein by pulsing vein. The low and needy sounds he made urged her on. He thought he could challenge, did he? She leaned down and the scent of his musk overwhelmed her senses. She ran her nails lightly around the base of his cock. Then, she dipped her head and brushed the tip with her tongue.

  He uttered a nonsensical string of consonants.

  “Did you like that?” she asked.

  “I don’t think,” his voice cracked, “I can wait any longer.”

  With a triumphant smile, she settled back into the pillows. “Then don’t.”

  He prowled toward her until his thighs were between her legs, and his upper body arched over hers. Holding his gaze, she guided his member into place. His soft moan accompanied the spread of initial entry.

  Intrusion—blissful invasion. An end to her separate self. She closed her eyes and rapped her arms around his chest.