Hugo and the Maiden

by S. M. LaViolette

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Do. You. Understand?”

  The fragile architecture of her white throat flexed. “Yes, Hugo.”

  “Good. Now, what’s the problem with Percy and Blackheathe?”

  A smug smile tugged at her sinful lips. “They both want to offer me a contract.”

  Hugo bit back a groan, hoping he hid his irritation. “So, which one do you want?”

  “Neither.”

  He frowned. “Then—oh, let me guess, they’re behaving like two skunks pissing over who gets you. But, instead of piss, they’re throwing jewels at you?”

  Her smile grew.

  Hugo leaned across his desk. “Do not fuck with my business, Maisie.”

  Her smug smile slowly drained away.

  “You know the way things work: if you want to accept an outside offer, then do it. I won’t have you turning the place into riot just so you can collect more baubles. Understood?”

  Her plush lower lip quivered. “Understood.”

  “I want you to stay away from both of them for a while.” Hugo turned to the appointment book that he usually kept locked in the safe but had been looking at earlier. He turned to the page of appointments for tonight and ran his finger down the list. “It looks like Amhurst will be here tonight and he inquired after you the last time.” He closed the book with a snap and looked up. “I want you to attach yourself to him like a barnacle. He is one of our best clients; make him happy. Extremely happy.”

  “I will. I’m sorry, Hugo.” Her enormous blue eyes glassed over with tears.

  Hugo wanted to clap. Instead, he stood and came out from behind his desk, offering her his hand and helping her to her feet. “Don’t be sorry, darling—just be a good girl from now on, hmm?”

  She pressed her lush body against him before he knew what she was doing, her hand running from his chest to his flaccid cock. Maisie frowned when she felt physical proof of his lack of interest. She caressed him with her palm. “Can I make it up to you, Hugo? I’ll do anything you like.”

  Hugo gently but firmly removed her hand from his groin. “Save your enthusiasm for Amherst, darling.”

  “Don’t worry, Hugo—I wouldn’t tell your missus.”

  Hugo took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Who told you I was married, Maisie?”

  She shrugged. “Everyone knows.”

  How in the world did people hear about his marriage? He’d not told a soul. Maybe they were just guessing, based on the fact he no longer took clients. Whatever the reason, he didn’t like talking about his wife while at work. It felt too much like he was soiling her, even if nobody ever saw Martha’s face or knew her name.

  He looked down into Maisie’s sly eyes. “As appealing as your offer is,” he lied, “I’ve got a pile of work waiting for me.” He escorted her to the door.

  She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for being so understanding, Hugo.”

  As he watched her teeter off on her ridiculous heels, he was tempted to plant a boot in her fleshy arse for believing she could play her tricks on him. Instead, he shut the door and went back to work.

  Hugo was half-way through the mound of bills and other correspondence when another knock disturbed him.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened and Daniel entered, a large tray in his hands.

  Hugo shoved his hair off his forehead and glanced at the clock. “Lord, dinner already? Well, come in and make yourself comfortable,” he said. “And you’d better lock the door behind you. What I want to ask is for your ears alone.”

  Chapter 30

  Mr. Duncan glanced at his watch. Yet again.

  “I’m sorry,” Martha said. “Something must have happened to keep him.” Hugo was already an hour late and the estate agent had become increasingly fidgety. “If you have another appointment, you can always leave me with the key. I know he will come.”

  “Well…” He chewed his lower lip.

  “It will be fine, Mr. Duncan. Perhaps you could leave all three keys and we can drop them off later?”

  “I normally wouldn’t do that, but I’m afraid I only budgeted two hours, as you requested. However, if you are sure that you will be all right here by—”

  The front door opened, and Hugo entered, his black overcoat and top hat dotted with diamonds of water. His dark eyes flickered dismissively over the agent before they landed on Martha and softened. “I’m so sorry, darling. I’m afraid I got tangled up in something of a riot.”

  “Oh, goodness,” she said.

  “Is that over on Haymarket?” Mr. Duncan asked.

  Hugo nodded absently, taking Martha’s hands in his. “Forgive me?”

  “I thought you were coming from the Exchange,” Mr. Duncan said.

  Hugo turned slowly to the agent. Whatever the other man saw on Hugo’s face made him recoil.

  “Er, not that it’s any of my affair,” he mumbled.

  Hugo made a low humming sound of agreement.

  “Mr. Duncan needs to be somewhere shortly, Hugo. He said he could leave us the keys and we could drop them by later.”

  “Now that your husband is here, I’d be happy to stay and—”

  “That’s a capital idea.” Hugo held out his hand.

  Mr. Duncan hesitated.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Er, no, no, of course not. Um, if you’ll just—”

  “I’ll have a servant run them over later this evening.”

  “Very good, sir.” Mr. Duncan gave them both a nervous smile. “Well, then, I suppose—”

  “Thank you for your time,” Hugo said.

  “Thank you so much,” Martha said warmly, her face hot at Hugo’s rudeness.

  Once the door shut behind him, Hugo heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Thank God for that. I don’t know how you tolerate that old stick, Martha.”

  “He’s quite nice, Hugo. You needn’t have been so sharp with him. He was—”

  He slid his arms around her and lowered his lips over Martha’s. The kiss was both gentle and firm, and he took possession of her mouth in a masterful way that left her breathless when he finally pulled away.

  “Let’s not talk about Duncan,” he whispered, his eyes sparkling.

  Martha blinked up at him, a bit dazed. “Oh … well, all right.”

  He took her hand. “Come, show me which room is going to be our bedroom.”

  “Hugo!”

  “What?” he asked as he all but dragged her toward the stairs. “It’s the only room I’m really interested in.”

  “You say that now,” she said, breathless as she tried to keep up, “But you will change your mind when you find the study too small or the fireplace in the dining room too drafty.”

  “Which door?” he asked when they reached the landing.

  “The one at the end.”

  Martha laughed when he darted forward, almost yanking her off her feet. He flung open the door to a large bedroom.

  “The dressing room connects to—

  Hugo drew her toward the bed. “Lie down, darling.”

  “Hugo,” she shrieked as he pressed her down on the bed, which had a Holland cover over the mattress, just like all the other furniture in the house.

  “I want to test out the room,” he said, untying her cloak and pushing it back before taking her reticule and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

  “But—”

  “Hmm?” He pulled up the skirts and petticoats of her navy-blue walking dress.

  “What if somebody comes?”

  “Oh, somebody will be coming.”

  “Hugo!”

  “I do love it when you yell my name, darling.” He thrust up her skirts and then grinned. “You are wearing my present.”

  Her blood pounded in her ears as he stared at her. “One of the many gifts you insist on showering me with.”

  “Oh, my love, this gift isn’t for you—it’s for me.”

  Martha scraped up her courage. �
�Do you like it?”

  He nodded, his expression entranced as he reached out to run his hands over the whisper-thin muslin. “The woman at the shop said these will soon be all the rage.”

  These were a pair of drawers that were similar to men’s inexpressibles, but with little frills on the leg openings.

  He traced her cleft with one finger, up and down, up and down. The thin fabric barrier somehow made her feel even more exposed. “So pretty,” he murmured.

  Martha’s sex tightened as he pressed harder, parting her lips and lightly flicking her core while his other hand stroked up her bare thigh and beneath the fabric.

  Martha gave a startled yelp.

  “Sorry, sweetness,” he murmured, his gaze moving between her face and what his hands were doing. “Is my hand cold?”

  “A little,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “Do you want me to stop?” His eyes glinted with wickedness.

  “No.”

  ◆◆◆

  Hugo gazed down on his gorgeous wife as she lay before him, a veritable banquet of femininity.

  He drank in her parted lips and flushed face, teasing her sweet little pussy through the material until she made a damp spot on her pretty new drawers.

  “Spread a bit wider for me, darling.”

  As always, she turned the most delightful shade of pink.

  But she obeyed him.

  “Good girl,” he praised when she opened for him. He loved the pink drawers on her, but they were a nuisance when it came to easily accessing her body.

  Still, he was creative; he could adapt.

  He grazed her clitoris, making her moan. She was wet for him, her body already trembling with need. His wife; his vicar’s daughter with the soul of a courtesan.

  Thank the Lord.

  He flicked open his fall with one hand, not pausing his caressing. She spread wider without being told and Hugo slid his hand inside his drawers and drew out his prick.

  Martha’s slitted gaze fixed on his plump crown which had thrust back his foreskin and was slick with evidence of his desire.

  Hugo pumped himself as he pushed a finger into her tight heat. “Fuck! Martha.”

  She clenched at the vulgar word, but he knew she was titillated, rather than offended, like those times he slipped and took the Lord’s name in vain.

  “So wet and ready for your husband,” he praised, giving her a lascivious smirk while he stroked them both.

  Hugo knew he wouldn’t last long—he never did the first time he took her. And he’d take her again—once in every house she showed him. Martha was not the sort of woman you could have just once.

  She was fortunate that old Duncan had buggered off, because Hugo had planned to mount her whether the man was there, or not. He smirked as he imagined Martha’s terror at being caught. But he knew she wouldn’t have denied him.

  Every night in their bed she came to him with a hunger as voracious as his own. After the first few weeks—when she’d gotten over her shyness—she had actually approached him. The first time he’d woken to her hand stroking his shaft he’d almost wept at the sheer perfection of her—of his life with her. All the lying and sneaking were worth it if he could have her. And keep her.

  Hugo pushed aside one leg of her drawers to expose her to his greedy gaze, mesmerized by the sight of his glistening fingers stroking her tender folds. Christ. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

  “Please Hugo,” she begged, squirming.

  “As you command,” he said, bringing their bodies closer.

  He watched himself enter her; his gaze riveted to where they were joined as he made her feel every inch. “I wish you could see what I’m seeing, Martha.” He filled her completely and held her full, giving her a moment to adjust before withdrawing slowly. “You look so beautiful taking me.” The sight of slick skin on slick skin was almost as exquisite as the feel of her.

  “Hugo.” The sound of her moaning his name was more erotic than a gamahuching from any other woman.

  “Yes, darling?” he asked, his voice hoarse as he began to work her with deep, deliberate strokes.

  “Please, more.”

  He smirked and reached down to caress her bud. She groaned, her hips lifting off the bed as she muttered something he couldn’t make out. He quickened his pace, giving her what she wanted.

  “Oh—oh—” She gasped, her tight sheath clenching so damned hard it almost hurt.

  Her rhythmic contractions shoved him over the edge, and he gave in to his need, driving into her with savage thrusts before hilting himself and then emptying his aching ballocks deep inside her sweet body.

  Hugo’s arms turned to water and he collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving. As chilly as the day was, she felt like a furnace beneath him. As his fogged brain cleared, the last few minutes came back to him in a rush. “Was I too rough, love?”

  “You were perfect. As always.”

  The warmth that flooded him at her words astonished him. Why was it that just a little bit of praise from Martha was more powerful than the effusive flattery of every lover he’d had, combined?

  “So were you, darling,” he murmured against the damp skin of her throat. “I hate to be impulsive, Martha, but I don’t think we need look any further; I adore this bedroom. I think this is the house for us.”

  She chuckled weakly, her body shaking. “Oh, Hugo.” She slid her slender arms around him and gave him a rib-bruising squeeze. “I love you so very much.”

  Hugo opened his mouth to tell her he felt the same—that he’d die for her, that she was the best thing to ever happen to him, that marrying her had been the smartest thing he’d done in his entire life.

  But, as always when it came to saying the simple four-letter word, it was as if he’d suddenly eaten lye. His throat thickened and his mouth went as dry as a desert.

  Instead of baring his soul, Hugo held her, hoping to God that what he gave her would continue to be enough for her.

  Chapter 31

  Hugo hated Roman Night.

  This—he decided as he watched an overweight, pasty, septuagenarian marquess chase three giggling whores who were (barely) dressed as the Three Fates around the Roman ruins in the ballroom—was the last time he would attend one.

  “That’s the fifth time you’ve looked at your watch in the last ten minutes, sir.”

  He turned at the sound of Daniel’s voice and snorted. “If you don’t want to end up servicing one of our drunken, randy clients I advise you to stay in the foyer, my good lad.”

  “I’d take your suggestion, but I drew the short straw tonight.”

  “Ah, Micky and Jonathan tricked you into working the ballroom, did they?”

  Daniel laughed. “So, am I still to come to your house next week, sir?”

  Hugo’s face heated at the memory of what he was paying the younger man to do. What the hell was happening to him? He’d picked up a conscience somewhere—probably from prolonged association with Martha—and it was spreading like a bloody disease.

  “Yes. And you’d better practice calling me Hugo before then.”

  “Of course, si—er, Hugo.”

  “You’ve memorized the information I gave you?” Hugo asked.

  “I have … brother.” Daniel grinned.

  Hugo snorted. “Hugo will be more than sufficient, Daniel.” He was about to reach for his watch when he recalled that he’d just done so.

  “Quite a bacchanal,” Daniel observed, standing beside Hugo in a parade rest position that gave away his past in the army.

  “You’ve never wanted to join in?” Hugo asked. “You’d make a hell of a lot more money than running errands and delivering messages.”

  Daniel’s gaze flickered across the room and settled on a naked woman lying spread eagle on a settee. An exceedingly drunken man was rogering her while at least seven other men looked on and shouted suggestions and encouragement.

  Daniel turned back to Hugo. “I don’t think so, sir. I was raised
Catholic.”

  Hugo threw back his head and laughed. “Well, I don’t think—”

  A hand landed on his shoulder. “Hugo?”

  Hugo turned to find Andrew, his second in command, dressed in a toga that had seen better days. His eyes looked a bit … wild.

  “What’s wrong?” Hugo asked, immediately serious.

  “Er, there’s a gentleman with Maisie in the Aegean Room.”

  “Lord Amherst?”

  Andrew shook his head slowly. “No.”

  Hugo ground his teeth. That bloody Maisie. “Well, who, then—it had better not be Blackheathe or Percival?”

  “I don’t want to say, sir. But, er, he wants to see you.”

  Hugo felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift.

  Fuck. He could only think of one person who would have such an effect on the normally calm Andrew.

  “Stay here and keep an eye on these fools,” he ordered, and then cut his way through the revelers toward the exit.

  The Aegean Room was one of the more expensive suites on the male side of the brothel. Four men dressed in clothing that was neither flash nor expensive stood outside the room and Hugo recognized one of them.

  “Bloody. Damn. Hell,” he muttered.

  And then he pasted on a smile and approached the man. “Gibson, isn’t it?” he asked, even though he knew good and well that was his name.

  Gibson—one of the most expressionless people Hugo had ever met—nodded. “Buckingham, right?”

  Hugo laughed at the bland dig. “Yes. He, er, wants to see me?”

  “You wait here until the woman comes out.”

  “Just one in there?”

  Gibson nodded and then continued to appear bored as drunken aristocrats and naked whores romped past them. Anyone looking his face would never believe Gibson was observing a full-blown orgy with some of England’s most powerful and wealthy citizens.

  But then, given the man he served, everyone here was as significant as a speck of fly shit.

  Hugo’s mind raced; how did one go about denying a man who was second or third in line for the throne of England—Hugo could never remember which—anything he asked for?

  He was still pondering that question a quarter of an hour later when the door to the Aegean Room opened and Maisie stepped out. She was wiping her puffy, reddened lower lip with one delicate finger, her expression as vapid as ever. She gave Hugo a half-smile. “He said he wants to talk to you.”