The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  And yet, she didn’t want to miss this opportunity. . . .

  “All right, as long as you swear to stop if I ask you to. The moment I ask you.”

  Nick’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, his expression seemed gentler, as if he understood what she was feeling.

  Which he couldn’t, of course. He was a man.

  “I give you my word, Caro, that I’ll stop before you ask if I have the faintest suspicion you aren’t an enthusiastic participant in what we’re doing.”

  A participant? What did he mean by that? She hadn’t been a participant with Dervington. She’d been a receptacle into which he could stick his—

  Yes. Well. She’d just tried to lie still and endure. Fortunately, Dervington had been quick about the business.

  “I’ll keep my breeches on and buttoned.” He smiled and held out his hand to her. “How’s that?”

  She looked at him suspiciously. What could he do without his cock?

  He’d done lovely things this morning with his lips....

  She studied him as he stood quietly waiting for her to make up her mind. He was sinfully handsome—and a peer. Just like Dervington.

  No, not at all like Dervington. Nick wasn’t married. He wouldn’t be breaking any vows no matter what he did with her. And she knew him in a way she’d never known Dervington. He was the orphaned boy Henry used to bring home at school holidays, who’d been smart and funny and kind to her and had always seemed a little sad—alone and lonely.

  She thought she saw traces of the same sadness, the same loneliness in his eyes now.

  He’s offering me a rare opportunity, a chance to explore something I’ve long wondered about.

  She trusted Nick. And she felt . . . something else for him as well. It might be love. She certainly cared about him. This wasn’t the silly daring or cockiness—ha!—she’d felt when she’d let Dervington into her bed.

  She would be brave, as fearless as she’d been as a child, as fearless as she was in her brewing and business dealings.

  She would say yes.

  She gave Nick her hand.

  “Y-yes.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Caro’s fingers were ice-cold, and her mouth, her eyes, even the way her nostrils flared radiated tension. She made him think of a wild creature, a doe or a hare, poised to bolt at the first sign of danger, even if the “danger” was no more threatening than a stray leaf blown across the ground.

  An odd warmth filled his chest.

  He wanted her. Well, that was nothing new. . . .

  No, this wanting was new. It was far more intense than anything he’d felt before. It was . . . starvation compared to being just a bit peckish.

  He’d always considered himself a lusty fellow. He might have grown late and so started his amorous explorations after some of his friends, but he’d quickly made up for lost time. He’d enjoyed earning his nickname—and not just because it scandalized his uncle so thoroughly.

  But after a while, even a Lord Devil found tupping a different woman every night tedious. When, after one pleasant swiving, he went to bid his delightfully naked companion adieu and realized he couldn’t remember her name—Was it Jane or Joan?—he had decided it was time for a change.

  Now he had, well, not a mistress—nothing so settled as that—but Livy and one or two other women he visited regularly to satisfy his needs. He considered them friends, but he’d admit it was a shallow sort of friendship. His motivations were largely physical and theirs, monetary. But it had worked well . . . until this trip.

  No, now that he considered the matter, he saw that he’d been losing interest in his carnal encounters for a while—even before his embarrassing failure with Livy in this very room. Lord Devil had become an act, one that was getting harder to perform.

  Harder? Ha!

  But did he really wish to entertain the thought of marriage?

  He smiled at Caro and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. Perhaps he did. All he knew for certain now was that he was here, alone in a bedroom with a woman he wanted intensely—painfully—and yet was not going to have. His cock and ballocks were going to ache like the devil, and he’d probably have to pleasure himself for the first time since he’d lost his virginity if he wanted to get any sleep tonight.

  And it didn’t matter.

  That was the oddest part—the fact that he knew he’d get no physical satisfaction and it truly did not matter to him in any significant way. If he could bring Caro pleasure, that would be enough. That would be his satisfaction.

  It was a peculiar—a foreign—notion, and yet it was true. Why?

  He had no idea. He’d think about that later. Right now he had a woman—no, he had Caro—to . . . seduce? Serve?

  Make love to?

  Yes. He might not know anything about the love poets wrote of, but he knew something of loving the female body.

  “Let’s finish getting you out of that gown, shall we?”

  That earned him an alarmed look. She pulled her hand out of his, but at least she didn’t run to her room and slam the door behind her or even step back out of his reach. Her eyes just got wider—he could see her wrestling with her nerves.

  “You don’t want to sleep in your dress and stays,” he said calmly. Matter-of-factly.

  She frowned at him. “What about my shift?”

  Might as well be honest. He grinned. “I hope that will come off, too, but I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want—enthusiastically want—to do.”

  Her frown deepened to a scowl. He waited while she considered the matter.

  “Oh, all right. Or, at least all right to everything but the shift.” She tugged on one sleeve.

  He put his hand over hers. “No. Let me. I’m your maid tonight.”

  She scowled at him a moment longer and then rolled her eyes and shrugged rather gracelessly. “Suit yourself.”

  Her dress was already untied, so it was quick work to send it sliding down to puddle at her feet.

  She stepped free before he could help her and started to bend over—

  “No,” he said again, putting a hand on her upper arm. “I—oh. You’ve muscles.” The words slipped out without his meaning to say them, he was that surprised. He’d not encountered muscles in a woman’s arms before. It was rather . . . exciting.

  “Of course I have muscles.”

  Caro’s voice had started out annoyed, but it rose at the end as he traced her biceps, stroking her inner arm with his thumb.

  “It takes s-strength to b-brew. There’s a lot of lifting and carrying and stirring and pouring.”

  “Mmm.” Was she breathing a little faster? Could he kiss the pulse he saw beating in her throat?

  No. Not yet.

  “I can’t leave my dress in a heap,” she said, frowning down at the discarded fabric. “I didn’t pack with the thought that I’d be gone several days.” She tried to bend over again, and again he stopped her.

  “Oh, no, milady. Remember, I am your maid tonight. I will attend to your clothing.”

  She snorted—and then laughed as he made a show of picking her dress off the floor, shaking it out, and draping it carefully over his desk chair.

  He turned back to her and bowed theatrically. “And now, milady, your stays.”

  Her laughter stopped. She flushed and took a step backward. “I-I . . .”

  “Courage.”

  Her chin came up defiantly. “I’m not afraid.”

  He smiled, saying soothingly, “Of course you aren’t.”

  But am I?

  He froze, shocked at the unexpected thought—and shocked even more that it might be true. Why the hell would he be nervous?

  “You must do this with many women.” Her voice was tight and rather sharp, as if she wanted to provoke an argument, perhaps hoping to distract him.

  He was not going to be distracted.

  He looked at her, looked into her eyes, and thought he saw some of his own confusing uncertainty reflected there
.

  “I told you I’m not a virgin.” Though he might as well be one from the way his nerves were vibrating.

  “I’m not a v-virgin, either.” She said the words defiantly, but he thought he heard notes of regret and pain, as well.

  How to respond? “That is technically—or perhaps I should say physically—correct. Your maidenhead is gone.” He frowned. “From what you’ve told me, I’d say you were robbed.”

  Her brows shot up.

  “Or at least you made a very bad bargain.”

  Her brows slammed down, and he had to swallow a chuckle. Clearly, she did not care to have her negotiating skills disparaged.

  “What do you mean I made a bad bargain?”

  He shrugged, keeping his voice light. “Dervington took your virginity, but gave you nothing in return.”

  “Thank God!”

  What the . . . ? Oh. Right.

  “I don’t mean a child.” To his surprise, mixed in with the relief he felt on her account was a throb of sadness.

  Which made no sense at all. He must be losing his mind.

  “I mean pleasure. Dervington gave you no pleasure in exchange for your virginity. So, in that regard—in the area of true carnal knowledge—you are a virgin.” He grinned. “That’s the situation I hope to remedy.”

  She was still frowning. “And what about you?”

  “Me? What do you mean?”

  “What are you getting in return? Surely you don’t intend to make as bad a bargain as I did.”

  Hoist with my own petard.

  “I’ll get pleasure from giving you pleasure.”

  Her right brow winged up skeptically.

  Yes, he’d admit that was difficult to believe—he’d likely not believe it himself if someone said the same to him. But he knew in his gut that it was true. How to explain it so she would believe him?

  “Consider me a teacher—your teacher, Caro. Teachers get enjoyment from teaching their pupils new, ah, material, don’t they?”

  She didn’t look completely convinced.

  “Don’t you get pleasure from teaching people about brewing and your ale?”

  That struck a chord. Her face lit up. “Yes. Yes, I do. I enjoy sharing what I know, my skill . . .” She looked at him, an odd expression—a mix of disapproval, perhaps, and curiosity and . . . desire?—on her face. “And I suppose you have a lot of skill in c-carnal matters.”

  Did he? He would have said yes even as recently as an hour ago, but now he wasn’t so certain.

  “Let’s see, shall we?” He grinned. “I have it. Don’t think of me as a teacher. Instead, think of me as a . . . salesman, but instead of selling ale, I’ll be trying to sell you the benefits of physical pleasure. In the end, you’ll be the judge of whether I succeeded or not.” His grin widened. “I’ll look for you to evaluate my performance. And feel free to give me instructions or suggestions for improvements as we go along.”

  That made her giggle. “All right.” She lifted her chin and waved her hand rather regally. “You may begin.”

  “Splendid.” He tugged open the bow on her stays and made quick work of unlacing her; he did have experience with such things, though he’d say Caro’s stays were plainer and stiffer than the ones he was used to. Practical, not decorative.

  Of course they were. Caro didn’t expect anyone to see her underthings, while the light-skirts he consorted with dressed to be undressed.

  “Ohh.” She gave a small groan of pleasure as her laces loosened.

  The sound went straight to his cock. Had he heard such a noise before?

  Not that he could remember, but then again, every other time he’d been in a bedroom with a woman, his focus hadn’t been on undressing his companion—or even on his companion, he suddenly realized. No, he’d been thinking entirely of himself and his anticipated satisfaction.

  Selfish blackguard.

  Or just paying customer?

  Zeus!

  This would be nothing like any of those times. This time his focus would be entirely on Caro.

  This time he might be as virginal as she.

  “It feels so nice to be free of my stays at the end of the day.”

  “Ah.” He’d not considered what it would be like to go about encased in stiff fabric and bone or wood.

  She laughed and stretched. “You have no idea what—oh. You are looking at me.”

  “Guilty as charged.” When she’d moved, her lovely breasts had moved, too, pushing against the shift’s thin fabric. He reached out—slowly so she could stop him if she wanted—and lightly traced the outline of one breast.

  “Ohh.”

  That was Caro moaning, though it could have been him.

  He saw her nipple peak, and he touched it, again lightly and with just the tip of his finger.

  Caro inhaled sharply. Her eyes drifted closed; her teeth caught her bottom lip.

  His cock felt as if it were going to explode. He’d be lucky to be able to waddle over to the bed when the time came.

  He stroked the side of her breast, and she moaned again. Her head tilted back slightly, and he thought she arched into his touch. Her breath came in short, little gasping pants.

  He might be having a little trouble breathing himself.

  She was so beautiful. So responsive. He felt powerful and awestruck and overwhelmed all at the same time. He wanted this woman with a fierce need, but he wanted her for more than just one night. He wanted her forever.

  Are you mad?!

  Perhaps, he was. Or perhaps he was just caught up in the madness of desire. He’d never before felt it this intensely.

  Anything so intense must pass.

  No...

  It didn’t matter. Nothing that happened here was permanent. No need to think of the future. He would just enjoy the present.

  He brushed Caro’s temple with his lips—and earned a small sigh as his reward. He inhaled her scent as he kissed her cheek, her jaw, the spot on her neck just below her ear with light, teasing touches.

  Her eyes drifted shut. Her hands came up to brace against his chest, and he felt again as if she were branding him, both palms, each finger, burning their mark into his skin.

  Into his heart?

  Bah. He’d never been one for such poetic folderol.

  Except it feels true....

  He brushed the thought away as he brushed his mouth over Caro’s—and was rewarded with another sigh.

  “Do you like this?” He breathed the words as he dusted small kisses over her forehead. He certainly did. Who could have guessed how erotic restraint could be?

  “Mmm.”

  He took that as a yes. He stroked her breast again.

  “Mmm mmm.” That was almost a purr.

  He kissed the base of her throat. “Think how much better my lips and hands would feel against your bare skin.”

  “Mm—” Her eyes flew open, and she frowned at him—though her cheeks were flushed and her breath still came in little pants.

  “Remember, I’m keeping my breeches buttoned. You’re in no danger—unless melting from intense pleasure qualifies as danger.” He nuzzled her neck as he slid his hands down her back to cup her lovely, firm rump. “And there’s this, too: I can’t present my most persuasive arguments in favor of physical pleasure while you’re wearing any clothing. It wouldn’t be sporting of you to make me try.”

  Caro snorted.

  He straightened to look her in the eye. “It’s true. It would be like you trying to sell your ale to someone who refused to taste it. You might be able to do it, but you certainly wouldn’t be able to make your best case—or your best deal. Isn’t that right?”

  She frowned, and then nodded slowly, almost as if against her will.

  He saw uneasiness and indecision and, yes, passion swirling in her eyes, shading the blue to gray. He wanted to seduce her, to use her body to overwhelm her reservations, but he knew that wouldn’t be sporting.

  So, he waited.

  Finally, she smiled in a lopsided
, tentative way. “I wouldn’t want to be unsporting.” The smile wavered, and she looked away. “So, yes. All right. I’ll take off my shift as long as you promise to keep your breeches buttoned.”

  Elation performed a spirited reel in his chest, but he tried to keep it from leaping into his expression. “Very good. Let’s repair to the bed then, and I shall assist you out of your shoes and stockings and shift.”

  Her frown was back. “I can do that myself.”

  “Yes, of course you can.” He put his hand on the small of her back and urged her toward the bed. “But I am playing lady’s maid tonight, if you will recall. And undressing you is also part of my sales pitch for physical pleasure.”

  She snorted. “How can taking off a shift have anything to do with that?”

  “You’ll see.” He would, too. He’d never done anything like this before, but he was oddly eager to experiment. “Now, if you will please sit on the edge of the bed?”

  Caro looked at him as if he were dicked in the nob, but she did as he’d directed. Then she held out her foot.

  “Here you go.”

  Her voice hardly wavered at all.

  Her shoes were sturdy, sensible, exactly what he’d expect a working woman to wear. He slipped the first one off, and then massaged her foot—heel, arch, ball, toes.

  “Mmm. That’s lovely.” Her eyes were half-closed. She looked almost blissful.

  “You must be on your feet a lot.”

  She nodded. “Especially when I’m in the middle of a brew. But I live in the country. I walk everywhere.”

  So, were her legs as strong and curved with muscle as her arms? He slid his hands up her calf, over her practical cotton stockings, taking the shift with him.

  Yes, they were.

  Caro’s eyes widened as his hands moved higher and higher. “Oh. Oh!”

  He slid his fingers above her knee to her garter, untied it, and then started the journey back down, peeling the stocking off, moving over skin instead of cotton.

  Was the room getting warmer? He certainly felt as flushed as Caro looked.

  He pulled the stocking off, dropped it on the floor, and moved on to the second, pushing Caro’s shift a little higher so he could kiss her inner thigh just above her knee.