Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  “What are you—” The rest was lost in a series of incoherent cries over which Rhiannon had no control. He tortured her damp, swollen flesh with his tongue—flicking, swirling, licking, pressing, and holding his tongue against the seat of her pleasure. She tried to move her legs, closer or farther apart, it did not matter. She needed to move. And when she finally did, it was to lift herself into his attentions, pulsing until the rhythm began to give her what she sought. He was merciless, chuckling at her moans and pleading. Growling against her screaming flesh until her body reached for completion, found it, and dragged her into the undertow he’d set loose.

  She called his name, and before her soul returned to her body, he was over her, his mouth at her breast as he slid himself inside her in one slow, stretching, filling slide. She clutched the back of his head, holding him to her as he suckled and matched his thrusts to her desperate rhythm. The sense of fullness was strange at first. It had been seventeen years and only the one time. This was nothing like before, and she found herself wanting more, wanting it never to end.

  Endymion rose on his arms. His rhythm quickened. He lowered his head to kiss her, and suddenly Rhiannon had to strive with him, against him. The spiral of pleasure began to whirl around her once more. The sounds of their flesh meeting, his dark groans, her panting cries—all of it began to spin out of control. His gaze locked with hers. She gripped his forearms for fear she’d fly away into the green forest of his eyes.

  “Rhiannon,” he breathed. “Rhiannon.” Over and over, he gasped her name, until he had no breath left to speak. His eyes closed, his expression one of feral concentration.

  Suddenly her vision went dark and then exploded with colors and light. Her body locked. He threw his head back, an incomprehensible groan exploding from his lips. His arms shook slightly, but still held him above her. She pulled him down, needing the heat he radiated, needing the sense of his flesh against hers to assure her this wasn’t all a dream. She wrapped her arms around him. Kissed the damp hair away from his face.

  He pressed an awkward kiss to her cheek and nuzzled his face into the cloud of her hair spread across the bedclothes. He sighed and then chuckled a moment.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “My arse is freezing, but I don’t want to move.”

  “We can wait a few moments to find our way under the covers.” She stroked his back and began to wonder how she had allowed this to happen.

  “I don’t want to move, ever.”

  “That may prove problematic. I have things to see to in the morning.” Rhiannon winced at the casual tone she’d adopted. It was the most incredible moment of her life, but she did not want him to know it. She could not give him that power. She’d already given in to him. A mere two weeks, and she’d fallen into his bed.

  He raised himself up once more. “Are you angry with me, Rhee? Did I hurt you?” He truly was concerned, which made it all the worse.

  “Of course, you didn’t, you stupid man. It was wonderful. I never knew— Stop smiling at me.”

  “It isn’t every day a man beds his wife for the first time he remembers and she tells him he is wonderful.” He kissed her nose. She batted him away.

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” She scrambled from beneath him and worked her way under the sheets and counterpane at the head of the bed. He propped himself up on one elbow and fixed her with an inquiring stare. She flipped the covers back from the spot on the bed beside her.

  “Are you certain, Rhee? You seem a bit upset for a woman who has been wonderfully pleasured. Lord Voil isn’t the only one who values his tarrywags.”

  She rolled her eyes. She wanted to be furious with him. She needed to be. But all she craved was the warmth and weight of his body next to hers as she drifted to sleep. Even if he’d return to London once August ended. She’d survived it as a girl. She expected she’d survive it again. She had no choice.

  “You do have a rather fine arse, Your Grace. I’d hate to see it damaged by frostbite.”

  He made a great show of leaving the bed, walking to the spot she’d indicated, and climbing back in again. He stretched out beside her and pulled her close as he settled the sheets and counterpane over them.

  “I am curious about one thing, Dymi.”

  “Ask me anything, Rhee.” He kissed her hair, which he took great care to spread across his chest.

  “With a wife tucked away in Cornwall since you were fifteen, where precisely did you learn to perform so wonderfully in bed?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Why could I not have married a placid wife of average wit with a complete lack of curiosity?

  Endymion wistfully considered that fleeting thought whilst he tried to compose an answer for the far too quick-witted woman he’d married. An answer that would not undo the entirety of his inept wooing. At least, he hoped his wooing had persuaded her to take him into her bed.

  He could always tell her the truth. The late duke would, no doubt, turn over in his grave.

  “Women do not need the truth. They need to hear whatever gives them comfort. It is all they want or understand.”

  She turned on her side and stared at him expectantly. They occupied her bedchamber. Where did she keep her Manton? He braced himself.

  “My grandfather—ompff! What the devil?” His head had gone fuzzy. His wife had swatted him with one of the half dozen large pillows at the head of the bed.

  “If you say your grandfather dragged you to a London brothel the way he did his two sons, I shall kick you from this bed and march you off the estate at gunpoint.” She pushed away from him, sat up and swept the considerable length and weight of her hair behind her.

  “My father and his brother are dead. How do you know—”

  “Your mother. After your father’s brother died, your mother refused to allow the duke near you. She did not want him to raise you the way he did his own sons. She…told me not long before she died.” She looked away.

  He had so many questions; not that her answers would change anything. His family was gone and Rhiannon was all he had left. His chest squeezed tight and a sort of achy pang, like the hurt of a sudden cold wind, lodged beneath his ribs. The truth. Right.

  “It wasn’t a brothel.” Endymion lay on his back and stared at the tapestry-work canopy over her head. He combed his fingers through her tresses. “He set up a mistress for me in a house on Bruton Street when I was eighteen. After I came back from Oxford, I spent all of my time with my books or with Voil. The duke thought he and I were…”

  His delicate bride, with the sheet and counterpane drawn across her naked breasts, snorted and rolled her eyes. “Even were he so disposed, Lord Voil would not put up with you as his paramour for five minutes.”

  “Undoubtedly. What of you, Rhee? Will you put up with me?”

  “If I had taken a lover all these years? Would you put up with me?”

  Rage roared through him. Primitive and so powerful, he clenched his fists to keep it inside where it belonged. She raised her chin, as bold and defiant as Boudica herself and more alluring than any woman he’d ever known.

  “I’d be furious to the point of madness. Unfair of me, I know. But as you said, I am a bit of an arse.”

  “No, Your Grace, I said you were a complete horse’s arse.”

  “Of course,” he replied and forced his hands open. “So, you did.”

  She worried the side of her bottom lip, a gesture he remembered from childhood schemes and old hurts.

  “I put her aside when my grandfather died,” he confessed.

  “You had the same mistress for seven years?”

  “I was eighteen years old and an idiot, Rhee. She was my mistress the first year. After that, I did not share a bed with her. I only visited her when I needed to escape and find the peace and quiet of a household that would leave me alone.”

  “Escape?”

  “The duke. Great Uncle Richard. Expectations.” Endymion shook his head. “The silence in the house when I disappointed them o
r asked about the past.” She didn’t need to hear this. Those years were over and their treatment of him had only made him stronger.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why didn’t you share her bed? Why did you put her aside when the duke died?”

  “I was married. I realized that honor in my dealings with everyone else was nothing if I did not honor my vows to you. When Lord Richard found out, he declared it a result of my mother’s Methodist inclinations.” A sudden heat lashed across his cheeks. He was blushing. In all his thirty-two years, he never, ever remembered blushing.

  “Lord Richard is a disgusting, indolent arse,” she declared as she slid next to him and lay her head on his shoulder. Dear God, at the gentle warmth that suffused him.

  “Obviously a family trait.” He put his arm around her. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Hmmm,” she murmured, tapping her chin with her finger.

  “What does that mean?

  “I’m trying to decide. I should be furious and ban you from my bed forever.”

  Endymion lay perfectly still.

  “But as this woman must have been an excellent teacher and saved me from another night like our wedding night…” She ran her finger around his nipple and then across it.

  “Please don’t say another word about our wedding night. I am not certain my manhood can survive it.”

  “Or your stomach, for that matter,” she said with a sly grin.

  He rolled her beneath him and laced the fingers of her hands with his. “Shall I show you what else I learned, Your Grace?” He fused his mouth to hers in a deep, invasive kiss that left them both shaking.

  A shadow rippled across her features for a moment. Then she smiled. The sort of smile Helen must have gifted Paris with, the sort of smile to cause a man to start a war rather than give up a woman he cannot live without.

  “I should like that very much, Your Grace. Very much, indeed.”

  ***

  Endymion hated reading in a moving coach. He especially hated reading estate ledgers in a moving coach when there were so many more inventive ways to spend time traveling slowly along a mud-sodden road toward God only knew where.

  “Are you paying attention, Dymi?” his exasperated wife inquired. His wife he’d much rather have straddling his lap with the skirts of her blue kerseymere gown hiked up around her hips.

  “You have been keeping two sets of accounts for the last seven years and only recording part of the estate’s income because you suspect either my uncle or the estate manager he hired of embezzling said profits from the estate.”

  He wanted to believe her. He wanted to take her back to Pendeen and spend the rest of the evening in her bed. Babcock would get to the bottom of the discrepancies in the accounts. Rhiannon had admitted to underreporting the accounts, but where was the money? Two parts of his body—his brain and his cock—warred, a problem he’d never encountered before, and it irritated him.

  She snatched the ledger from his lap and slammed it closed before dropping it into a leather portmanteau. “I don’t suspect, I know. Apparently, that isn’t good enough for you.”

  “My man of business will—”

  “Ah, yes, Babcock, whom you trust, will go over my ledgers and solve all of my problems. Nothing for me to worry my silly female head over.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared out the coach window into the late afternoon gloom.

  “Would you like to tell me what this is truly about, Rhee? You’ve been nervous and petulant since you kicked me out of your bed and demanded I meet you in front of the house in a few hours dressed for travel. Where are we going? And more important, why?” He left unasked the question he most wanted answered.

  Where was the woman he’d made love to most of the night? Where was the woman who’d fallen asleep in his arms and given him his first night’s rest in as long as he could remember? He’d awoken to find her standing in the middle of her bedchamber, wrapped in that tatty, flannel robe, a scrap of parchment in her hand. She’d given him his orders and disappeared into her sitting room to summon her maid.

  “Here,” she said without turning away from the window, that same piece of paper in her outstretched hand. “I received this message last night. We are on our way to Zennor.”

  “Zennor?” His entire body went cold. Zennor, the tiny village he, his mother, and brothers had fled to after his father died, and the duke had them thrown from the house. His mother had gone by the name of Lizzie Bryant, and he and his brothers had used their ordinary middle names rather than the romantic names their father had given them.

  Endymion understood better now his mother’s reasons for trying to keep them hidden. She’d chosen an obscure village close enough, the duke might never suspect. Hiding in plain sight. He remembered now, the rumors had them living in Manchester, with her working as housekeeper rather than a tavern maid in an ancient, rundown inn. He honed his attention onto the message his wife had received.

  The farmer, Wilson, is responsible for the accident at the mines.

  He is to meet his master at The Mermaid’s Tale.

  Tomorrow evening as the sun sets.

  I’ll be watching.

  The Mermaid’s Tale, where his mother had worked. Where she had died, or so he’d been told.

  “She was killed by a customer at the damned tavern she dragged you and your brothers to after your father died. What sort of end did she expect, subjecting all of you to such a disreputable, dangerous place?”

  Lord Richard de Waryn was not known for his sympathetic nature. He’d been hard on Endymion to break him of his lowborn ways. He’d warmed to him as the years went by and these days, like many older gentlemen, he tended to keep to himself.

  “Who sent you this message?”

  “You are not the only one with spies in my household, Your Grace.”

  “My staff are not spies.”

  “And Lord Voil? What is he?”

  “A malingering houseguest and a poor excuse for a spy.” Endymion shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark blue hunting jacket. A storm brewed a few miles away. The chill he’d sensed earlier settled into his bones. The scents and scenery passing outside the lumbering coach, increasingly familiar, threatened to suffocate him. He tapped his forefinger against the top of his thigh. “Why could Voil not do this, or your Mr. Thomas?” He sounded bored and put out, just as he planned. He’d determined not to show even an inkling of the shroud of dread wrapping itself tighter and tighter around him.

  “Josiah is a stranger in Zennor. He came with Papa from Yorkshire when they were both young men. Lord Voil would stick out like a whore in church.” She turned away from the window, her brown eyes huge in a face pale beyond reason. “They look after their own in Zennor, Dymi. You are your mother’s son, and it is time.”

  “Time for what?” Endymion spread his arms across the back of the seat. Even lacking the ducal crest, the unmarked coach afforded every comfort—wide, tufted, leather-covered seats, with thick carpeting on the floor and ornate carriage lamps on either side of the interior.

  He adopted the pose of idle aristocrat, luxuriating in his riches, when his heart thudded like a blacksmith’s hammer and his mind screamed at him to turn around and go home, to Pendeen, or better, to London. Seemed a practical idea until his gaze fell on her hands plucking at her skirts. And then his focus was drawn to her face and he knew. Against everything he’d ever learned at his grandfather’s side, against all sense and logic, Endymion resolved to face whatever demons he must to keep her safe.

  The coach slowed and pulled to a stop within the narrow confines of a ramshackle stableyard. The inn outside the coach window appeared equally weathered by time’s unkind hand. Three stories tall, white-washed, with a pitched gabled roof, crooked windows, and a series of chimneys belching smoke into the waning light.

  And hanging from a creaking, rusty arm, the faded sign he’d seen in his nightmares for as long as he could remember. He stepped down the coach steps and s
tudied the worn wood swinging above the tavern door. Thunder rumbled out to sea. The figure on the sign held him transfixed. The narrow lane behind him, the stableyard, everything fell away. Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “Dymi?” A small hand, frail as fine china and strong as iron, slipped into his. “We need to go inside before we are seen. Can you… Do you think you…”

  He grasped her hand, tightly, forcing himself not to crush it. “According to you and Voil, I spend too much time thinking and planning.” He turned his back on the sign and still felt its eyes on him. “Is it too much to hope this tavern serves a decent pasty?”

  “You’ll be lucky if it serves a decent swill,” the coachman muttered. He flipped the collar of his coat up around his neck.

  “As we discussed, John,” Endymion said as he led Rhiannon up the steps to the ancient oak door. He glanced down the road in the opposite direction from which they’d come. A chill shot through him. The road was empty, but he heard horses, horses galloping toward the inn, and then the blast of a musket so real he flinched.

  “This is a bad idea,” Rhiannon suddenly said. “John, take us back to Gorffwys Ddraig.” She began to tug Endymion toward the coach.

  Endymion shook his head against the fog of remembrance. “Bad ideas never stopped us as children, Rhee. Look sharp, John.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.” The coachman strolled to the corner of the inn and settled onto the stone mounting block there, his legs outstretched and his hat pulled down over his eyes.

  Rhiannon released his hand and pulled the hood of her long, black cloak over her head. Endymion quirked an eyebrow.

  “Robert Wilson does not know you. He does, however, know me,” she said and tucked her arm through his.

  “Which is why you neglected to give me the particulars of this adventure until it was too late to lock you in the cellar,” he muttered in her ear as they made their way through the crowded taproom toward a table in the back corner.

  She snorted. “It might have worked had you not showed me every way out of that cellar when we were children.”