Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  “My bedchamber is next to the parlor,” she said quietly, waving maids and footmen away as they hurried up the stairs. “There is a connecting door. I clean it myself…none of my staff are permitted there. I like to have a room that is mine alone.”

  Bennett hesitated momentarily. “Our purchases…”

  “My footmen will bring them inside. They’ll be quite safe. Unlike your virtue.”

  He didn’t laugh, instead pressing her briefly against the hallway wall to rub his straining erection between her legs. “You think to tease me, madam?”

  “Hurry,” she said, with a soft moan. “Please hurry.”

  Wordlessly they continued on, through her private parlor and dressing room. Delilah then withdrew a key from her reticule and unlocked the door. Her bedchamber was sumptuous; cream silk walls, a large four-poster bed hung with dark blue velvet curtains, a sturdy embroidered chaise beside the smoldering fire, and to his surprise, a partially screened off bathing area in one corner, complete with a permanent marble tub that looked large enough for two.

  So modern and luxurious!

  While she stoked the fire until it blazed and eased the chill in the chamber, Bennett discarded his borrowed scarf, cap, and jacket, and his own shoes and stockings. Soon after, Delilah took off her own shoes, and unbuttoned her woolen pelisse.

  “Would you help me with my gown?”

  “Of course.”

  Fortunately for his inexperienced fingers, her gown had only three buttons at the nape. She ruthlessly tugged the fabric down, before kicking away her petticoat. Smiling to himself, Bennett took his time with her stays, even though they were laced with a fine silken cord rather than ribbon and were easy to loosen. That garment, too, along with her stockings, ended up on the floor, and she turned to face him clad only in an ankle-length linen chemise.

  “Shall I?” Delilah asked, reaching for the ribbon at the bodice.

  “No,” he rasped. “Let me unwrap you.”

  “I’ll just fetch a sponge, and some brandy. It’s the best way to prevent pregnancy—along with you spilling on my belly, of course.”

  “Whatever you wish,” he replied as he continued to undress, grateful once again for her knowledge and matter-of-fact speech.

  When finally naked, Bennett stalked to the bed where Delilah waited under the sheets and heavy quilt. She watched him, or more specifically his cock, and as though appreciating the audience, it thickened and rose higher and higher until it near bobbed against his lower belly. The ache hurt like hell, and a part of him wanted to plunge inside her without delay. However more urgent was the desire to lick her pussy, to taste the juices that had drenched his fingers earlier in the carriage and hear her come without the need for muffling sounds.

  “How hungry you look, Your Grace,” she said, a playful smile curving her lips as she pulled back the covers and patted the mattress. “Are you going to eat me all up?”

  Bennett leaned down, capturing her lips in a demanding kiss. She surrendered at once, arching her back when he trailed his mouth from neck to collarbone. Unable to deny himself, he tugged at the ribbon of her chemise bodice and parted the fabric to reveal her full breasts, each tipped with a large rose-pink nipple. On another occasion he might have studied them for hours, perhaps caressed and pinched until Delilah begged for his mouth. But he couldn’t wait. Instead, he lowered his head, took one taut nipple into his mouth, and sucked hard.

  Her gasp echoed in the bedchamber.

  Back and forth he went between her breasts, sucking and gently biting her nipples until they were wine-colored and glistening, and Delilah was panting. Only then did he move again, removing her chemise before kissing his way down to her bush, a thicket of crisp, neatly trimmed black hair.

  “Spread your thighs,” he commanded. “Let me see that sweet pussy.”

  Delilah touched herself, parting the hair to show him her swollen clitoris and the slick, tender pink petals of her labia. His mouth watered, and Bennett swooped down for one long, slow lick. She moaned loudly, open and unashamed in her need. The musky, spicy scent of her exploded on his tongue, addicting him for eternity, and he settled in to feast.

  To start, Delilah guided his head with her hands and instructed him where to be softer or firmer, to lick left or right, up or down, or in tiny circles. Paying careful attention to what she needed to come, Bennett eventually mastered her preferences. When she writhed and cried out in orgasmic bliss as he sucked her clitoris, he knew another moment of pure triumph. Yet twice wasn’t enough. He craved more of Delilah’s delicious honey, so pushed his tongue inside her pussy and fucked her with it until her fingers clenched the sheets and she came again.

  Soon, she tugged firmly on his hair. “I need your cock,” she pleaded. “Hard and rough and deep, like you said. Let me just put the sponge in.”

  Delilah soaked it in a half glass of brandy, before expertly positioning it deep inside her pussy. The attached string remained outside to allow easy removal later on.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Fuck me. Please.”

  Thank Christ.

  Bennett gripped his painfully hard cock, bathing the head in her wetness. This was a truly momentous occasion: at long last he would know what it felt like to be inside a woman. Slowly, tentatively, he penetrated her pussy, the indescribable sensation of her inner walls stretching to receive him and her greedy sheath sucking him deeper, almost enough to make him come there and then. Now he understood why men and women everywhere defied rules and propriety and risked all for pleasure. Nothing could compare.

  “Like this?” he gritted out, experimentally burying his cock inside her, withdrawing, then advancing again.

  Delilah arched, digging her heels into the bed. “Tunbury.”

  He paused, mid-thrust. “You called me Ben earlier. Say it.”

  “Ben. Oh God, don’t stop. Please, please. Ben.”

  At the erotic sound of his name once again as a desperate plea, his hips jerked and rammed his cock brutally deep. Delilah screamed in ecstasy, her fingernails clawing his back as her pussy rippled and pulsed around him. It sent him over the edge, and he just managed to yank his cock free before spurting his seed across her belly in a vicious, wrenching, splendid climax.

  Exhausted, his wits departed, all Bennett could do was slump on top of Delilah. When her arms closed about his shoulders and her fingers smoothed his hair, an unexpected feeling of peace settled over him. Of rightness. As though this was meant to be.

  Perhaps December had potential after all.

  Ah, but she enjoyed tormenting herself.

  Lying here in a sated daze after numerous orgasms. Stroking the brawny man resting on top of her like they were a longstanding couple, not a duke and a pleasure club madam stealing an hour from the relentless demands of their respective worlds.

  Oh no.

  Delilah turned her head in dismay as the clock in her parlor chimed faintly through the wall. Six o’clock. Far more than a stolen hour with Ben, but an entire afternoon of abdicating her responsibilities. She still had to bath and dress before supper, privately reprimand a footman caught eating in the theater, ensure the gaming hell had extra food and drink for a patron birthday celebration, then complete her daily inspection of the Temple rooms with each staff member in charge.

  Botheration. Today had been glorious, from the shopping in Cheapside to the lustiest, most satisfying bedding she’d ever experienced with a man. But now, like all good things, it had to come to an end.

  “Ben,” she said softly, tapping his shoulder.

  “Mmmm?” he replied, kissing her neck.

  Delilah choked back a moan. She’d been so enthralled by this no longer virginal duke, that although her nipples and clitoris were sensitive to touch and her pussy ached from being taken so hard by his large cock, she wanted more. And that was dangerous. Not only did she have tasks to complete, but under no circumstances could she become attached to this man. They did not have a future, no matter how much her body—o
r her heart—might wish it so. Ben was a duke who wanted to wed one of those well-mannered young ladies from an acceptable family, and even once she’d sold the Temple, she would never be that.

  Nor did she have any desire to be a married man’s mistress. Perhaps a selfish and shockingly unworldly stance for a pleasure club madam, but she refused to share a lover with someone else, even if there were tender feelings involved.

  “Ben,” she repeated.

  “Just a few more minutes. Then I’ll be ready to fuck you again.”

  Her lips twitched. “I don’t doubt that, but I’m afraid I must rise and get dressed. My Temple guests expect to see me this evening.”

  The duke went rigid and rolled off her, before swinging his legs over the other side of the bed. “Of course. Forgive me. I should depart also, before my staff report a missing duke.”

  Her heart hurt at the sudden distance between them. She wanted to embrace Ben, kiss those broad shoulders and press her breasts against his warm back. But cool reality had settled in, and instead, Delilah rose from the bed and stumbled over to the hearth. First she removed the brandy sponge and threw it into the crackling, snapping fire. Then she dipped her fingers into the half-full metal bucket that always hung over the hearth to test the temperature of the water, before washing herself with a bar of rose-scented soap and a soft flannel. She could feel Ben’s gaze on her, and when it came time to clean her breasts, belly, and pussy, her movements slowed to something more resembling a caress. Touching herself to arouse them both.

  No. She had a business and twenty staff to manage.

  Forcing a smile, Delilah glanced over at Ben. “I’ll fetch your clothing in just a moment. My tailor promised to brush and iron the garments then leave them in my parlor.”

  “Most obliging of him,” said the duke, his face frustratingly unreadable.

  “He’s a marvel. I consider myself fortunate to have his expertise, even if he does lose his temper and hurl things when a costume is torn,” she replied, wanting to cringe at her over-bright babble and yet unable to curb her tongue. “Some of the most powerful men in London have cowered before him in contrition after committing crimes against fashion.”

  “A good tailor knows his worth. Same for a good valet or chef.”

  Delilah snatched up her quilted robe and put it on as she hurried toward the connecting door. “Indeed. Indeed. I’ll be back in the wag of a pup’s tail.”

  What on earth was wrong with her?

  Anyone observing would think she fled a disappointing bedchamber encounter rather than the best she’d ever had. But her heart and mind were battling for supremacy in an age-old quandary; love and pleasure against duty and responsibilities.

  Why could she not have it all?

  Because such is the way of the world. It’s one of the reasons you sold the Temple, remember? Balancing love and pleasure with duty is impossible.

  Gritting her teeth against a stab of resentment, Delilah scooped up the neat pile of perfectly pressed garments and returned to her bedchamber. “Here you are. Feel free to make use of the warm water, there is plenty left.”

  Ben nodded, and walked to the fireplace. She couldn’t help but stare as he began to sponge himself, the sensual way he dragged the flannel across his chest and around his cock, and her body demanded she drag him back to bed. Instead, Delilah handed him his fine linen shirt and trousers before walking over to the bellpull to ring for a maid to help her dress.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Forbes,” he said again, as he fastened his trouser buttons. “I do not know the proper etiquette for taking leave of a lover, so I hope I don’t offend. But…thank you. For everything. Shopping and bed.”

  Delilah bit her lip. It seemed that with each item of ducal clothing, her passionate and wicked-talking Ben disappeared further into the repressed, remote Tunbury, and she wanted to unleash every curse word she knew. But there was no time to discuss this in the manner required, not when pressing Temple matters awaited her. “You are most welcome. I’m honored you entrusted me with your first bedding.”

  He inclined his head as he stepped into his shoes. “I could not have chosen better. I trust the Temple will be exceedingly profitable tonight. Your carriage can still transport me and my purchases home to Grosvenor Square?”

  “Of course—”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Ma’am? I’m here to help you dress.”

  Frustration burned, only adding to the emotions roiling and threatening to spill over. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Tunbury bowed. “Good evening, Mrs. Forbes.”

  “Good evening,” Delilah whispered, curtsying.

  As soon as he left her bedchamber she felt the loss keenly. How could the lavish room seem so empty, so damned lonely, when it never had before? For God’s sake, she hadn’t even known him a week!

  But Ben is a man who has known terrible loss, just like you. Who understands that great wealth and position comes with great responsibility, just like you. Who made you come so hard you almost forgot your own name…

  “No more,” she muttered furiously, as she marched to the dressing room. The maid sent her worried glances as she helped Delilah put on a fresh chemise, stays, petticoat, and a ruby-red velvet gown studded with pearls, but wisely said nothing.

  A quarter hour later, a footman brought up a supper tray, and informed her that His Grace had returned home. Delilah toyed with her food; the baked chicken in dill sauce, vegetables, and raspberry meringue for dessert had no doubt been perfectly prepared, but it tasted like ashes in her mouth. There had been evenings in the past where she’d wanted to be anywhere but the Temple: most often the anniversaries of her father, mother, and Archie’s deaths, or a few times when she’d been unwell. But never had she felt as reluctant as this; January first suddenly seemed an eternity away.

  Should she have asked Tunbury to stay?

  Yes, you twit. He was a virgin. You took everything he had, then tossed him out like vegetable peelings.

  Delilah groaned and rubbed her forehead in an effort to stave off both a thumping headache, and the temptation to just put on her nightgown and retreat to bed. But a full evening of Temple activities stretched ahead of her, with guests expecting their usual charming, solicitous, professional hostess.

  Business stopped for no owner.

  The following morning, Bennett sat in his library wearing a quilted satin robe rather than appropriate clothing, his chin rough with stubble because he’d actually declined a shave. Surrounding him were fifty baskets, a dozen boxes of sweets, enough linen, calico, and buckskin to start his own drapery, and two large leather purses filled with coins. Unfortunately he hadn’t completed a single Christmastide basket. Instead, he’d spent several hours staring broodingly at the fireplace, like one of those tormented heroes from the gothic novels that Judith so enjoyed reading.

  Hell.

  If his former trustees—or anyone in society—saw him like this they would have an apoplexy, but shockingly, he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he could think about was Delilah. Yes, he understood that she had responsibilities, just as he did. That an excellent businesswoman did not just abandon work on a whim, or to please a man they had known less than a week. However this sensible logic did not lessen the sting of what felt very much like rejection. He had given her pleasure, he knew that much. But perhaps not enough? Had he been quite dismal and lacking in stamina compared to her previous lovers, or was this just cold reality, the way stolen hours with casual lovers always ended?

  How brutal.

  Not for a moment did he regret the day he and Delilah had spent together shopping in Cheapside, the interlude in the carriage, or the erotically intense fucking in her bedchamber. In fact, he was relieved to no longer be a virgin, or hold nonsense thoughts in his head about his own body and its need for touch and pleasure.

  But no one had warned him about the emotions, damn it. How the elation of making a woman come repeatedly, the peace of resting sated and spe
nt atop soft curves, could be so easily snatched away. Or how he could be so easily dismissed. Delilah had been on his mind from the moment they’d met, but perhaps she didn’t feel anything for him at all. Perhaps now that his virginity had been taken care of, she considered any duty or indulgence toward him completed and would seek a new lover.

  Bennett scowled at the flickering flames in front of him. It was all so damnably complicated. When he'd bedded Delilah, he’d understood why lovers broke rules, ignored propriety and risked all for pleasure. Alas, now he also understood the uncomfortable aftermath, when fantasy gave way to real life. That feeling of rightness he’d felt in her arms had obviously been an illusion—at least if he wed one of those five young ladies on the marriage list, never again would he be knocked flat on his backside by an unwanted emotional tempest. So today he would brood; tomorrow he would shave and dress and be the dignified duke he’d been trained to be.

  “What on earth is going on here? Did you turn highwayman? Go on a robbery spree across London?”

  Bennett inwardly groaned, before turning and glaring at Judith, who stood with hands on hips inside the library doorway. Worse, Preston stood behind her, and both were looking at him with acute alarm.

  “Doesn’t anyone knock anymore?” he bit out.

  Judith tilted her head. “We did. Several times. But apparently you were far too busy flame-watching. Or calculating the profit to be made after selling your ill-gotten gains.”

  “There is no reason for you two to be here. Kindly turn around and leave at once.”

  Preston frowned and ran a hand through his wayward red hair. “With all due respect, Tunbury, it is mid-morning and you are sitting alone in your robe, unshaven, surrounded by a small mountain of baskets, cloth, and sweets. Many might consider that a powerful cry for help.”