Notorious Pleasures

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “I… yes,” she whispered, and he was filled suddenly with a kind of melancholy yearning.

  “What else do you like?” he asked.

  “I want to touch you.”

  He drew back and looked at her. She lay quietly, watching him with those serious diamond eyes. He was used to being the one who led the seduction. He did things to his lovers; they rarely reciprocated. Possibly it was a need to be in control or simply the dominant male animal asserting itself. In any case, he was unused to handing over the reins of lovemaking.

  “Please,” she said.

  Reluctantly he moved aside, ready to catch her should she jump up and try to escape. But she rose and knelt beside him, looking at him curiously. He still wore his breeches and shirt.

  She touched his throat with a single finger, trailing it down to where his shirt parted on his chest. “Take this off, please.”

  He shifted enough to tear the shirt off over his head.

  “Now your breeches.”

  He kicked them and his smallclothes off and lay back down, naked.

  She sat on her knees for a moment, her head tilted curiously as she simply looked at his body. He itched to move. To grab her and roll her under him. But he took a breath and let her have her moment of silent examination.

  Then she placed both hands on his chest, her fingers tightening a little, kneading the muscle above his nipples. Her eyes half closed.

  “I didn’t know men had such hair upon their bodies,” she said quietly. “It’s never there on statues—unless in neat small whorls over the groin. But you have more than that, don’t you?”

  Her hands stroked up, his chest hair curling over her fingers before springing back. It tickled a little, pulled a bit more. He moved his legs restlessly. He’d never thought much about his own body, save as it could please either him or a lover.

  “Does it disgust you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said consideringly. “It’s just so very… foreign.”

  Her fingers were tracing over his belly now, circling his navel. She glanced at him. “Does it itch?”

  His eyebrows rose in sudden humor. “No. Sometimes it catches in my clothing, which is quite painful, but that doesn’t often happen.”

  She nodded, seemingly content with that answer. Her fingers were stroking through his pubic hair now, close to but not quite touching his cock.

  “You have it, too,” he whispered. He lifted a hand to thread his fingers through her pretty red curls. Her legs were closed tightly, so he could do no more than pet.

  She looked down, watching his hand in her maidenhair as if fascinated by the sight. “It’s strange, isn’t it? We wear so many clothes, laced, buckled, and tied up tight, and yet underneath we are like”—she spread her fingers, catching the base of his cock in the crook of her thumb and forefinger—“this.”

  She looked up, meeting his gaze, her own solemn. “Do all lovers think like this? That they have a secret just between the two of them? Is this what it was like with your other women?”

  Something about the way she classed herself in with the faceless other women he’d bedded disturbed him deeply. They were transitory. Mere phantoms that came and went in his life.

  She was more to him than that.

  He wrapped his hands about her slim waist and lifted her up and over him so that her legs straddled his thighs. “What other women? I can’t remember any woman before you.”

  He pulled at her, intending to bring her closer so he could kiss her, but she forestalled him with a hand against his chest. “Your words are pretty, my lord, but the fact remains. There were other women in the past, and there will be other women in the future.”

  “No.” His denial was hard, immediate, and given without any prior thought. By talking of a future in which he had other lovers—a future in which they were apart—she implied that someday she would have another lover. Neither possibility was admissible.

  He jerked her close and rolled her beneath him, lying on her heavy and hard. He might be crushing her, but he didn’t care.

  She had to understand.

  “There are no others, either for you or for me,” he said, his nose nearly pressed against hers. “No other people live outside this room. There is only you and I and this.”

  He shoved into her. She was tight and not quite ready, but he pressed relentlessly. He would not be forestalled; he would not retreat.

  “Griffin,” she gasped. She arched beneath him, her legs widening.

  That gave him a little more room. He took advantage of that fact, pressing forward into her lush heat.

  “You and I,” he panted, “are special. This isn’t like what everyone else does. It isn’t like anything I’ve ever had before. We are unique together.”

  “That can’t be,” she said stubbornly, even as her slim fingers gripped his buttocks.

  “It is,” he said against her mouth. Why wouldn’t she believe him? Why this denial of something nearly mystical? “Listen to me. I will never have another lover like you. You will never have another lover like me. What we have should be cared for and cherished.”

  And he pushed one last time and seated himself finally. She was wet now, grasping at his penis in erotic little twists that made his balls draw up tight, made his brain go fuzzy.

  “But I don’t think—” she began, maddening, maddening creature.

  And since he could no longer form a coherent argument, he did the next best thing. He covered her mouth with his, thrusting his tongue into her honeyed warmth, his hips moving of their own accord. God! This was heaven, though he’d surely be damned by that blasphemous thought. She was soft and giving beneath him, making small animal sounds against his mouth, her hips cradling his, and all that time her sweet cunny gave and gave and gave.

  He’d lost the ability to move with any finesse. Years of sophisticated practice in lovemaking fell by the wayside because he’d not been lying: This was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Where before he’d been performing a physical act, now he did something that involved both body and soul.

  With Hero, this ancient movement was making love.

  He threw back his head, glorying in the sensations, physical and mental. She made him believe he could fly. He looked down and watched her face, glowing with exertion. Her eyes were closed, a slight frown between her brows, her mouth a little parted. She bit her bottom lip as he watched, and he knew she was close.

  Close and he could make her fall over the edge.

  He hitched himself up, pressing against the apex of her thighs with each thrust, rubbing against her little bud. She swallowed, her delicate throat working.

  He grit his teeth and held out. He was close as well, but he’d not go until she’d found her bliss. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear, “Come for me, sweeting.”

  She shook her head stubbornly.

  “Yes,” he murmured against her neck. He could taste salt and woman, and his cock jumped within her.

  She moaned.

  “Let me feel your honey.” He licked down over her breast. “Come for me.”

  She arched, her legs moving restlessly.

  “Come, my love,” he murmured against her nipple, and then sucked that tender bit of flesh into his mouth. He drew it between his teeth and bit carefully, gently.

  And she came apart in his arms, her cunny squeezing so exquisitely about his cock he let go of her nipple and arched back. He shouted his agony, holding himself deep within her as he jerked and jerked again in almost painful bliss.

  She was his, he was hers, and at this moment in time their world was complete.

  HERO STARED AT the canopy over Griffin’s bed and traced circles on his broad back. He’d collapsed on top of her after their lovemaking and showed no signs of moving. Her legs were splayed wide beneath him, his penis still lodged within her. It was not a graceful pose, but at the moment she didn’t care.

  She held him tenderly in her arms, this big, strong man. This man who shouted at
her and carried her off—twice now!—to his bedroom to have his wicked way with her. He was stubborn and rude and made his living making gin. He was everything she disapproved of, in fact, and yet, if he stirred right now and indicated he wanted to make love again, she’d do it.

  And what’s more, she had no doubt that she’d enjoy it.

  Was this love? Silly question. She was too mature to mistake physical lust for love, but still… the question whispered in her brain. If she felt nothing for him, surely she wouldn’t have this near-constant longing to be with him? Surely she wouldn’t be already mourning their coming separation?

  He sighed and lifted off of her, his penis sliding from inside her. She felt bereft.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his words slurring a bit. “I didn’t mean to crush you.”

  “You didn’t,” she replied, as polite as if he’d apologized for stepping on her foot while dancing.

  He grunted and threw an arm around her shoulders, scooping her close to his side. She lay against him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelashes as he drifted into sleep.

  She inhaled and smelled his scent—male and sexual. She thought about how she felt when she was with him, about the way he looked at her sometimes, as if she were a strange and very precious bird whose song he couldn’t quite figure out. She thought about Mandeville and his perfection and about Maximus and his pride and his hate. She thought about herself and what she’d learned since that fateful carriage ride when she’d placed her hand on a bare male cock. Griffin’s bare cock.

  And as the shadows began to lengthen along the wall, she came to a decision.

  She knew what she must do.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, the three princes—looking somewhat grim—assembled in the stable yard, for the queen wished to go riding. When everyone was mounted, Queen Ravenhair faced her suitors and asked, “What is the heart of my kingdom?”

  She glanced once at the stable master, so swiftly that no one might have noticed. But the stable master touched his finger to his cap, and his lips curved just a tiny bit at the corners.

  Then the queen rode out of the stable yard with the princes….

  —from Queen Ravenhair

  “I do not see why Mrs. Vaughan must hold a musicale every season,” Cousin Bathilda said the next morning at breakfast. She waved an invitation furiously in the air, causing Mignon, sitting on her lap, to snap at it.

  Hero surreptitiously moved Cousin Bathilda’s imperiled teacup away from the edge of the table.

  “She never spends the money necessary to employ musicians of any talent,” Cousin Bathilda continued, “and thus we are all forced to listen to off-key violinists and tipsy sopranos while partaking of squashy cakes and watered wine.”

  “If her events are so awful, why go?” Phoebe asked reasonably. It was the first morning she’d felt well enough to come down to breakfast. Her right arm was bound tight to her chest, and she used her left a little awkwardly to eat.

  “My dear gel,” Cousin Bathilda said severely, “Mrs. Vaughan is sister to the Duchess of Chadsworth, who is mother to the future Duke of Chadsworth, a very fine catch indeed. It would not do to insult her.”

  Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Well, Hero is already engaged and I think the future Duke of Chadsworth is mentally deficient. And he has no chin.” She popped a bite of roll into her mouth.

  “Hero, explain to your sister the importance of remaining in the good graces of duchesses, irrespective of whether their sons have chins or not,” Cousin Bathilda commanded.

  Hero opened her mouth to say something vague. Her mind wasn’t really on the conversation. All she could think about was the appointment she intended to make immediately following breakfast.

  Fortunately, Cousin Bathilda hadn’t really wanted someone else speaking for her. “No matter one’s own rank, one should never irritate the sister of a duchess. It’s simply bad form.”

  “I think it’s bad form for her to hold boring musicales,” Phoebe said pertly.

  “You are but a child,” Cousin Bathilda pronounced. “You’ll understand better when you come of age, won’t she, Hero?”

  “Um…” Hero looked at the older woman blankly for a moment as her mind caught up with the breakfast-table conversation. “I suppose so.”

  Cousin Bathilda was feeding Mignon a bit of bacon and wasn’t paying much attention to her, but Phoebe looked at her curiously, squinting a bit through her spectacles. “Are you feeling quite the thing?”

  “Oh, yes.” Hero took a sip of her tea and found it had gone cold. “Why?”

  Phoebe shrugged. “You seem distracted.”

  “Wedding nerves,” Cousin Bathilda said. “I’ve seen it before. A gel gets all fuzzy-minded the closer the date comes. Soon she’ll not make a lick of sense at all.”

  “You make getting married sound like a debilitating disease,” Phoebe laughed.

  “For some it is,” Cousin Bathilda said darkly. “Now finish up your breakfast. Maximus said he’ll be calling on you this morning.”

  Bathilda gave Hero a significant glance, and Hero realized that Maximus must be coming to tell Phoebe the bad news about her season—or lack thereof.

  On that ominous note, Hero excused herself and called for a carriage to be brought round. She couldn’t bear to sit at the table any longer, listening to Cousin Bathilda talk about her marriage, and she was worried about Phoebe. Poor Cousin Bathilda was going to be so upset when she heard what Hero was about to do.

  The thought wasn’t pleasant, and it brought with it the realization of all the other people she was about to disappoint. Dear Lord, her family might never forgive her. But her plan was the right thing to do, even if it was not the easiest, so she held her head high as she stepped down from the carriage outside Mandeville House.

  The hour was unfashionably—indeed scandalously—early, and she hadn’t brought a chaperone. The butler lifted his eyebrow faintly when she requested to see Mandeville, but he showed her into the sitting room readily enough. Hero paced to the mantel and stared sightlessly at some Mandeville ancestor’s portrait. What she planned to do would infuriate Maximus, nullify their bargain, and put Griffin in danger. After talking to Thomas, she would have to go to Maximus and throw herself on his mercy. Perhaps if she promised to—

  Thomas opened the door.

  He crossed to her immediately, his handsome features worried. “What is it, my dear? Has something happened?”

  Now that he was before her, tall and imposing, Hero found she had trouble putting together the words. “I…” She cleared her throat and looked about the room. A group of chairs sat together in one corner. “I need to talk to you. Will you be seated?”

  He blinked and she fought down nervous laughter. No doubt he was rarely if ever told to take a seat in his own home—or anywhere else for that matter. He was a marquess. What she was about to do suddenly made her quail. Before she could change her mind, she hurried to the chairs and sat down. Mandeville followed more slowly, frowning now.

  Hero waited until he sat across from her and then just said it. “I cannot marry you.”

  He shook his head, his expression clearing. “My dear, such bridal nerves are common, even for a woman as level-headed as you. Don’t worry that—”

  “No,” she said, causing him to abruptly close his mouth. “I’m not suffering from nerves or… or any kind of womanly hysteria. I simply cannot marry you.”

  She bit her lip as he stared at her.

  “I am sorry,” she offered belatedly, conscious that she was making a hash of this.

  He stiffened at her apology, possibly realizing for the first time that she was serious. “Perhaps if you explain to me the problem, I can help.”

  Oh, Lord, if only he weren’t so reasonable!

  She looked down at her hands. “I’ve simply come to the understanding that… that we won’t do together.”

  “Is it something I’ve done?”

  “No!�
�� She looked up quickly, leaning forward earnestly. “You’re everything a lady could hope for in a husband. This has nothing to do with you. It’s me, I’m afraid. I just can’t marry you.”

  He shook his head. “The marriage contracts have been drawn up and our engagement announced. It’s too late to change your mind, my dear. You protest otherwise, but I believe this is simply a case of bridal anxiety. Perhaps if you go home and rest, spend the day abed with some tea. I do feel—”

  “I’m not a virgin any longer, Thomas.”

  His head reared back as if she’d struck him. “My dear…”

  “I can’t with good conscience marry you,” she said softly. “It would not be fair to you.”

  For a moment he simply stared at her, and she thought he’d realized that this was final.

  Then he spoke.

  “I cannot pretend joy at this news,” he began ponderously. “But it isn’t as earth-shattering as all that. I will, of course, want to wait long enough to make sure any offspring is mine, but—”

  Dear God, but she wanted to scream! “I lay with your brother, Thomas.”

  He stared at her, his face slowly going red.

  She stood. “I’ve compromised myself and sacrificed both my virtue and perhaps more importantly my self-worth. I’m sorry, Thomas. You do not deserve this. If I’d—”

  One moment she was babbling and he was staring at her stony-faced. In the next he was towering over her, his expression red and awful and completely terrifying. She had only a second of fear.

  And then he struck her full in the face.

  GRIFFIN MOUNTED THE steps of Mandeville House, his mind in a weary fog. Was this what grief was—a mind-numbing fatigue? It seemed so to him. He’d spent the night burying Nick. He’d paid for a coffin and burial clothes, a plot and headstone, and he watched all alone as Nick had been lowered into that cold grave. Then Griffin had returned to his still and begun making arrangements to destroy the Vicar. Just a few days more and everything would be in place to bring down the Vicar and avenge Nick. Just a few more days and then he could rest.