by Brown, Em
“Tell me, Hephaestus,” she purred, “have you ever been fucked in the arse by your Mistress?”
“I requested it,” he replied.
“What would you think if I had you fucked by another man?”
Her hands slid over his cock, coaxing the heat churning within his groin. He tried to quell the rising desire.
“Whatever you wish, my Mistress.”
“Would you like to spend, my Hephaestus?”
“Yes,” he said drily.
“Do you feel that you deserve to spend?”
“Not till my Mistress has spent.”
She studied him carefully, then began to tug at his cock more forcefully as she dripped the candle upon his thighs. Tossing the candle away, she straddled his hips and pressed her quim onto the base of his shaft. Rocking her hips, she glided herself along his length. Her wetness there eased the motions. The nearness of her cunnie to his cock made him breath in sharply. He closed his eyes to regain command of his cock.
“Do you hope to fuck me, Hephaestus?”
He opened his eyes to stare at her. God, yes.
“And see how close you are,” she said as she teased him by sweeping her cunnie close to the head of his shaft, but she would allow no penetration. “Do you imagine how my cunnie would feel?”
Again he closed his eyes. He was imagining how her inner folds would feel against his cock. He imagined the heat of being inside her.
“Would it feel hot and wet? Would you enjoy it?”
He attempted to shut out her words.
“Would you fuck me hard with that cock of yours?”
She ground herself against him. His desire was at the boiling point. He could not stop himself from the thought of pushing her up against the wall of the cavern and taking her from behind.
“Would you wish to then fuck me in the arse?”
He let out a silent groan. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Before he realized it, she had pushed herself off of him. She encased his cock in her mouth, sucked hard, and pressed a thumb into his perineum. Her words, coupled with the sensation bursting between his cock and anus, made the dam falter. She took her mouth off of him in time for him to shoot his seed all over himself. His climax wracked his entire body. His legs trembled, and the chains about his wrists shook. When at last he felt himself settling back to earth, he saw her smile in triumph.
Chapter Eight
“I BELIEVE SHE THINKS me your wife—or your mistress,” Georgina said with a shudder.
Phineas looked through his quizzing glass at the raven-haired beauty standing next to the statue of Handel on the South Grand Walk at Vauxhall. Her frown as she gazed upon Georgina became a demure smile as she turned her attention to him.
“Yes, I think she would have more sympathy if she knew your true relation to me,” Phineas replied as he admired the woman’s slender sloping shoulders.
“She’s very beautiful,” Georgina sniffed. “I think she would satisfy your predilections.”
“All women of beauty satisfy me.”
Phineas watched as the raven took the arm of a redcoat likely to be her husband. They passed out of the South Walk and into the hall.
“It is a relief to have you back, Phineas. Robert—or his wife, rather—can be exceedingly tiresome. She would have him disavow us as his family.”
“Doubtless he would be better situated if he did. We are none of us an asset—you, Abigail, and I.”
Georgina sighed. “Am I so terrible because I married in error?”
He patted her hand. “Not at all. I ought be grateful that some of the disdain towards me has been averted by your crim con.”
“They may disdain me all they wish,” she replied with a scowl. “I am tired of hiding from their contemptuous gazes. I suppose they envy me my affair. Those tied to their ugly, wizened husbands abhor that I have found a man who holds me in as much affection and admiration as I him. They loathe that I shall soon be a free woman while they are imprisoned in their miserable marriages.”
“Is this man someone you shall find happiness with, m’dear?”
“As soon as Parliament approves the divorce, we shall wed.”
“From one marriage into another, Georgina?”
“I have not your aversion to the institution. Shall you never marry, Phineas?”
He wondered, as he studied the middle of the Barclay sisters, if her quick diversion of topic reflected a slight lack of confidence on her part. He would not pursue the matter tonight but determined to himself that he would learn more of this paramour of hers.
“Marriage is a useless institution for me.”
“Have you no wish for an heir?”
“Robert is the one who must need worry of an heir. I am still a dead man.”
“I think we come across your admirer once more,” Georgina remarked as they entered into the hall where the paintings of Thomas Gainsborough hung. “And she appears to be sans her husband.”
Phineas discerned the raven to be about four and twenty years of age, married for what he believed to be a short period. She stared blatantly at him with cool blue eyes.
“I will amuse myself with the paintings,” Georgina sighed, “that you may have a word with her.”
He inclined his head. “You know me too well, m’dear.”
After Georgina left his side, he made his way to the raven. In her gown of crystal blue and diamond chandelier earrings, she shined bright in the dim lighting in the hall. The exhilaration of the sport simmered rather than flared in his veins, but he approached her almost by habit.
“How unwise of your husband to leave such a vision to fend for herself,” he remarked when he came upon her.
Her bosom with its two orbs pertly pushed above her bodices heaved at his audacity, but she chose to simply correct him. “That was not husband but Sergeant Ames, a friend of the family. My husband is Major Summers, aide-de-camp to the Duke of York.”
“And he is unwise to have left you,” Phineas reiterated.
“His service often calls him from my side.”
She flashed him an alluring smile.
“If I were your husband, I should have left you in more diligent hands than this Sergeant Ames.”
“I sent him away to fetch me a glass of lemonade.”
The minx. Phineas smiled. “I knew that you were a woman I could appreciate.”
“Tell me how it is that I have not seen you here before?”
Phineas looked over at Georgina, who was being rebuffed in her attempts to find a place to sit. One woman had an empty spot next to her but quickly covered the area as Georgina approached. Another couple had turned the other direction upon seeing her.
“You are new to London,” he appraised of the raven.
“Yes, this is my first season in town, but I am often here at Vauxhall. The lights here are wondrous, and the entertainment beyond the pale.”
She spoke of her favorite performers and was describing the singer set to perform tonight when Phineas spotted the Countess of Lowry. She stood beneath one of the archways with Alexander, who scowled something at her before leaving her side. She wore a silk gown lined with ribbons and lace trim about the neckline, covering what he considered to be a most pleasing bosom. Her feathered headdress did not quite match her gown, but somehow he found her more appealing than usual.
“And I am quite excited to see the balloon ascension,” the raven was saying.
Phineas noted Georgina had secured a bench all to herself. She sat staring at the portraiture. He decided he would conclude his tête-à-tête with the raven and return to Georgina, but to his surprise, he saw that Lady Lowry had taken a seat next to his sister. Lady Lowry spoke first, Georgina answered, and the two began a conversation.
“Oh dear,” the raven groaned, “I think Sergeant Ames has accomplished his task.”
A young man in scarlet uniform was indeed approaching them.
“Phillipa Summers,” the raven said. “I think I know not your name?”
He took his leave before the redcoat reached them. With the entry of the Countess, he had lost interest in the raven. If he were to be assured of arriving at Madame Botreaux’s in timely fashion, he would need to depart Vauxhall in twenty minutes. He had no wish to disappoint Lady Athena—not when he had victory in his sights. But the arrival of Lady Lowry was too tempting.
He made his way towards the Countess.
GERTIE WENT TO SIT beside Mrs. Georgina Westmoreland. Perhaps because Alexander told her that she should shun the woman and Gertie had no desire to accommodate her husband. Or because she felt a twinge of empathy for a woman who perhaps felt trapped in a joyless marriage. Or because she had not seen anyone receive such coldness from others. Or because the woman had such sadness in her eyes despite her defiantly lifted chin.
“The pastoral scene is one of my favorite works by Gainsborough” Gertie remarked as she looked at the painting alongside Mrs. Westmoreland.
“Mine as well,” Georgina replied. “I find his paintings possess many facades. One could study it for hours.”
Gertie only nodded. Although she appreciated the art, she could not fathom having the patience to stare at it for above a few minutes. Instead, she looked about the hall and glimpsed Lord Barclay talking to a beauty in an ice blue gown. A flush of jealousy crept up her neck. Of course he was engaged in his next conquest. Why should that surprise her?
She had not intended to come this night and much preferred the prospect of being with Hephaestus. Indeed, she welcomed an evening at the Cavern with him. But the Dowager Lowry had expressed a headache, and Gertie did not relish having to spend the evening with Belinda. Sarah, no doubt with similar dread towards having to keep her mother’s company, had also opted for Vauxhall. No sooner had brother and sister set foot in the boat when they began arguing over Sarah’s marital prospects. Alexander was quite set on an older gentleman by the name of Mr. Rowland and admonished Sarah for not encouraging the man. After pouring out all the reasons why Mr. Rowland would not make a suitable match, Sarah had looked ready to cry. Gertie had begun to sympathize with her sister-in-law. At least her own unhappy marriage had been of her own making.
“They have works by Reynolds at Ranalegh,” Gertie said to Mrs. Westmoreland.
“How delightful. I have not been to Ranalegh in some time.”
“Nor I.”
“I grow weary of London at times.”
“And I,” sighed Gertie. She liked the lands of Lowry, but Alexander preferred to spend his time in town.
“But it is nice to have found a kindred spirit, if I may be forward. You and I have not conversed much in the past, Countess.”
Gertie smiled in empathy. “Perhaps we shall have more occasion hence.”
From the corner of her eye, she noticed movement. Lord Barclay was approaching them. Instinctively she sprang to her feet. “I think I shall find my husband and see if he intends to take supper.”
Georgina looked at her in surprise but nodded. Gertie took her leave and began to walk briskly towards the maze in the gardens. It was childish of her to avoid Barclay, silly for her to be jealous of the woman he spoke with, and absurd of her to feel any sentiment towards the man. How much easier it was to detest him! Perhaps she still could—she had only to imagine him with Sarah. Their sort deserved each other. Men like him could never appreciate any other kind of woman.
Although the image of him with Sarah fueled her anger, it also made her miserable. She barreled into the maze, upset that she had felt the need to lie to Georgina about going in search of Alexander. Perhaps she had been better to stay at home with the Dowager. Once Belinda had taken to bed, she could have slipped out and made her way to Madame Botreaux’s. Now she was all alone in a garden meant for lovers while her husband gallivanted publicly with his mistress.
She walked into a dead-end. Huffing to herself, she turned around and slammed into the body of Lord Barclay. A flush flared through her as she realized who it was. She wanted to demand why the bloody hell he found it necessary to approach her with such proximity, but his hands upon her as he steadied her had her too flustered. She could not recall ever being so firmly grasped by a man. His touch seared straight into her bones and somewhere deep within her.
Satisfied that she had come to no harm, he released her. She took a step from him to gain her composure. She expected him to retreat and allow her passage, but he stood where he was, blocking her exit.
“Sarah—Lady Sarah is not with me,” she informed him as she pushed her headdress back in place, hating that she could not keep out the hint of jealousy.
“How fortunate,” he replied. “I had hoped to speak with you, Countess.”
“Me? Why?”
The words had slipped inelegantly from her in her surprise, but he appeared genuinely stumped by her query for he only stared in response.
Unable to remain silent beneath such study, she assisted him by saying, “You had some matter you sought my audience to address?”
“Yes,” he said carefully. “A matter of business, but I will not disturb you here–”
“Are you afeared to broach the matter? Is it quite loathsome?”
He appeared to assess her aggression, no doubt wondering at her antagonism.
“Not at all, Lady Lowry,” he said. “Quite the contrary. I have a proposition that could prove beneficial to both parties.”
She raised an eyebrow, impatient for their tête-à-tête to end.
“The foreman for our copper mine believes there to be significant lode on what could prove Lowry land. We seek access to your properties and would grant you a share of the profits from the copper hauled from that effort.”
It was not what she had expected Lord Barclay to present.
“Have you spoken with our steward?” she asked.
“He has but without much progress.”
That did not surprise her. The Lowry steward could be quite stubborn in his prejudice of the Barclays.
“And why has the Baron not approached me?”
“Do you wish the truth?”
Gertie blinked. Why would she not?
Taking her silence as an affirmative response, he answered, “My brother thinks that I would present a more persuasive case, though I asserted to him that you abhorred me no small amount.”
She would not dispute that. Nonetheless, his honesty and perception thawed a little of her resistance.
“How much of the profit?” she asked.
“Given that we would undertake all the risk and the work, I think ten percent to be fair.”
“You would have no profit to share if we did not grant you access.”
“Fifteen, then.”
Gertrude contemplated the proposal. A partnership between the Farringtons and Barclays would be unheard of, but it would make no sense not to. She could convince their steward of the wisdom of the opportunity. Even Alexander might swallow his reluctance if he could be assured of having more finances to sustain his gambling—or his mistress.
But could she trust the Barclays? Aside from the Farrington family objection to them, she had no reason to distrust the Baron Barclay. As for Phineas...strangely, despite her disapproval of his philandering, she felt a sense of comfort in the way he dealt with her on this matter. She wondered if perhaps his visits with her to the asylum was a means of currying her favor, but if he meant to play the sycophant, he was not very adept at it. No sooner had he become more favorable in her view, he was sure to utter something that riled her like no other.
Yet how could she trust a rakehell? A man who had engaged in a duel and killed.
“I had asked my brother to assume the negotiations,” Barclay said, as if reading her mind, “for he has not my tarnished reputation, but he is not partial to such dealings.”
She wanted more space to think, but she knew the proposition to hold minimal risk for Lowry or the family.
“I have no wish for you to sh
oulder all the risk and all the work,” she pronounced. “We have tenants who have little means of income. If we grant you access, I wish for your mine to employ some of our men.”
“That will cut into the profit for all of us.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
He studied her, perhaps wondering what sort of woman he was dealing with and if she had a sound mind for business?
“Done. I will have Mr. Hancock draw up the details with your steward.”
She nodded. “I appreciate your seeking our consent for you could have easily dug beneath our lands without our knowledge.”
“We Barclays are not always as loathsome as the Farringtons would wish to believe.” He paused and once again fixed his stare upon her. “But you are not like the other Farringtons.”
Her heart hammered beneath her bosom at the intensity of his gaze. Why did it feel as if he meant to probe the recesses of her soul?
“What—what do you mean by such a statement?” she stammered, though she believed that he meant her a form of compliment.
“How does a person with your compassion and your qualities become a Farrington?”
His question prompted her defenses. Lacking an answer that she was willing to share with the likes of him, she turned to the only reservoir she felt comfortable drawing upon at the moment: her jealousy.
“Certainly you do not intend to demean a Farrington, Lord Barclay? I know you to be quite partial to at least one Farrington...”
Her response did not have the benefit she had desired for her own sake. Instead of feeling in a position of command, she felt weak and trifling. She made a move to walk by him, but he did not budge.
“Mine is a sport your tender persuasion would not understand.”
“And I am glad for it!”
This time she brushed past him, not caring that she had to collide with his left side. She did not look back to see his expression. She only knew she had to escape his presence before she lost control of her nerves and smacked him across the face or, worse, began to cry in front of him.