Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  The puppy did indeed have huge paws. It timidly wagged its tail and licked Icarus’s hand.

  “Of course I’ll keep him,” Icarus heard himself say.

  Green beamed at him. “I’ll wash him,” he said, bundling the pup up again.

  “And I’ll find some food,” Eliza said. “The poor wee thing’s starving!”

  “Not so wee,” Houghton said, once Green and Eliza had gone.

  “No,” Icarus said ruefully. He glanced at Letty Trentham. Her gown and her eyes were green today.

  “You don’t mind?” she said, faintly anxious.

  “I don’t mind.” He smiled, and held out his hand out to her.

  She slipped her hand into his, and squeezed his fingers lightly. “I’m glad. Because I couldn’t leave him to starve up on the moor, and I know I couldn’t order him drowned!”

  Icarus grimaced. “No.”

  “What will you call him, sir?”

  Icarus thought for a moment. “Ajax Telamon. The giant, Ajax.”

  * * *

  Ajax spent the evening snoring on the hearthrug, his belly rounded with food. “As soon as he wakes, we must take him outside,” Icarus said. It had been a long time since he’d had charge of a puppy, but he remembered that much: when puppies woke, they peed.

  Ajax woke—and peed outside—and then Green bore him off to his bedchamber, where he’d set up a basket and an old horse blanket. And later that evening, after they’d all retired, Letty Trentham read to Icarus again, and after that she spent the night in his bed.

  * * *

  The days drifted past, slipping into a gentle routine: a morning stroll with Ajax gamboling at his feet, lunchtime discussions with Houghton, afternoon rambles with Letty Trentham, card games in the evening. And food. And laughter. Ajax’s ribs became less prominent. He learned to sit on command. He made everyone laugh. He made everyone love him. Icarus, sitting by the fire one damp afternoon, with Ajax sprawled across his lap, warm and bony and deeply asleep, thought that he’d never felt so content in his life. He pulled one of the pup’s velvety ears slowly through his fingers—Ajax’s favorite caress. How easy it is to make a dog happy. And how happy they make us in turn. He’d forgotten this in the years since he’d buried Ulysses, forgotten how infectious a dog’s joy in life was.

  He glanced at Letty Trentham, mending a torn hem, and at Houghton writing notes at the table, and his sense of contentment swelled until it seemed that his body couldn’t contain it. I overflow with contentment.

  And if the days slipped into a routine, so, too, did the nights. Every night, after everyone had retired, Letty knocked on his door, and every night Icarus asked her to come in. And every night, he had no nightmares.

  He had the feeling—a feeling so strong it was a conviction—that he wasn’t the only one sleeping better now. He knew that Pereira and the scouts rested more peacefully in their graves. And he knew that Pereira’s soul was no longer anguished.

  * * *

  On the tenth evening after Cuthbertson’s death, after a close-run game of Commerce, Letty Trentham packed up the cards and counters. She’d been laughing while they played, but now her expression was sober. “I must return to London soon.”

  Icarus’s contentment drained away. “How soon?”

  “Oh . . .” She squared the cards. “I need to leave here the day after tomorrow.”

  Icarus glanced at Houghton. He looked as somber as Letty. None of us wishes this to end.

  But it had to come to an end. He’d always known that.

  * * *

  That evening, Letty Trentham read from Herodotus for twenty minutes. “How many pages are left?” Icarus asked, when she put the book aside.

  “Three. Would you like me to finish?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t want Letty to ever stop reading to him. I don’t want this to end. Any of it. But it had to. If one chose to live, life went on. One couldn’t sit forever in an inn on the edge of Dartmoor, however much one wanted to. Letty Trentham had to return to the world of the ton, and he had to forge ahead with his new life.

  Icarus gathered Letty close and kissed her. Her mouth was as perfect as it had been last night, as perfect as it had been every night. Icarus kissed her slowly and thoroughly, regretfully. He was going to miss Letty’s mouth. And her voice. And her changeable eyes. And her company.

  He should ask her to marry him—it was the honorable thing to do after the intimacies they’d indulged in—but Letty could hear lies. She’d ask whether he truly wanted to marry her, and he’d have to say No. He didn’t want to marry anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He liked Letty, liked her a lot—more than any woman he’d ever known—but marriage? Marriage was being a good husband and a good father, and he wasn’t certain he could do either of those things. He wasn’t yet certain that he could succeed at being alive.

  Yesterday he’d been alive, and today he was alive, but what if he woke up tomorrow and he was dead again?

  He kissed Letty’s mouth, and then her throat. Warm anticipation built in his body. He wanted to kneel between her legs, wanted to run his hands up her inner thighs, wanted to inhale her secret, intimate scent and lick inside her.

  “Icarus?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Can we do it properly tonight?”

  It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Icarus stopped kissing her throat. He raised his head and blinked, focusing on her candlelit face. “What?”

  “Can we please do it properly tonight?”

  “Of course not!” Icarus pushed away from her, sitting up in the bed. “You’d no longer be a virgin. When you marry, your husband would know!”

  “I shan’t marry.”

  “Of course you’ll marry!”

  Letty sat up, too. “Icarus, I’ve been on the Marriage Mart for six years. I’ve been proposed to by nearly two hundred men, and not one of them—not one!—wanted to marry me for myself. It’s not going to happen.”

  Icarus shook his head. “You’ll meet someone.”

  “I’m taking myself off the Marriage Mart,” Letty said. “I’ve had enough.”

  “But . . .” he said stupidly. “But . . . what will you do?”

  She looked past his shoulder. A fleeting expression of sadness crossed her face, and then her lips compressed slightly and she met his eyes again and lifted her chin. “I shall establish a lying-in hospital and foundling homes and a school, like my mother.”

  “Foundling homes?”

  “I always intended to, after I married. But I shall do it now.”

  Icarus stared at her, dismayed. “But Letty—”

  “My mind is made up,” she said firmly. “But I do want to know what it’s like to lie with a man, so would you please do it?”

  Icarus shook his head. “Letty, you know I can’t! You’d no longer be a virg—”

  “Have you not listened to a word I’ve said? I shall never marry.”

  He couldn’t hear lies the way she could, but he heard the vehemence in her voice. Letty meant it: she would never marry.

  “Please, Icarus.” Her tone was beseeching. “This will be my only chance. I know I’ll never meet a man I like more than you! Please will you do it?”

  Is she saying she loves me?

  Icarus recoiled inwardly. He wasn’t worthy of anyone’s love, and Letty Trentham understood that better than any person on this earth. She’d seen him at his worst. She knew how far he’d fallen. Of course she doesn’t love me. No woman could.

  But she was attracted to him, and there was no denying that he was attracted to her. No denying that he wanted to bed her.

  Icarus made one last attempt to dissuade her. “You might fall pregnant.”

  Letty gave a lopsided smile. “A child would be nice.”

  Icarus looked away. His throat was inexplicably tight. He swallowed. “Letty . . .”

  She touched his arm lightly. “Please, Icarus.”

  Icarus knew he was lost. How could he reject that plea? How
could he ignore that light touch on his arm?

  He turned his head and looked at her. Letty Trentham. Not pretty, but poised and interesting and eye-catching. The woman he wanted more than any other in the world. “If it’s what you wish.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Icarus had never bedded a virgin before, but he knew that it was meant to be a painful experience for women. This knowledge was surprisingly unnerving. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Letty Trentham. Take it slowly, he told himself. And bring her to a climax beforehand.

  So he took it slowly—undoing the mother-of-pearl buttons that fastened the nightgown high at her throat, peeling the garment off her, shucking his own nightshirt, stretching his body alongside hers in the warm bed.

  Clothed, Letty looked boyishly thin. Unclothed, there was nothing boyish about her. Everything was feminine: the gentle curve of her hips, the slender waist, the small, pert breasts.

  Icarus set himself to the agreeable task of learning the slopes and contours of her body. He trailed his mouth over every inch of her skin, explored her long, long legs, discovered that her breasts perfectly filled his mouth, learned that she shivered when he kissed the tender hollow of her elbow. Letty was shy, and also eager, and as curious to acquaint herself with his body as he was to acquaint himself with hers. She tasted his skin, licking, taking small nibbling bites that made his cock twitch and his body tremble helplessly. Time slipped past. The candle burned lower in its chamberstick. Icarus found his way back to Letty’s mouth and kissed her hungrily. Their legs were entwined, their bodies pressed close, bare skin to bare skin, hot, eager, breathless.

  Icarus dragged his lips from hers, and inhaled a shuddering breath. “You certain about this?”

  “Yes.”

  He knelt between Letty’s legs and tongued her to a climax, as he had for the past five nights, but this time he didn’t stop there. This time, he settled himself over her and let his throbbing cock rest at her entrance. “It will likely hurt a bit,” he told her, his voice slightly ragged. “It may even make you bleed.”

  “I know.”

  “Tell me if it hurts too much, and I’ll stop.” His voice almost strangled on that last word, but he would stop. He’d stop if it hurt her, and he’d stop before he spilled his seed.

  Icarus let himself sink slowly into her, half-inch by half-inch. It was the most exquisite sensation. She was tight and hot and slick—

  Letty stiffened.

  “It hurts?” His voice was barely intelligible.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s . . . wait . . . a bit.”

  Icarus counted to one hundred in his head, trying not to shake, his cock several inches inside her. He pressed his lips to Letty’s temple—light, soothing kisses—and paid attention to the tension in her body. Slowly, she relaxed.

  “All right?” he said, when he’d counted to one hundred twice.

  “Yes.”

  Icarus let himself sink deeper into her. Slowly. Slowly. When he was almost fully sheathed, Letty clutched his arm, her fingers digging deep. He didn’t need to ask if it hurt; he knew it did. Her body was rigid, her breath hissing between her teeth.

  Icarus held himself still and counted to one hundred again. His body shook. His hips wanted to flex, his cock wanted to plunge fully into her. Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety. By two hundred, Letty’s grip on his arm had eased. By three hundred, the tension had ebbed from her body. Icarus let himself slide the last inch into her. His eyes closed with the sheer pleasure of it. A silent groan reverberated in his chest. It took him several seconds to find his voice. “How’s that?”

  “It’s not comfortable,” Letty said breathlessly.

  Her honesty made him laugh—and having laughed, he almost lost control. Icarus squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t move. Don’t move. He counted to twenty, inhaled a shallow breath, opened his eyes, and lowered his head and found Letty’s mouth. He kissed her leisurely, lingeringly, giving her body time to adjust to having him inside her. “Still uncomfortable?” he murmured against her lips.

  “Not so much.”

  Icarus withdrew halfway, and carefully thrust into her again. It was even harder this time to hold himself in check.

  Letty didn’t tense.

  “Did that hurt?” His voice was hoarse.

  “No.”

  He did it again, slowly, and a third time. It was becoming almost impossible to rein himself back. “All right?”

  “Yes.” Letty’s hips rose slightly. He recognized that movement as a silent request for more, and gave it to her—another careful withdrawal and thrust. Her hips lifted again and she clutched him, uttering a sound between a gasp and a moan.

  Icarus gratefully released his control. His movements became faster, firmer. He and Letty fell into an instinctive rhythm, not languid, not energetic, but somewhere perfectly in between. Icarus stopped paying attention to anything but the glide of his body over hers, the glide of his cock inside her. The feeling of connection between them was intense, more intense than he’d ever experienced in his life. He felt it in his blood, in his bones. This wasn’t just sex; this was something much more profound.

  Letty climaxed, clutching his arm, crying out, but Icarus didn’t withdraw. He didn’t want to lose the connection, the feeling of completion on a deep, visceral level. We are meant for each other. He knew it with utter certainty.

  And so, when his balls tightened and the spasms started, he didn’t pull away, but let his seed spill into her. The climax jolted through him, from his toes all the way to his scalp, shuddering and powerful.

  The shudders died to mere tremors, and then to nothing, and still Icarus didn’t withdraw. He wanted to stay inside Letty forever. He gathered her in his arms and rolled so that she lay on top of him. I love you, Letty Trentham.

  Icarus drank in the moment: Letty warm and relaxed in his embrace, her cheek pillowed on his shoulder, his cock nestled inside her. He felt a fierce tenderness, a fierce possessiveness. He tightened his arms around her. Don’t ever leave me.

  Letty didn’t seem to want to. She made no move to climb off him.

  The candle flickered and guttered, and then died, leaving them in darkness, and still Icarus held her, and still Letty made no attempt to free herself from his embrace.

  “How was it?” Icarus asked finally.

  Letty was silent for a long moment. “Much better than I thought it would be.” She sounded sad.

  Icarus wished he could see her face. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Letty said, sounding even sadder, and now she did move, pushing away.

  Icarus opened his arms and let her climb off him. Panic stirred in his chest. “Do you regret it?” Had Letty not felt that same sense of connection, of utter and absolute rightness?

  “Regret it?” Letty reached out and found his face and traced his lips with her fingertips. “No, I’m glad we did it.” She leaned over and kissed him. “You are the only man I’d ever want to do that with, Icarus Reid.”

  His panic subsided. That had been almost a declaration of love, hadn’t it?

  Letty didn’t pull on her nightgown and tiptoe back to her own bedchamber; she curled up alongside him in the bed, naked and warm. Icarus rolled on his side and gathered her close, tucking her into the curve of his body.

  He fell asleep holding her, planning their future.

  Chapter Fifty

  December 9th, 1808

  Okehampton, Devonshire

  Reid waylaid Letty in the corridor outside the parlor the next morning. “How are you? How do you feel?”

  “Very well. And you?”

  “No, I mean . . .” He lowered his voice. “Are you sore?”

  I am heart-sore. But that wasn’t what he meant. “No.”

  He nodded his relief, and shuffled his feet in an un-Icarus-like manner. “Letty . . . do you have to leave for London tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “But if you’re taking yourself off the Marriage Mart, then there’s no r
eason—”

  “I still have to return before I’m missed. I owe it to my family not to distress them. And if Mrs. Sitwell thinks she’s lost me she’ll be beside herself.”

  Reid accepted this with another nod, and shuffled his feet and seemed about to say something more—and then he turned and opened the door to the parlor. The waiter was laying out breakfast.

  Houghton arrived, bringing Ajax, and they sat down to eat. Letty had little appetite. Melancholy had taken up residence in her chest and she felt a disconcerting inclination to cry. Determinedly, she buttered a piece of toast and made conversation with Sergeant Houghton. The sergeant was unrecognizable as the bearded, gaunt, filthy crossing-sweeper of two and a half weeks ago. She thought even his own sister wouldn’t recognize him. This is who he’s meant to be. Confident, alert, good-humored.

  Reid had altered almost past recognition, too. He was no longer the man she’d met at the Hammonds’ ball. The strain and the haggard exhaustion were gone, the tension and the grimness. He looked ten years younger.

  Ten years younger, yes, but Reid was in an odd mood this morning, his mind not on his food or the conversation. He was distracted, fidgeting with his cutlery, poking his breakfast around the plate, shifting in his seat as if barely restraining himself from rushing off somewhere. “Do you have a middle name?” he asked abruptly, when Letty was buttering her second piece of toast.

  She glanced up. “Who? Me, or Sergeant Houghton?”

  Reid flushed beneath his tan. “Um, both of you.”

  Letty and Houghton exchanged a glance. The sergeant shrugged. “John.”

  “Louisa.”

  They both looked at Reid. “Mine’s John, too,” he said, and then he bent his attention to his food, pushing it around the plate again.

  Houghton and Letty exchanged another glance. Houghton shrugged, and embarked on his third egg.

  Letty finished her toast slowly, trying to ignore the deep, dark ache of her love for Reid. She stole a look at his face, noting the hard planes, the stark angles, the strong bones. An intensely masculine face—and yet also beautiful. And even more beautiful than his face were his hands.