A Collector's Item: Rowena's After Dark Regency Romance (The Arlingbys Book 1)

by Alicia Quigley

  "Seeing you like this is very stimulating, Rowena," he observed.

  His casual tone made Rowena want to shriek at him, so she averted her eyes from the hypnotic sight of his hand rhythmically bringing his staff to full attention once again.

  "Look at me," he chided her. "Or I may not let you come at all."

  Rowena glared at him, but didn’t speak. After what seemed to her like hours, he seemed satisfied with the size and hardness of his erection, and put his hands behind his head on the pillow.

  "Straddle me," he ordered. "You must take your pleasure yourself."

  Desperate, Rowena struggled on her knees towards him, unable to use her hands to balance.

  "Ask me to help you," he said.

  "Please, Alaric, help me mount you," Rowena pleaded.

  He lifted her enough to put a thigh over him, and then resumed his relaxed posture. "Continue," he said.

  "You know I can’t take you without help," she said, her voice rising with frustration. "You’re far too large."

  "And you are so very tight, as I know so well. Ask nicely," he said. "And tell me exactly what you want you want me to do."

  Rowena looked down at his face, which seemed incredibly boyish and handsome as he relaxed against the pillow, and her gaze traveled over the muscular chest and torso, to the dusky, throbbing rod that promised relief for her long denied passion.

  "I want you to put your cock inside me. Please, Alaric, or I shall go mad with wanting you."

  "Very good," he purred. "You can be an obedient wife, I see."

  He grasped her hips in his large hands, and helped to position her pulsing, creamy slit over him, sliding his staff back and forth across her slick labia a few times, before allowing her the relief of feeling him fill and stretch her. Rowena groaned as his erection slipped into her, and she settled over him, feeling as though her entire being was centered between her legs. Tentatively, she rose to her knees, struggling a little to keep her balance. After a few moments she realized that putting her shoulders back would help, and she lowered herself slowly down his length, and just as slowly rose again.

  "What a pity we didn’t bring those ruby earrings to Brandfon," Alaric said. "This makes your perfect breasts even prouder. The rubies dangling and bobbing would be still more seductive."

  Rowena felt her muscles clench at the thought, and Alaric laughed.

  "I can feel that sweet quim tighten at my words," he continued. "I don’t have the rubies with me, but I can make your nipples nearly as large and red as if I did."

  He reached out, grasping each nipple gently between his thumbs and forefingers. Now, as Rowena rose and lowered herself above him, the pressure on her nipples changed with her position, and after rising only twice more, the intense stimulation was too much and she felt her climax rush through her, as she shook and trembled above him, finally collapsing over his chest. Brayleigh rubbed her shoulders soothingly, and then reached to untie the cravat.

  "Spectacular," he breathed, as Rowena’s now freed arms slipped around his neck. "No other woman could be as beautiful and passionate as you." He paused. "But you have left me unsatisfied, Rowena. There is more yet to do."

  She raised herself on her forearms, her breasts brushing slowly across his chest, and smiled impertinently.

  "You have been satisfied once already, my lord, and then kept me waiting an unconscionably long time. If you want more, you will have to do some work yourself."

  Alaric grinned back at her. "I suppose you do have the upper hand now, my sweet."

  He rolled her over into the soft bedding, and thrust immediately into her, watching her emotions flicker across her face as he moved, seeking and finding the exact spot, the precise angle, that built her desire into a wildfire of need. He reached beneath her, gripping her behind, and lifting her just that crucial amount, that allowed her to dissolve into another consuming orgasm, finally allowing himself to follow her into bliss.

  For some moments, all was silent in the room, except for their rapid breaths. Alaric gently stroked her cheek.

  "I wish we were at Brayleigh Hall, where we could spend an entire afternoon abed, and none would bother us. But alas, I fear that Sir Peter’s gallery cannot be consigned to the devil for long."

  He rose and walked over to the washstand, splashing water into the ewer, and dampening a towel. Rowena admired the way that his broad shoulders tapered down his back, to muscled buttocks, and sinewy thighs, and shivered a little.

  Alaric returned to the bed, and drew a pillow towards her, positioning it under her pelvis, and then spread her thighs, leaving her quite exposed. In spite of the passionate interlude they had just concluded, she flushed deeply.

  He laughed softly. "Just a little more obedience, sweet wife." He sat next to her, parting her labia and tenderly cleaning her still pink and engorged slit, glistening with their mingled fluids. "We can’t have you feeling sticky and uncomfortable as we view the art, after all." He then turned his attention to her chest, wiping each rosy breast tenderly. Rowena began to feel a familiar heat again, and wondered if they could perhaps spend the afternoon in bed after all.

  When he had finished, Alaric helped Rowena sit up, and casually walked back to the washstand to clean himself. He returned to the bed and brought her discarded dress over, helping to draw it over her head, and leaned down to kiss her gently. Overcome with emotion, Rowena couldn’t contain herself.

  "Alaric, I love you," she breathed against his lips.

  Alaric suddenly became very still, and Rowena’s eyes widened in horrified shock when she realized what she had. He lifted his lips and looked down at her, a stunned expression on his face.

  "Alaric...I’m sorry, I didn’t--"

  There was a knock at the door of Alaric’s room, and with an impatient oath Alaric stalked to the door joining Rowena’s room with his.

  "Who’s there?" he called out.

  "It’s just me, old fellow," Charles Montfort’s cheery voice could be heard. "Sir Peter wants us at his gallery."

  "Tell Sir Peter we’ll see him in half an hour," Alaric replied. "Rowena needs to refresh herself after her rest."

  "Sir Peter asked me to tell you that he would like to conduct a tour of his gallery now, and he was sure that you would be interested." Charles reiterated.

  Rowena dashed to the bell pull, ringing vigorously for her maid. There was a pause as Alaric glowered at the door. Rowena headed for the wardrobe, opening it to see the gowns that Lawson had hung there earlier. She peered in unseeing, as Alaric addressed the door once again.

  "Charles, you will have to inform Sir Peter, that Lady Brayleigh is not yet ready, and I will not join the gallery tour without her. We’ll meet you as soon as Lawson has helped Rowena change her dress for the afternoon."

  Rowena remained at the wardrobe door, standing like a statue; she had no desire to discuss her startling statement with Alaric. He would surely laugh at her for giving in to such emotions, or he might even believe she was lying to him in order to get something out of him. She didn’t know if she could stand being confronted with his suspicions again. Hearing nothing further from Charles, Alaric turned from the door, and strolled back into Rowena’s room. He stood for a moment, looking at her immobile back, as she peered into the dark walnut wardrobe, its doors heavily adorned with gothic flourishes, and then moved closer.

  "Rowena," he began, "A few moments ago, you said--" and then halted, as she abruptly stepped back from her inspection of the wardrobe’s contents, and the back of her head came into sharp contact with his chin.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed, touching the back of her head as he rubbed his chin. "Did I hurt you, Alaric? I’m so sorry!"

  "It’s nothing," he replied a bit irritably. "I do want to talk to you about--" his voice trailed off as a gentle scratch came on the door, and Lawson walked in.

  "Oh!" exclaimed Rowena. "How very glad I am to see you Lawson. Only fancy, his lordship has said that we will be down to tour Sir Peter’s gallery in just thirty minute
s. I don’t know how I can possibly be ready!"

  Lawson bristled with professional pride. "Not at all, my lady, we shall manage very well, if his lordship will only leave us be."

  Knowing he was outgunned, Alaric bowed gracefully after shooting Rowena a distinctly sardonic look. "We will continue this conversation later," he promised silkily. "Meanwhile, I will escort you to the Great Hall in, ah, twenty five minutes," he said, glancing at his watch. "We mustn’t keep Sir Peter waiting. I’m sure that his collection will be a revelation."

  As he returned to his own room, and rang for his valet, Alaric heard Rowena chivvying Lawson to hurry with her dress and hair, noting her agitation and apparent confusion. What had she meant by the words she had said, he wondered. Perhaps she had merely been overwhelmed by passion; he knew she abandoned herself totally to her feelings when he made love to her. It was one of her most appealing characteristics. Their interlude had been even more intensely passionate than usual, he realized, but surely Rowena had meant only that she enjoyed the pleasure he gave her. It was impossible that she could have meant anything else. Or perhaps, the thought suddenly struck him, she was trying to distract him from something. Was it possible that she and Malcolm had another plan? He would have to watch her carefully to make sure that she didn’t go tearing off on one of her brother’s hare-brained schemes.

  Exactly half an hour later, he opened the door to Rowena’s room, and gazed admiringly at her as she presented herself in a sea green silk afternoon frock trimmed with charcoal grey velvet ribbons on the sleeves and bodice, and sporting three rows of ruching smocked with more grey velvet. Dark grey kid slippers matched her dress, and an opal necklace Alaric had given her complemented both the grey and green. He helped to arrange a paisley shawl across her elbows and offered his arm to help her downstairs, where Sir Peter Brandfon and Charles Monfort awaited them.

  "Ah, Lord and Lady Brayleigh. I am so glad that you could accompany us on our tour." Sir Peter beamed when the pair of them entered the sitting room. "Lord Charles was uncertain as to whether you would be too tired to join us or not."

  "We are looking forward to it," said Rowena.

  "Well, I cannot pretend that my collection is as fine as your husband’s, but I flatter myself that it is of great value and in excellent taste. You shall judge for yourself." Sir Peter smiled on them all. "I believe you are acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Brenderby, and uh, Lady Bingham."

  Marguerite stood up and smiled maliciously at Alaric and Rowena. "We are old friends. Or at least Brayleigh and I are. I have only recently become acquainted with his charming wife," she purred.

  "Lady Bingham." Alaric bowed to her coldly, his eyes raking over her tight dress and elegant curls. He wondered with disdain how he could ever have found someone so hard and thoughtless to be attractive.

  "Then shall we proceed?" asked Sir Peter, anxious to smooth over the awkward moment. "This way, please. I wish you to be utterly honest with me, Lord Brayleigh, on the matter of these paintings. My family is very proud of them, but please do not spare my feelings. I wish to know their true value, though of course they will always be cherished for having been collected by my ancestors."

  Rowena glanced nervously at Alaric as they followed the group from the sitting room, but he seemed to have forgotten what had happened earlier. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Surely he would not want to pursue such a sensitive topic any further. It could only cause embarrassment for them both.

  They walked through several dark and drafty hallways before entering the Great gallery, a long room that ran the length of one side of the building. Alaric sighed when he noticed that the windows were small and the room rather dark, making it difficult to distinguish one painting from another. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  "Come with me, Lord Brayleigh. I insist that you lead us on our tour. This first work is believed to be a Rubens, and I am quite sure that the attribution is correct. You notice the fine tint of the pink in the flesh, and the voluptuous lines of the body."

  Alaric frowned up at the painting, which represented an extremely fat naked woman, great quantities of red hair surrounding her heavy face, leering out at the viewer. It was clearly a forgery, he thought, done by an inexpert hand.

  "Very nice," he said shortly.

  Sir Peter beamed at him, and led him to the next painting. As Alaric peered at it, trying to decide in the gloom if it was a representation of another obese woman reclining on a couch or simply a large pink pig, he felt Rowena moving away from his side. He turned towards her hastily, but she only shook her head quickly and frowned, flicking her eyes towards where Lady Bingham stood, watching them all closely. Alaric realized she intended to put her plan into motion, and that he couldn’t stop her without causing a scene. He glared at her, but she merely smiled and glided away, leaving him at the mercy of Sir Peter.

  "This is another Rubens, I believe," the baron said cheerfully. "My grandfather purchased it in the Netherlands, and it hung for many years over his bed."

  It must be a woman then, thought Alaric grimly. Reluctantly he turned his attention away from Rowena and towards the painting. She would pay for this later, he promised himself.

  Rowena moved towards the back of the group, trying unsuccessfully to stifle the small giggle that rose in her throat. It amused her to see Alaric, usually in control of everything around him, at the mercy of the well-meaning but vulgar Sir Peter. She paused momentarily to look for Lady Bingham, and saw to her relief that the baroness had detached herself slightly from the group and stood several feet away, gazing up at a painting of a large couple embracing. Rowena took a deep breath and stepped towards her.

  "Lady Bingham."

  Marguerite turned, her cornflower blue eyes widening when she saw who addressed her, and then narrowing as she assessed her opponent.

  "Lady Brayleigh. I am surprised you are not listening to your husband’s opinions of the paintings."

  Rowena tried to smile. Standing this close to the woman, she could feel her malice as a physical entity. "I wouldn't understand anything he had to say," she answered. "I’m afraid I have no true appreciation of art. It all looks the same to me."

  Marguerite laughed softly. "How well-matched the two of you are." Her voice was sarcastic. "Alaric should never have married you. I always knew it was solely for revenge."

  Rowena hung her head and avoided Marguerite’s eyes. She strove to put the right note of anxiety into her voice. "I thought he cared for me," she whispered. "But now I don’t know. He’s so cold...he frightens me."

  "Frightens you?" Marguerite’s eyes raked over her. "It takes a real woman to stand up to Alaric. You’re just a little white mouse, aren’t you? I imagine he would eat you alive."

  A twinge of anger shot through Rowena at this disparagement of her courage, but she fought it down. It would not do to tip her hand. "I...I didn't believe the stories before. But now I think maybe they are true. Can you tell me the truth?"

  Marguerite smiled triumphantly. "I thought you knew him far better than I do? Weren’t those the brave words you threw at me not so long ago? Why should I tell you anything now?"

  Rowena willed a tear to appear in her eye. "At first I thought all was well. But now--now I have heard some things which frighten me. I do not know what to believe, and Alaric refuses to tell me anything."

  "I was right to bring Malcolm back," said Marguerite with satisfaction. "I thought it might be interesting if you met your brother again. You married his greatest enemy. You shouldn’t have done that."

  "He compromised me," said Rowena, her voice mournful. "I had no choice. My aunt forced me into it. But now I think I might have been better off if I had been ruined. I must know the truth. Am I married to a murderer?"

  Marguerite glanced over at the group that was moving slowly down the gallery, viewing the paintings and listening to Alaric’s terse comments on them.

  "Not now," she said softly. "I will tell you everything you want to know later. But we must have pr
ivacy."

  "When?" asked Rowena anxiously. "I cannot wait another minute."

  "You will have to. Tomorrow afternoon, when everyone is resting. Come to the solarium. I’ll wait for you there."

  "You’ll tell me everything?" asked Rowena.

  "You’ll know all about your husband by the time I’m done," said Marguerite. "I only hope you can handle it, you pitiful child."

  "Why did this have to happen?" asked Rowena, striving to put the right note of pettishness in her voice. "I cannot believe he would be so cruel as to marry me only to hurt Malcolm."

  "Your husband would do anything to get revenge," said Marguerite. "He hates Malcolm and will not stop until he is dead. Your well being means nothing to him."

  "I don’t want to believe that," whispered Rowena. "But it is so hard, wondering about this."

  "You won’t wonder much longer." Marguerite’s eyes wandered over Rowena’s shoulder and rested on Alaric. She smiled thoughtfully. "Soon you will know far more than you wish."

  "Thank you," said Rowena fervently.

  "Don’t thank me yet," murmured Marguerite. "You might not be happy with what you hear."

  "The truth is the only thing that matters to me," vowed Rowena.

  "Then you shall have it." Marguerite looked back at the group of people, who had moved some distance down the gallery. "You had best rejoin your husband, or he will be furious. And I don’t think I want another taste of his temper."

  Rowena achieved a shudder. "He can be frightening. I had no idea, before the marriage."

  "You shouldn’t have played with fire. Alaric is far too much man for you."

  Rowena hung her head and fought the urge to slap Marguerite. Soon enough, she told herself, the baroness would pay for her words.

  "Rowena."