“What’s that you say, Mr. Fielding?”
“I said, ‘Right away, sir.’”
He slammed the door on Stephen’s laughter.
∞∞∞
Elinor was dreaming and it was the best dream she’d ever had. She tried to stay completely still and keep her eyes closed, as if that would somehow help her hold onto the moment. But then the delicious waves began. Again and again, she tensed her body, inside and out, but that just made the sensation more powerful. She cried out, her back arched until she hurt. Her hands were tangled in something soft but heavy between her legs.
Her eyes flew open and met utter darkness.
“Go back to sleep, Elinor.” Stephen’s voice was muffled by the blankets.
Elinor realized her hands were tangled in his hair, and that he was . . . down there.
She pinched her thighs together and he yelped.
“Dammit! My ear.”
“Sorry.” She unclamped her thighs and yanked on his hair.
“Christ! Not so bloody hard, Elinor.”
“What are you doing?” She dragged his head from beneath the bedding, suddenly wishing she could see his face. And just as suddenly glad she could not.
“I was happily feasting until you interrupted me.” He sounded sulky, and his hands had begun to roam her body in a way designed to distract and confuse.
“Feasting?” she squeaked.
“Mmmhmm. I was starving and you taste delicious.” He took advantage of her surprise to tug his hair from her grasp and lower his mouth to her chest. “Sweet, like honey.” He nibbled her stiff nipple before sucking most of one breast into his mouth.
“But . . .”
He released her breast. “But?” he repeated, licking her just like a cat. Well, not just like a cat.
“That can’t be normal, Stephen?” Even so, her body pulsed for the return of his lips and tongue between her aching thighs.
“It’s normal for me. I think of it all the time.” He slid a hand into her damp curls and her legs tensed, only to find he’d wedged his knees between them. He traced the swollen seam of her lips and a low, desperate sound came from deep inside his body while he mercilessly tongued her breast.
Elinor groaned, her body rendered boneless by his relentless mouth.
“That’s better,” he praised, moving from breast to breast, suckling and nibbling, his finger parting her. “Mmmm, wet.” The words were a puff of air against one breast just before he bit her nipple.
She cried out, the pleasure so intense her head rang. He slid a finger inside, not stopping until his knuckles rested against her sex. “You’re so fucking tight.” Her face flared at the profanity but her inner muscles tightened even more around his finger and he chuckled. “You like that, a bit of dirty talk?” He grazed the underside of her breast with his teeth and slowly pulled out, his hand negligently rubbing against the sensitive triangle of flesh above her entrance.
Elinor spread her thighs wider and he chuckled, rewarding her with deep, rhythmic thrusts, accidentally touching her enflamed clitoris each time. The wet sounds coming from where his hand worked made her face so hot she thought she must be visible in the dark.
Stephen’s breathing became harder and harsher and a second finger joined the first.
She startled and his hand immediately froze. “Am I hurting you?”
She swallowed. “No.”
He eased his fingers deeper. “You’re so tight, I want to make you ready.”
“Ready?”
Shut up, shut up, shut up, her mind jabbered while her body adjusted around his fingers.
“Mmmhmm, ready to take me.” He worked her with controlled, patient thrusts and it wasn’t long before she was floating on the now familiar current of pleasure that flowed from one small spot to the rest of her body, her limbs unbearably heavy and her head light.
“That’s right,” he murmured, as pleasure wrapped around her body like a fist and squeezed her in its ruthless, velvet grasp. “Let go, sweetheart.” She cried out and he held her, his fingers coaxing and beckoning until a second and larger dam broke, its savage waters carrying her away. She was consumed by bliss when something slick and hot nudged her entrance.
“Let me in,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and desperate in the darkness.
She spread her thighs in answer.
“Ah,” he groaned, coming into her in one long, smooth thrust.
Her eyes flew open and frantically searched the dark, her body wide awake and so utterly filled by him she couldn’t draw a breath.
“Elinor?” His big body shook as he tried to hold himself motionless. “Does it hurt?”
“No. But it feels—Well, it has been a long time,” she finished lamely. She did not mention that he was entirely different from Edward. Entirely.
“Should I stop?”
She squirmed. “Maybe take some out for just a moment.”
He laughed hoarsely and pulled back. “Better?”
Elinor exhaled raggedly and fought to calm her breathing. “You’re terribly big.”
This time his laugh was more genuine. “What a generous lover you are, darling.” He slid in a little more and she tensed, waiting for the pain. But it never came. “More?”
She took control of her body and forced her muscles relax. She imagined the textbook, and the pictures it contained, and the tension drained from her body. “Yes, more.”
He pushed deeper. “Tell me when to stop.”
There seemed no end to him, but the sensation of fullness was not unpleasant—quite the opposite. He felt nothing like Edward, who’d often become soft after entering her.
“Pretty soon I won’t be able to stop,” he said through clenched teeth, his shaft sliding deep, stretching her.
She tilted her hips. “I don’t want you to.”
He shuddered, his body straining as if against some invisible barrier, as he rhythmically pumped into her, harder, deeper. “So good, Ellie,” he muttered. “So tight.” His stroking was becoming increasingly savage and uncontrolled.
Elinor struggled to hold back the wave building inside her. She was so near her climax, but she wanted to make him come apart—just as she had—so she opened herself wider and then tightened her inner muscles.
“God, yes!” His hoarse yell shook the room and he hilted himself and then held her full. She could feel his shaft pulsing against her taut, sensitive flesh; the rest of him was eerily still as he emptied himself deep inside her body.
La petite mort, the French called it and now Elinor knew why. After all, she’d just experienced the same thing herself several times in rapid succession.
He toppled to his side like a fallen tree, his body still buried in hers. He caught her with one muscular leg and pulled her on top of his heaving chest. One of his hands moved absently up and down her arm.
“Elinor,” he muttered.
She relaxed against him and lowered her head onto his chest. He was slick with sweat and she ran her tongue over the damp, shuddering skin. He groaned. She found his nipple and took it into her mouth, just as he’d done to her earlier. He jumped and his hand stilled her.
“Not just yet, love, but soon.” He flexed the part still inside her to illustrate his point. “You make me feel like a boy of seventeen.”
Elinor knew that was a compliment and smiled against the sensitive skin of his chest. He laughed and tweaked her ear. “Pleased with yourself?”
Elinor realized she was.
Chapter Twenty
London
1817
“Elinor?” A deep voice whispered in her ear. “Are you going to sleep forever?”
She opened her eyes and saw light streaming into the room. And Stephen sitting on the bed beside her, a cup of something—she sniffed, coffee? Yes, a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Do you want it?” He waved the cup in front of her.
Elinor growled and pushed herself up.
“That doesn’t sound very friendly.”
&nb
sp; “Give me the coffee or I’ll breathe on you.”
He laughed. “Take it.” He sat back and watched as she drank.
“Ah.”
“There is the sound of a satisfied woman.”
She flushed, suddenly recalling the other sounds she’d made last night. “What time is it?”
“It’s a quarter to one.”
She made yet another unladylike noise. “Oh, no!” The coffee sloshed in the cup as she handed it to him and scrambled to get out from beneath the bedding. He moved to the side as she swung her legs off the bed. Her naked legs. She pressed back against the headboard, suddenly realizing how light it was in the room.
“Stephen?”
“Hmm?” he paused in the act of lifting the cup to his lips.
“Where are my clothes?”
His lips curved and he took a sip, smiling while his eyes probed the dimness and he stared at her body.
“Clothes?” he teased.
Elinor’s chest tightened. “I would like to get dressed.”
His eyebrows rose. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, I just wish to put on some clothes.”
His playful look altered subtly at her cool tone, as if he suddenly sensed her tension. He stood; his smile gone.
“Of course. I shall ring for your maid.”
“But—” She hesitated, not wishing to offend him further.
“You needn’t worry about discretion; I pay her very well for it.” He put the coffee on the nightstand.
Elinor could tell she’d hurt him and wished she could tell him what she truly feared. But she couldn’t. “Stephen?”
He stopped, his hand on door. “Yes?” he said without turning around.
Elinor shivered at the frost in the air. “Thank you.”
“What are you thanking me for, Elinor?”
“For everything. For . . . last night.”
He opened the door and left her alone, just as she’d asked.
∞∞∞
The door to the bedchamber opened and Stephen put aside the paper he’d been reading and stood. Elinor hesitated a moment before coming toward him.
“You look lovely,” he said.
And she did. Her normally pale cheeks were tinted and her eyes were a luminous silver. She looked like a woman who’d been well-pleasured. He began to harden as he recalled the pleasuring.
She stopped beside the table, her mouth curling into a smile. “More food?”
He looked down at the array. “I ordered—”
“—one of everything on the menu,” she finished for him. They both chuckled and the tension between them eased. She sat and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Would you care for more?”
“No, thank you. Unlike some people, who shall remain nameless, I’ve been awake since five.”
“Five!” She paused in the act of pouring cream into her coffee to stare.
“I’m an early riser.”
“It must be that famed Puritan work ethic.” She pulled apart a strawberry pastry and delicately licked some jam from her fingers before wiping them on the napkin. She stopped when she noticed him watching. “I’m sorry, I eat like a savage. I’m afraid it’s the result of living by myself for so long. I hope it won’t give you a disgust of me?”
“No, disgust is not what I’m feeling right now.” He gave his thoughts free rein and her color deepened. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What are your plans for the day?”
She chewed, swallowed, and sipped her coffee. “The maid brought a note my friend left at the desk for me. There is nothing for me to do but wait.”
Stephen nodded. Marcus was behaving like a very good boy. “Then perhaps you would let me entertain you?”
Her smile took his breath away. How could he have ever believed she was anything less than beautiful?
Where the hell had that thought come from?
Stephen looked down at the linen-covered table, searching for something. An anchor for his thoughts, a club to cudgel his errant brain back into line—anything.
“You’re not engaging in important business today?” she asked.
Stephen cleared his throat, looked up, and smiled. “Oh, but I am—you are the most important business, Elinor.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Is there anything in London you would care to see?”
“It’s been years since I’ve seen any of the sights. I’ll be guided by you.”
“You didn’t come for the Season when you were married?” He didn’t want to ask anything that would allow the ghost of Trentham into this day, but the words would not be held back. His curiosity about her married life was like a fever that never completely left his body. He thought of her tentative—almost frightened—lovemaking and his jaw tightened. Jealousy and fury churned inside of him as he imagined Edward Atwood putting any part of his loathsome body on or into the woman across from him. The repulsive vision triggered a primitive, possessive feeling that was centered in his groin—as if he could fuck her hard enough and often enough to erase any other man from her memory.
“Stephen?”
His head jerked up.
She was staring at him, a wrinkle of concern between her beautiful eyes. “What is the matter?”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “Nothing. I just recalled something I had to do.”
“It must be something unpleasant.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You looked quite . . . murderous.” A slight shiver wracked her slender frame.
He gave her the smile that never failed to comfort either women or business rivals. “I’m merely angry at myself for my wretched memory. But never mind that, I can take care of it in a trice. When was the last time you were in London?”
She wagged a finger at him. “You really were distracted. I said I hadn’t been here since before my marriage.”
“You never came to town?”
Her smile dimmed. “I prefer the country.”
“But Trentham had a London House?”
“Yes, it is still in the family. My husband spent most of his time here.”
Stephen started at the word husband.
“I believe Charles is here right now,” she added before popping the last of her pastry into her mouth.
Stephen realized he was drumming his fingers on the table and stopped. So, the marriage had been the standard aristocratic arrangement? He ruthlessly quashed any pity the realization generated. So what if she had a cold, passionless marriage? Being beaten to a pulp and thrown in jail on a false charge of rape and facing the hangman’s noose had been less than enjoyable. Losing the vision in one eye hadn’t exactly been a trip to Astley’s Bloody Circus. Fleeing for his life with no more than a few bob in his pocket hadn’t been terribly entertaining, either.
Stephen felt her eyes on him and looked up. He fixed a charming smile on his face. “I hope you’ve fortified yourself, my lady, because I plan on taking you about town in high fashion.”
∞∞∞
Another note awaited Elinor at the hotel when they returned. She waited until she was in the privacy of her room to open it—not that she wanted to open it. She was torn almost in half with her conflicting wants. After today—and last night—she wanted only to stay with Stephen. To run away with him, maybe to Boston or to someplace else where she could start a new life and forget all about the horror of her marriage. Where she could trust him enough to give him not only her body, but also her heart.
But she couldn’t. No matter where she ran, the thought would always be with her: the knowledge of what a man could do once you were completely under his power.
Besides, she loved Marcus and he loved his sister. How could she even think of running off until Marcus had Esme back safe? She opened the note.
I’m sorry, Elinor, but he’s not yet returned. I’m told it will be another day, certainly no more than two. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more, please wait. Marcus
Elinor exhaled th
e air she’d been holding inside, weak with a mix of happiness and shame. She would not have to leave Stephen yet.
Molly bustled into the sitting room.
“I shall be having dinner with Mr. Worth tonight. Will you please draw a bath for me?”
Molly dropped a curtsey. “Shall you want to wear the new gown, my lady?”
“New gown?”
Molly nodded and hurried back into the bed chamber, where a gown of the most glorious silvery silk lay across the bed.
“Where did this come from?” Elinor asked, knowing the answer even though her brain could not fully accommodate it.
Molly handed her a card. “This was in the box.”
Elinor,
Wear it to make me happy.
S.
She smiled. He certainly knew what to say in any situation. The dress was yards and yards of gossamer thin silk in a shade that was a cross between silver and pewter; chips that sparkled like diamonds were scattered around the sweeping hem. The bodice was almost severe in its simplicity, a perfect foil for the extravagant skirt. Elinor had never seen a dress so beautiful.
“And slippers, too, my lady.” Molly held up a matching pair of satin shoes, complete with glinting diamonds.
Elinor felt the tears begin to form behind her eyes. “I’ll take the bath now, Molly.”
Once the maid left, she sat on the bed beside the glorious garment, her mind drifting back to the equally glorious day. She felt just like a princess in a fairy tale, and, like them, she knew there would be a price for such happiness.
She fingered the delicate silk. He’d taken her to the park, where they’d watched a foolish puppet show surrounded by children and shared a paper cone of sugary sweets. He took her next to Baker Street to see the famous wax figures of Madame Tussaud, laughing at her when she’d turned away from the more savage of the famous Frenchwoman’s creations.
Afterward they’d gone to eat in a tiny bistro in an area of the city that was far more risqué than respectable, and they’d scandalously dined alone in a private dining room. Stephen had been stunned by her lack of experience with French cuisine and had embarrassed her, once again, by ordering one of everything for her to try.
The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1) Page 18