Cavern of Pleasures Boxset: Georgian Regency Romance

by EM BROWN

  He turned to Lance, who had watched it all from his chair nearby. Phineas motioned it was his turn, and Lance leaped eagerly to his feet. Shedding his breeches, Lance revealed a long and slender prick.

  “Lay atop her,” Phineas directed.

  Lance hesitated.

  “You two conspire enough. Pray tell you have never fucked one another?”

  Lance shook his head. “I am not—I have never–”

  “First time for everything then, ‘ole chap.’”

  Again, Lance hesitated, but he managed to climb atop Penelope’s prone body. Phineas took Lance’s shaft and guided it into Penelope’s cunnie before positioning himself behind Lance’s arse. He admired the curvature of the man’s rump before sinking his shaft into the man’s nether hole. The wetness from Penelope’s cunnie allowed him to enter Lance smoothly. He waited for Lance to overcome the initial instinct to reject the invasion before beginning a rhythmic thrust.

  It had been years—five years—since he had taken a man’s arse.

  Lance moaned in delight as Phineas shoved himself deeper. One did not have to guard against being too rough with a man. He could tell Lance preferred it brutal.

  “Yes! Yes!” Lance grunted as Phineas bucked against him.

  And then Lance began to shake violently as he emptied his seed into Penelope before collapsing onto her completely.

  Phineas pulled out of Lance and went to collect his garments.

  “Come again soon,” Penelope murmured.

  Phineas said nothing. He had received a note from Phillipa indicating she would be spending some time at her sister’s outside of London, but that her sister would not be at home, leaving her alone and in want of company. He decided he would relieve Miss Summers of her loneliness.

  Chapter Ten

  THE DRIVER OF THE POST-chaise had given Gertie a skeptical look when he realized she was traveling sans an abigail but seemed somewhat appeased when she named her destination, figuring there was ample pay to be had. Lowry House could not spare a maid for her trip to Dunnesford, and Gertie preferred to be alone. The weather seemed to know her mood and matched it with grey skies and drops of rain.

  Sarah had seemed out of sorts the past few days as well, Gertie recalled. Her sister-in-law was crosser than usual and seemed to turn a frequent and suspicious eye towards her. Gertie had no desire to speculate what she had done this time to merit Sarah’s hostility and had kept her head down as if she was not aware of Sarah’s scrutiny.

  “Have you heard from Lord Barclay?” Sarah had finally asked after aimlessly viewing the latest edition of The Lady’s Magazine.

  “Wh-why should I have heard from Lord Barclay?” Gertie had responded. She had not even ventured to visit the orphan asylum for fear of running into the man.

  The Dowager raised an eyebrow from the sofa where she sat with her embroidery.

  “I ask because you were seen in his company.”

  “He—he insisted on escorting me home,” Gertie replied, hoping Sarah was not referring to that night at Vauxhall.

  “Why are we discussing that man?” Belinda inquired.

  “I heard the servants say that he has sent many a correspondence to Gertie,” Sarah offered.

  But I have not lifted my skirts beneath him, Gertie thought to herself.

  Belinda turned her disapproving eye upon Gertie. “Why are you corresponding with such a man?”

  “It was my refusal to grant him an audience that prompted him to write me so often,” Gertie explained. “The Barclays wished to confer upon our properties.”

  Belinda snorted. “We will have nothing to do with that horrid family. They are a menace to polite society.”

  Gertie had professed to having a headache and retreated to her room. Not able to obtain the intelligence she desired, Sarah became even more irritable. Only Alexander had seemed to be in good spirits, having secured an offer for Sarah’s hand from Mr. Rowland. Sarah had burst into tears at the announcement, but when Gertie attempted to console her, she had bared her fangs and thrust Gertie aside.

  The rain came down in heavy sheets. The chaise lumbered awkwardly through the mud. It would take thrice as long to reach Dunnesford in these conditions. Gertie wondered if her portmanteau would survive the rain for she could not remember the driver covering her belongings. She heard the man curse as one side of the carriage sunk into the mud. The driver cracked the whip above the horses, but the mud clung tenaciously to the chaise. Gertie shook her head. Fate was having no pity upon her.

  The whip cracked once more. This time the chaise lurched forward but without one of its wheels. The vehicle tipped towards its side, tumbling Gertie into the window. The driver let out a string of oaths. Shaking off the knock to her head, Gertie managed to climb out the carriage door and into the pouring rain. Her feet disappeared into the mud as she stepped off the carriage. She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders, a fruitless endeavor for the mud was seeping into her petticoats from below.

  “Lost ‘er wheel,” the driver told her, stating the obvious.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  “If I holds the chaise, yer ken slip the wheel on.”

  She nodded and reached for the wheel, realizing afterwards that she should have removed her gloves before reaching into the mud.

  The driver grabbed the axel and lifted it as high as he could while Gertie attempted to push the wheel back into place. But the driver could not lift the carriage high enough. Nor could Gertie lift the large and heavy wheel. In her attempt to do so, she landed herself in the mud. She wiped the splatter from her face with her sleeve.

  “Thar be an inn not half a league from ‘ere,” the driver informed her.

  “I take it you’ll be needing assistance,” a voice from the rain said.

  A shiver went through her bones at the sound. Impossible, she told herself, but when she turned, despite the rain clinging to her eyelashes, she saw a bay she recognized. Upon its owner sat Phineas Barclay. As with her, he was sodden from head to toe, but no doubt he did not appear nearly as wretched. His valet, also upon a bay, traveled beside him.

  “Good sir,” the driver greeted, “could yar man assist us? We’ve lost ‘er wheel.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Barclay replied. “Francis could lend you a hand, but you’ll not travel far on a wheel without its collet and split pin.”

  The driver looked around him and frowned. He began to wade through the mud in search of the missing parts.

  “I should take the lady to the nearest posting inn and will leave you my man Francis.”

  “We were faring well enough,” Gertie replied, then realized the stupidity of her statement.

  Barclay raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Very well,” she relented, though she preferred to brave the rains with her driver and Francis.

  Barclay held out his hand. She put her dirtied glove in his and allowed him to hoist her onto his horse before him. She realized her muddied garments would soil his finer clothes, but he should not have offered to take her if he worried of the effect. It was damnably uncomfortable riding side saddle with a man already upon the horse. Even worse that the man should be Lord Barclay. She could not position her body in such a way to avoid having her rump from fitting against his crotch—and when she tried, she nearly fell off the horse.

  “Perhaps it would be best if one of us walked,” she suggested after he had caught her by the waist to keep her from slipping off.

  “You would have us tarry longer in the rain?” he returned.

  Gertrude pressed her lips together. There was naught to say unless she wished to reveal how uncomfortable he made her feel.

  Barclay urged his horse into a cantor. The movement caused her to bump into him incessantly. At one point the wet and sagging feathers of her bonnet caught him the mouth.

  “How coincidental that you should have happened upon us,” she said to distract herself from the jostling of her body against his. “One would think you were
following me, Lord Barclay.”

  “I am visiting a friend in Hampton. And what has put you on this wet and rainy path, Lady Lowry?”

  “I, too, am visiting a friend—the Marchioness of Dunnesford.”

  She longed to ask why he had kissed her that night at Vauxhall, but he behaved as if it had not happened. Perhaps it had been an impulsive act and one that he regretted. If he had sooner forgotten what had happened, she should have no wish to bring up the matter. She resorted to a safe subject—the weather.

  “Do you suppose the rain will let up soon?” she asked.

  “Hard to predict. If it does not, we shall be much delayed to our respective destinations. The roads will not be traversable.”

  She frowned at the prospect. When they reached the Four Horse Posting Inn, a modest two storied building with a thatched roof, the rain seemed to be coming down even harder. Barclay assisted her off his horse. With her skirts sodden down into the very last petticoat, Gertrude felt as if she were dragging along something twice her weight.

  “A room for my lady and an abigail to assist her,” Barclay informed the innkeeper.

  “Come, my lady, we shall put your things up by the fire, shall we?” said the innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Pettigrew. She had a ruddy but cheerful face.

  Gertrude removed her bonnet and cloak, which Mrs. Pettigrew hung before a blazing fire.

  “You best shed your garments afore you catch a chill,” Mrs. Pettigrew comments.

  “My articles are with the chaise, and perhaps no drier than I am,” Gertie said. “I shall sit by the fire and dry myself.”

  Not long after the driver and Barclay’s valet arrived at the inn. The wheel had been fixed, but the roads were in no condition for travel.

  Gertie went through her trunk in her small but tidy room upstairs. To her relief, not all her articles were soaked in rain. She found a dry pair of stockings, her high-necked chemise, corset, and a gown of blue with long sleeves and a wide sash of gold.

  “You could borrow a few of my petticoats,” Mrs. Pettigrew offered.

  The innkeeper’s wife was shorter and stouter, but Gertie welcomed the opportunity to step out of her sodden apparel. Mrs. Pettigrew had one of her scullery maids wash the mud stained gown, stockings, and shoes.

  “Thank you. You have been most kind,” Gertie said when she had donned her new attire.

  “Such beautiful thick tresses you have,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “Alas, I’ve not much skill in dressing.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew had attempted to pin all of Gertie’s wet hair atop her head, but the heavy hair would not stay in place easily and leaned lopsided to one side of her head.

  Mr. Pettigrew knocked on the door. “Your husband awaits in the parlor and asks if you will join him in a meal?”

  “He’s not my hus–” Gertie began, then wondered at the propriety of her traveling alone and having arrived with a man not her husband.

  “I made a pigeon pie—fresh baked this morning,” Mrs. Pettigrew said.

  Gertie considered her hunger and decided to go downstairs. The innkeeper had set a nice table with Mrs. Pettigrew’s meat pie, bread, cheese, potatoes with butter, and stewed apples.

  Lord Barclay stood before an inviting fireplace. Like her, he had changed into drier clothes. His wet hair had been pulled back and tied at the neck with a black ribbon. His dark blue waistcoat was astonishingly simple considering its owner, but as always, he wore it well over his linen of billowing sleeves. She glimpsed him in deep thought and felt a surprising tenderness as she admired his profile. Something about the way he looked then made her want to cradle him in her arms. Then her growling stomach caught his attention.

  “Ah, Countess,” he greeted, approaching her and offering his arm. He seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

  She allowed him to lead her to the table and pull a chair for her. After sitting down, he filled her glass.

  “To a better journey than we have had,” he said as he raised his glass.

  Gertie drank to that. The wine was surprisingly smooth, and she took another sip.

  “What a delightful inn we have stumbled upon,” she said as she dug her fork into Mrs. Pettigrew’s pie. “How fortunate we were to have been near it.”

  “I suppose...” she added, “that I should be grateful for your arrival.”

  He looked at her over his glass of wine. He sat to the side of his chair, one leg crossed over the other.

  “You’ve no need to thank me, Countess. I suspect I was the last person you desired to see upon the road.”

  She flushed at the truth of his statement. She reached for the bread and pulled off a large piece. “The circumstances surrounding your arrival were a trifle trying. I think naught but the appearance of the sun should have made me happy. But I thank you for your assistance. Were it not for you and your valet, my driver and I might still be stuck and the chaise unfixed.”

  He seemed to smile to himself as he took a sip of his wine.

  “You find humor in our situation, sir?” she asked.

  “Do you always do what you deem you are obligated to do?”

  She stopped chewing her bread as if she had tasted a worm. “You speak as if that were a disapproving trait?”

  “It is admirable to some extent, but confess: you had no desire to thank me.”

  She stared at his handsome but aggravating façade and considered the prospect of dining alone in her room, but she was far too hungry to leave the table.

  “What does it matter what I desire?” she returned. “You came to our aid, and it is only proper that I thank you for it.”

  “It always matters what you desire.”

  She began to butter her bread to avoid having to look into his penetrating stare. It did not matter that her bread had already received one coat of butter.

  “How simple for you,” she stated. “No doubt in your world men and women should behave on their impulses alone with no regard for courtesy or convention.”

  “I think you would find it liberating.”

  “Perhaps I would, but that is no way for polite society to conduct itself.”

  “You prefer that we swallow the truth of our emotions and feign falsehoods for the sake of convention?”

  “That is hardly what I said! I merely stated...”

  She saw the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He was playing with her.

  “Would you care for more bread with your butter, Countess?” inquired Barclay.

  Gertie glanced down at her bread, now top heavy with coats of butter. She felt her flush deepen and was grateful for the shadows cast by the fireplace. Perhaps he would not notice how much he tested her.

  “No, thank you,” she replied, taking a bite of her butter, then drenching it away with wine. “I was merely trying to thank you for your service, but if you’ve no wish for the recognition, I will gladly withdraw my gratitude.”

  “I never said I did not wish for it. Indeed, for the likes of me to receive thanks from you, Countess, is a rare and special occasion. But when I said that you’ve no need to thank me, I had hoped to relieve you from an awkward obligation.”

  “If I am awkward, it is only because of you,” she retorted, setting aside her bread permanently in favor of her wine glass. “You hardly make it easy for me, sir. And I’ve no doubt you behave in such vexing fashion on purpose.”

  Finishing the contents, she refilled her glass.

  “My apologies, Lady Lowry,” he said. “It is not my intention to vex you always.”

  “Now you are the one with pretenses, Lord Barclay. I am convinced it is always your intention to vex me or you would not have...”

  He raised his eyebrows, but she could finish her sentence. Instead she took another sip of wine.

  “Kissed you?” he finished.

  She took another sip to calm her irritation. She had decided it was best to ignore what had happened at Vauxhall, especially when it became clear that they would have to suffer each other’s company for some time. It had seeme
d he might have even forgotten what had happened. But, fool that she was, she had made mention of what happened that night.

  “You were wrong to have been so forward,” she told him. “I am not my sister-in-law.”

  “That, my lady, is evident,” he responded wryly.

  She narrowed her eyes. Did he mean to imply that she was not as pretty as Sarah, or as pleasurable and engaging?

  “I have not her loose...disposition,” she informed.

  “Why not?”

  She stared in disbelief. “Why not? Do you ask such a question in earnest?”

  “Dead earnest.”

  Her heartbeat quickened, sensing the impending danger of such dialogue.

  “A man of your morals would not understand,” she evaded.

  “What is there to understand, Countess? Conventions? Courtesies?”

  “Yes!” she snapped, finishing the rest of her wine.

  He sat back in thought. “What would become of your conventions and courtesies if you indulged in loose...desires?”

  “Then we should become a society filled with persons like you!”

  “A very distressing thought,” he agreed.

  She stared at her wine glass, regretting that she had drank her fill so quickly.

  “But truth be told,” he continued, “you could never become the likes of me—or your sister-in-law—for you’ve too much courtesy, too much regard for others.”

  She looked at him in surprise through her haze. Did he mean that as a compliment?

  “So I ask once more: why not indulge yourself, Countess?”

  “Indulge in what?”

  “Anything you wish. Fine clothing, amusement, a paramour of your own...”

  “I’ve no need for such things.”

  “We all have a need for love. We are creatures of emotion.”

  Gertie bristled. “And what sort of love do you find in these things? You clothe yourself in fineries and amuse yourself with games of seduction—have you found love?”

  “No,” he said gravely.