by Audrey Storm
Weariness settled in her gut. It must have shown on her face, as well, for the man chuckled.
“I’m his neighbor,” he said, waving his bow out. “I assure you, I mean no harm. I just feel so inspired by this garden.” He glanced over his shoulder at the roses. “It is truly remarkable, how old and how beautiful it is. I feel more at peace here than I do in my own home.”
Marge smiled at him, her shoulders losing their tension. “I understand that. This is a peaceful place.” She raised her book. “I came here to read, myself.”
He beamed at her. “Ah, a woman who can read. How delightful and refreshing. What kind of books do you enjoy?”
“Romances.”
“A romantic, are you?”
Marge blushed and bit her lip. “No, not really. I just enjoy the stories.”
“Who wouldn’t?” He walked toward her, his eyelids lowering as he observed her. “Though I must say, I’m a little surprise. The rare times I have come across the duke’s sisters, they didn’t seem all that interested in works of fiction. Or any written works, really.”
Marge nearly laughed, but managed to restrain, herself. “I’m not the duke’s sister.”
The man cocked an eyebrow, a playful smile spreading his lips. “Oh? Are you an intruder?”
“No. You’re still the intruder, I’m afraid.” She giggled, laughing harder when the man joined her. “No, I’m the duke’s new wife, Marge.” She winced. “Um, Lady Patterson.”
The man’s eyes widened, his smile staying stubbornly in place. “Ah, yes, I heard he had a wedding some time ago. I should have realized sooner.” He bowed, the hand gripping the bow swinging around his torso. “My name is Victor Williams. My father owns many of the factories in Manchester, and I plan to inherit them soon.”
She curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Williams. I must say that you are awfully talented with that violin.”
He straightened, a bashful expression coming over his face. “I’ve played since I was a child. It is my true joy in this world. But I don’t think I’m quite good enough to make a wealthy living from it.”
“I doubt that’s true. I think you were amazing, just now.”
His smile widened, his cheeks reddening. “You are too kind—much too kind for this world.”
An awkward silence began to descend upon them, so Marge cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll let you get back to performing for the rose bushes. I’ll find a comfortable spot to read.” She turned and walked away, only to be startled when Victor ran up to walk beside her. A surprise laugh erupted out of her throat. “Goodness! Hello, again.”
“Hello,” he said cheekily. “Have you been in this garden before?”
“Only once.”
“Well, then what kind of man would I be if I didn’t give such a kind, special lady a tour?”
“Technically, this is more my garden than it is yours.”
“True, but I am more familiar with it, nonetheless.”
Humor bubbled within her. “Alright then. I am excited for this tour.”
He smirked at her, and a warm sensation bloomed within her belly. She didn’t think anything of it as she spent the rest of the afternoon with Victor.
Chapter 2
For the next couple of weeks, Marge returned to the garden every afternoon. And every afternoon, Victor was there to greet her. Neither one of them had officially made plans to constantly see one another; it just…sort of happened. They talked about business, books, the duke, Victor’s family, Marge’s family—everything and nothing. These times with Victor were so simple, yet they were also so special. With no one inside the mansion willing to give her much kindness, she reveled in Victor’s.
Marge’s mind wandered from Victor to her own family as she headed toward the back of the mansion. She stopped, her heart heavy. She had been relying on Victor for so long for some social interaction that she neglected to try to make more time for her family—the one of flesh and blood, not the one by marriage.
Hesitating by the backdoors, Marge turned around and headed for the entryway. Then she went upstairs to search for her mother-in-law.
It took a lot longer than Marge had expected—even with one of the maid’s help—but she eventually discovered her mother-in-law in one of the studies. She was sitting behind the desk and writing something in a journal when Marge entered.
“There you are,” Marge panted, a light coat of sweat on her brow. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
The old woman didn’t look up from the journal. She just kept writing.
“Right,” Marge said, annoyed. She walked up to the desk. “Anyway, the reason I wished to speak with you is because I wanted to inform you of my departure.”
Her mother-in-law’s head snapped up, her beady eyes narrowed. “Departure? What do you mean? What gives you the right to leave when Merriweather isn’t even here?”
Marge blinked, startled by such a harsh reaction. “I just want to visit my parents and my siblings. I haven’t seen them in a long while, and I miss them.”
“Merriweather isn’t here,” the old woman snapped. She slammed her quill down against her journal. “For a lady to leave the home without her husband is sinful. It’s disrespectful. You will not leave until he returns from his work.”
“But he said he would be gone for at least a month.” To do what, Merriweather never said and Marge never asked.
“That’s right,” her mother-in-law said.
Marge glared. “That sounds—” She flinched when the old woman jabbed the quill toward her.
“If you leave, you disrespect the Patterson name. And I will not be humiliated by some foolish girl. You understand? You cannot leave until your husband returns. If you leave, you will disgrace us all, and I would rather die than let that happen.”
Outrage coursed through her, and it was all she could do not to lash out at this horrid person. Stiffly, Marge nodded before rushing out of the room.
By the time she reached the garden, tears were crawling down Marge’s cheeks. Anger still burned her blood, but it was weighted by a grievous kind of hopelessness. If she hadn’t been so upset, she thought she might be too embarrassed to approach Victor like this. But she needed someone to talk to—someone who would be a friend to her.
She found Victor by the rosebushes again. He was leaning over one of them, a rose barely cradled in his hand. He deeply inhaled its scent.
“You’re later than usual,” he said cheerfully, probably hearing her approach. He straightened and turned. “I was beginning to—” His face fell when he saw her. Surprise then worry contorted his features as he walked up to her. “What happened?”
Marge grabbed his arm and used it to anchor her. Her voice choked, she told him everything.
“Perhaps I could escort you to your family?” Victor said meekly.
Marge shook her head, bowing. “No, that would probably be unacceptable to her, as well. And I…I don’t want to do anything to harm this family.”
“You aren’t.”
Marge jumped, the anger in his tone startling her. She looked up at him. His expression was tense, his eyes ablaze.
“You are not doing anything wrong,” he continued strongly. He swallowed, despair flitting over his face for a brief moment. “What they are doing to you is cruel. They are treating you like an outcast when you have been nothing but lovely and sweet and…” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. Sheepishly, he glanced away. “You deserve better.”
Marge stared at him. His strong jaw, his pink lips, his eyes…it was all breathtaking.
He looked back at her, making her heart skip a beat.
She wasn’t sure how much time had gone by—so many emotions overwhelming her—but before she knew what she was doing, she was leaning forward. And he was meeting her halfway.
Their lips pressed together, sending sparks shooting through her veins. Marge moved closer to him and grabbed the front of his jacket. It felt—he felt wondrous, and she wan
ted more.
It was this thought that had her reeling back and releasing him. Panic and shame seared her heart, even as it iced her blood. She hadn’t slept with her husband yet, and she was about to—she wanted to—? Nausea churned within her. She truly was a wretched woman.
“I have to go,” she whispered, more tears forming in her eyes. She glanced over the ground; she certainly couldn’t look at him again. “I apologize.” Quickly, she turned and headed for the garden’s gate.
Victor, rightfully, didn’t try to stop her.
Chapter 3
That moment replayed itself in Marge’s mind over and over again. It taunted her, tantalized her, hurt her, soothed her—it was awful. She had remained in her bedroom for the rest of the day, but when morning came, she knew that she couldn’t hide from this situation forever. She swore she could see Victor’s face every time she closed her eyes. And the feeling of his lips against hers…not only could she not forget, she didn’t want to forget; she was becoming obsessed.
This had to stop. If she was going to be able to repent and do good in the future, she had to deal with this sinful nature head on; she had to make it right.
Shaking, she went to the garden that afternoon. As she played over her apology in her mind—her speech about how they could never see one another again—she searched the entire garden for Victor. It took her several minutes, but she eventually realized that he wasn’t there.
A whole new kind of fear overwhelmed her then. What if Victor told Merriweather about her indiscretion? What if he was so disgusted by her that he didn’t want to be anywhere near her ever again? All kinds of possible and horrid scenarios ran through her head, making her sick.
Too frenzied to care about the Patterson name, Marge hurried over to the mansion closest to the Patterson one. She traveled by foot—not wanting to deal with the servants and the Patterson—so it took her a little while before she reached Victor’s front door. And by that time, her little bout of exercise had helped her burn some of her more nervous energy; she could think more clearly now.
Reassured by this, she waited until she caught her breath before she knocked on the door. She was determined now to deal with this, no matter how ugly this confrontation got.
Marge’s eyes widened when Victor opened the door. Normally, in a luxurious home such as his, a servant would answer the door.
“Marge?” Victor said, his voice soft and his tone timid. “What are you doing here?”
She blinked, forgetting how to breathe for a moment. Mentally shaking herself out of her stupor, she reminded herself what she had come here to do. “I am here to apologize to you about…about my transgression yesterday.” Her face heated up, her throat constricting. “It was inexcusable and despicable, and I am so sorry that—”
“What? You have nothing to apologize for. It was I who—” He cringed, his mouth opening and closing. “I am the one to blame, not you. I…I thought you would never want to see me again, after what I did.”
That was not what she wanted, but that was what they should do. She opened her mouth to tell him that, but no sound came out. His expression was pained—so full of shame—and it killed her. She shook her head. “I do not blame you. You have no fault in this.”
“Of course I do,” he whispered. “I knew you were married, but I still wanted…” He glanced between her eyes and her lips, a longing look in his face.
Her heart hammered, hope and want flaring beneath her breastbone. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone else before,” she blurted, instantly flinching afterward. However, try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to take back those words.
Victor’s expression seemed to crumble. She moved forward, wanting to mend the emotional wounds he had apparently caused. Instead, she ended up kissing him again.
He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She brought her hands to his face—to his moist cheeks. She moaned, parting her lips as she moved against him.
He dragged her backward, and she let him. She kept her eyes closed as she moved with him—moved against him—kissed him—tasted him. In the back of her mind, she was aware of the door slamming shut, and she was aware of them moving down a hallway. Every so often, one of them would be pushed up against the wall, their tongues darting out to taste the other. Portraits fell from the walls, and at least one vase was knocked over.
Marge didn’t care, and Victor clearly didn’t either.
Eventually, Marge was guided down to a large bed. Victor’s body encased hers—hovered over her—as he continued to kiss her passionately. Heat zapped through her blood and pooled in her lower belly. Without really thinking about it, she arched her hips up against his.
Victor shuddered and moaned in response.
“Marge,” he breathed brokenly, move his lips down her jaw, and then down her neck. He kissed her cleavage, his tongue licking her every so often.
She quivered, growing wet between her thighs. “Victor, take me. Please.”
He looked up at her, his eyes darkened. “You are certain?”
“Yes. More about this than anything else in my life.”
He nodded, understanding his expression. Then, tentatively, he snaked his arms behind her back. She arched up against him and let him undo the buttons and the ribbons that held her dress in place. Once that was taken care of, he helped her slipped and slide out of the material.
She was in nothing but her undergarments now, and as jittery as she was about this fact, she was still eager to lose these pieces of clothing, as well. Quivering, she began undoing the buttons and pulling off the rest of her clothing.
Her entire body tingled with awareness once she was completely naked. Panting, she watched Victor as he ravished her with his eyes. It made her squirm—made her grow hotter.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Please.”
Victor immediately lowered himself to her again, kissing her as his hand gently grabbed and massaged her left breast. Every so often, he ran his fingers over the nipple, making it hard.
She spread her legs wide and arched up against him again. “More,” she begged. “More, Victor.”
“Yes,” he whispered back, shakily taking off his jacket, and then the rest of his clothing.
Marge eagerly helped him—practically ripping some of the clothing off of him.
She cringed when she heard the first tear she made. “I’m sorry, I—”
“God, don’t be,” he said, bowing down to nip her ear. “I want you to wreck me.”
She laughed at that, for it sounded absurd. She wanted nothing but love and passion, not destruction. She didn’t quite understand what he was asking for. But he laughed along with her, and as they continued to undress him, their lovemaking became more playful in nature. He would nip and nibble at her neck while she would occasionally spank him—make buck and moan.
Soon, they were both naked, and Marge was once again on her back as Victor bit her lower lip. She hadn’t realized they were moving together until his fingers fluttered down her sides, over her thigh, and then over her most sensitive flesh. She stopped moving then and widened her legs.
“Please,” she whimpered. She could feel her tender flesh throbbing with need—burning her, making her ace. “Victor.”
Gently, he pressed one finger against her clit and massaged it. Pleasure rose within her, making her claw the sheets.
“More,” she begged.
Victor used two fingers now to rub her clit. His motion was slow at first—torturously so—and then it increased in speed. Her body flushed and trembled as her pleasure grew to overwhelming heights. She moaned loudly, tears streaming from her eyes.
“So close,” she moaned. “God, so close.”
Then, just as she was reaching the edge of her orgasm, Victor pulled his fingers away.
Marge cried out with frustration.
“Patience, love,” Victor whispered, sounding far too amused for her liking. “I’ll take care of you.”
Impatient, Marge groan
ed and looked down to see what exactly he was doing. Her eyes widened when she saw how large and how hard his member was. He grabbed and maneuvered his hips so that the tip of his length was pressing against her core. Marge waited with baited breath as Victor slowly pushed himself inside of her. Gently, he pushed himself deeper and deeper into her moist folds.
“You ready?” he asked, voice strained.
Marge stared up at him. His eyes were wide with lust, his skin flushed, but he was holding back; he was being tender. She smiled warmly at him and nodded. “Yes.”
Clearly relieved, Victor began pumping in and out of her. At first, it felt strange to Marge, but the more Victor thrusted his length into her, the hotter she felt. Soon, she was moaning and crying his name, the pleasure overwhelming.
As she went limp beneath him, she felt his hot seed shoot inside her. He shook and groaned, his motion slowing more and more until he was collapsing on top of her. He felt his hot breath against her neck as he panted.
In the back of her mind, a sense of horror began creeping over her, but she fought it back. If she was going to go to Hell for her actions, so be it; right now, she just wanted to revel in the aftermath of her ecstasy with Victor.
Marge turned her head and kissed his cheek. She may regret a lot of things, but she didn’t think she could ever fully regret being with him.
Chapter 4
A week later, Merriweather returned home. When one of the servants announced his presence, Marge had gone cold while the rest of the family had hurried toward the entryway. Knowing she couldn’t actually hide from her husband, she eventually forced herself to move toward the sounds people stoically greeting one another.
Rationally, Marge knew that there was no way Merriweather could know of her infidelity, but the thought of facing him—her victim, in the eyes of the Lord—terrified her. What if he could somehow tell there was something different about her? Though they hadn’t really gotten to know one another before their wedding, Merriweather was still a very observant and intelligent man. Her parents hadn’t arranged the marriage only because he was a duke, but also because he was an impressive man, by himself. Her mother once claimed that Merriweather Patterson was a genius.