Winter’s Desire

by Amanda McIntyre, Charlotte Featherstone

  “I’ve brought a luncheon basket,” she said, deftly changing the subject. “Are you hungry?”

  “A bit. How was your walk over? Pleasant, I hope.”

  “Quite so. I’m fond of outdoor exercise. I try and take a daily turn about the grounds, regardless of the weather.”

  “Very good. Would you like to sit?” He gestured toward the wooden trestle table beside the stove.

  “Thank you, I would.” She bent to retrieve the basket.

  “No, let me,” Will said, hurrying to take it from her.

  “Goodness, Will, how long must this go on? This polite chitchat, I mean. We’ve known each other in the most intimate fashion, and yet here we are, acting like complete strangers. I suppose next we’ll discuss the weather.”

  “I can’t help but feel that I didn’t quite court you before…well, before I took advantage of—”

  “You didn’t take advantage of me, Will Cooper,” she snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions where men are concerned, and I wouldn’t have let you into my drawers if I hadn’t wanted you there. I told you I wasn’t a virgin, and I can only assume that neither were you.”

  He nodded. “You assume correctly.”

  “Then what harm is there in two consenting, experienced adults taking pleasure in one another?”

  Good God, just how experienced was she? For a moment, he wondered if he was simply a pawn in some game she played with men. “Is that all it was to you, Aisling? Because I must confess that I’m finding myself conflicted about it. I’m not certain I feel comfortable considering you nothing but an easy fuck.” He wanted to shock her this time, but her indifferent expression proved him unsuccessful. “It was more than that, and you know it. But I’d like to get to know you better, before I ravish you again. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  He could have sworn he saw a tear there, fluttering on her lashes, but she quickly blinked it away.

  “Do you like ham?” she asked, changing the subject once more as she headed toward the table. “I’ve also brought bread and cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of wine. I had no idea what you might like.”

  He followed her, setting the basket down in the table’s center. “It all sounds delicious. Are you warm enough? I can make the stove hotter, if you’d like.”

  “I’m perfectly warm, thank you. Here—” she removed the cloth from atop the basket, and pulled out two delicate, china plates followed by cut-glass wine goblets “—I had to lure poor Cook out of the kitchen before I packed the basket. I hope I didn’t forget anything. Here’s a corkscrew.”

  Will took it and saw to uncorking the wine, a fine bottle of French merlot, then poured a generous amount into each glass as Aisling set out the food on a thick damask cloth.

  “Now,” she said, taking a knife and slicing the rind off a wedge of cheese. “What would you like to know about me before you can ravish me with a clear conscience?”

  “Well, if you insist on putting it that way.” Will shook his head, trying not to look as eager as he felt. “Hmm, let’s see. Do you read much?”

  “Of course,” she answered with a shrug. “Do you?”

  “Incessantly,” he said with a smile, reaching for the long loaf of crusty bread and breaking it in two. “Though it would appear your brother does not approve of my tastes. I lent him a copy of Forster’s newest, and he actually had the nerve to call it rubbish.”

  “Jack wouldn’t know fine literature if it whacked him in the head. Anyway, he’s not one for novels.” Aisling handed him a chunk of cheese. “I’m surprised he even made the effort.”

  Will frowned. “Truly, I don’t think he made much of an effort at all, the lazy bastard. If you’ll pardon my language.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ve called him much worse.” Aisling took a sip of wine, her eyes meeting his over the rim of her glass. She set the goblet back down with a mischievous smile.

  All Will could think about was taking her in his arms, touching her, kissing her. Instead, he remained seated across from her, doing everything in his power to resist his urges, to tamp down the need that seemed to grow and blossom with every moment spent in her company.

  “Anything else you’d like to know?” she asked, drawing him from his thoughts. Her thickly lashed hazel eyes were positively glowing now, her cheeks growing pink from the heat of the stove and perhaps the wine. How long could he last, sitting there without touching her, without feeling her smooth, warm skin against his?

  Not long, he realized. Despising his own weakness, he reached across the table and took one of her slim hands in his, rubbing slow circles on her palm with the pad of his thumb. Almost as if such an intimacy was foreign to her, she glanced down at their joined hands with wide eyes, her lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.

  “Surprise me,” he said softly. “What would you like me to know about you?”

  For a moment, Aisling couldn’t speak as she considered his question. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry and parched despite the wine. “I…I’m not right. My heart, I mean. My feelings,” she clarified, knowing she wasn’t making a bit of sense. “I don’t…don’t feel things like other women do.”

  She expected him to laugh at her, to make a joke of her confession. Instead, the warmth, the understanding there in Will’s eyes nearly took her breath away. “How can you be sure what other women feel, Aisling?” he asked, his voice so very gentle, so caring.

  It all spilled out in a rush. “Because I know. I listen, I read. Passion and hate and love…all those emotions mean nothing to me. I read about them in books, I even write about them in my own stories. But it’s…it’s all a sham. I’ve no firsthand knowledge of any of it.”

  He spoke slowly, cautiously, as if he was carefully considering each word. “Perhaps it’s only that you’ve never really had the opportunity to live yet. At least, not your own life. You’ve been stuck up here in Bedlington all this time, living the life your parents have chosen for you. You’re Sir Reginald Wainscott’s daughter, Jack Wainscott’s sister, Lady Wainscott’s daughter. Perhaps once you’ve had the chance to live your life—Aisling’s life—things will feel differently.”

  She shook her head, suddenly overwhelmed with despair. “Don’t you see? I haven’t a choice. Until I marry and become someone’s wife, I’ll just remain my parents’ daughter. That’s all I can ever be, nothing more than that. Just someone’s possession.”

  “Why not? You defy convention in so many ways as it is.”

  Closing her eyes, she inhaled sharply. “In small ways, that’s all. None of it changes anything. This…this feeling between you and me, whatever it is, it’s the first thing I’ve done that feels as if it’s truly mine, my own decision.” She opened her eyes, focusing on their still-joined hands, refusing to meet his gaze, fearing what she might see there.

  “What about your writing? No one knows but Jack, you said. It’s your own, isn’t it? Something you do for you and you alone.”

  “And for the money,” she murmured.

  “What will you do with the money?”

  “I’ve no idea. I always tell myself that the money will someday buy my freedom, but I haven’t thought much beyond that.”

  “Well, then, that’s a start, isn’t it?”

  “Do you know about Mrs. Gaylord?” she blurted out, then immediately wished she could take back the words.

  “You mean your father’s—” he cleared his throat loudly “—I meant to say, Charles Gaylord’s widow? The London socialite?”

  Aisling rolled her eyes. “Go on and say it—my father’s mistress. Everyone in London knows—you must know, as well.”

  “I spend very little time in London.” He was hedging, she realized.

  “Take my word for it, then. Everyone knows.”

  “And what if they do? Your father is by no means the only man in England to take a mistress. Besides, isn’t it almost fashionable with your set to do so?” He took no pains to disguise the disgust in his voice.

&nb
sp; “I suppose so, though most men are discreet. It’s more common in marriages of convenience, but my mother…well, she loves him. Desperately. I hear her crying at night, you know. He takes no pains to hide his relationship from society, but if my mother were to even mention it, she would be considered vulgar. She would be the outcast, not him. It’s so unfair.”

  He reached across the table and took her chin between his forefinger and thumb, tipping her gaze up to meet his. “And this is why you’ve remained unmarried, isn’t it?”

  She shook her head, surprised once more to find her eyes strangely damp. Whatever was the matter with her? “No. Yes, perhaps. Oh, I don’t know!” she cried, snatching back her hand.

  “Perhaps it’s just that you’ve never met the right sort of man—the sort who would treat you as his partner and not as some possession,” he said, hitting so close to the truth that Aisling’s breath caught in her throat.

  My winter’s desire.

  She took a deep, fortifying breath, willing her racing heart to slow. “I think you’ve been reading too much of Forster’s work.”

  He laughed then, a soft, gentle laugh. “Perhaps. To think, all those years I had no idea what lay under that tough exterior of yours. I’m not sure you knew, either.”

  Aisling eyed him sharply. “Are you calling me weak? The weaker sex, is that it?”

  “There’s nothing weak about you, Aisling. Here, would you like some more bread? More wine, perhaps?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not very hungry, after all.”

  He rose, nodding. “Nor I. Aisling, I…damn it, I don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to do the gentlemanly thing and walk out of here today without further complicating your life. But the other part, well, suffice it to say that that one inch of bare skin above your collar is just about enough to send me over the edge.”

  Aisling stood, entirely sure of what she wanted. With fingers that remained mercifully steady, she started unbuttoning the row of tiny buttons that began at her throat.

  Will watched her, unmoving, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, could see the heat there in his pale, piercing eyes. A muscle in his jaw flexed perceptibly.

  “Stop,” he called out, and her fingers froze. “Wait. I don’t want you to do this just to prove your independence.”

  “That’s not why I’m doing it,” Aisling said, shaking her head.

  “Then why?” he asked, raking a hand through his hair.

  As she considered the question, Aisling’s gaze traveled from the top of Will’s head, where his mussed brown hair fell in soft waves that brushed the back of his collar, down to his brown coat and striped vest, to his matching brown trousers and scuffed shoes. As she watched, he reached up to straighten his necktie—or to loosen it, perhaps.

  She was keenly aware of his situation, far too aware. He was Celia Cooper’s son—Celia, with her reddened cheeks and even redder hands, her simple good looks faded with the strain of hard work, of hard living, of disappointment. Somehow she had purchased her own modest cottage in the village, years ago, but still she took in washing and sewing, or hired herself out when needed. No one could keep linens as crisp and white as Mrs. Cooper, rumor had it.

  No man had given Will his name, and no one but Celia Cooper knew exactly who had sired him, though there were plenty of rumors. Still, he’d managed to secure a gentleman’s education, a respectable position at a prestigious university. Though his hands were as rough as his mother’s, his speech was polished and refined. And what’s more, her own brother trusted him, respected him, treated him as his equal.

  And yet all of that would make no difference if anyone were to find out what she and Will had done last night in Jack’s office, or what they were about to do now, here in the cottage. Everyone would be shocked—horrified, even. Was that why she wanted it so badly? Was it simply yet another form of rebellion? Or was it something else? Something more organic? She took a deep breath, willing her mind to speak the truth.

  Suddenly she was sure of her answer, entirely so—more sure of it than anything else in her life. As to the consequences, well…she would not think of that now. She couldn’t.

  “It’s you, Will. You. That’s why I’m doing it. I cannot say why, cannot explain it, not really. Perhaps in my heart I’ve always known it, always felt it. And then yesterday…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

  “You should know that I feel the same, Aisling. Precisely the same. Most men would take any woman who offered herself willingly, and I cannot pretend to be any different from them. But in this case…it’s different. You’re different. I hope I’ve made that clear.”

  Aisling just nodded.

  Will smiled, then hurriedly set about pulling closed the cottage’s worn drapes. “Now,” he said once he’d finished the task and turned back toward her. “Feel free to continue what you were doing before I so stupidly interrupted you.”

  Aisling couldn’t help but laugh. “You mean…undressing myself?”

  “Yes, precisely that.” He gestured toward the buttons at her throat, now half-undone.

  “And you’ll…what? Simply watch?” she teased, feeling suddenly bold.

  “I thought I might. Simply watch, that is. Unless you’d prefer that I join you.”

  “I think I’d prefer your full attention, if you don’t mind.” She reached up and found the remaining buttons on her blouse, her fingers positively flying over them.

  “Trust me, I don’t mind in the least. You’ve no idea how little sleep I got last night, trying to imagine you naked. As satisfactory as I found our encounter in Jack’s study, I was cheated of seeing what lay beneath that dress of yours. I won’t deny myself that pleasure today.”

  Aisling felt her cheeks warm, felt her pulse leap as Will’s gaze swept over her. The raw lust in his admiring gaze made her breath hitch, made her fingers work faster ’til her blouse fell fully open. She made quick work of her belt, then reached around to unfasten her skirt and untie her petticoat, dropping them both to the floor. In seconds she stood in nothing but her remaining underthings—her combinations, corset and stockings—her slippers discarded by the puddled folds of her clothing.

  “More?” she asked, though she knew full well the answer.

  “Definitely more,” he answered, closing the distance between them. He reached out to trail his fingers down her arm, drawing gooseflesh in their wake. His breath was warm against her neck, coming as fast as hers now.

  “Then you must do the rest. Go on, Will. Undress me,” she whispered, feeling much like a character in one of her naughty stories.

  “Oh, I shall take great pleasure in doing exactly that,” he answered, reaching around her to find her pale pink corset’s lacings and tug hard at them.

  Aisling held her breath in anticipation, near desperate to feel his hands against her bare skin.

  5

  IT ONLY TOOK TWO TUGS ON AISLING’S CORSET lacings to loosen them, and a moment later the garment slipped to the floor with a decidedly loud thump. Next came some unidentifiable undergarment, a one-piece combination of vest and knickers, ending just above her knees. Damn the layers—he’d never get her naked at this rate.

  She tipped her chin in the air, meeting his gaze as he hooked his thumbs beneath the shoulder straps and eased the garment down, inch by inch, first revealing the gentle, creamy white swell of her breasts, followed by dusty-pink nipples that pebbled when the fabric slipped over them. With a groan, he bent to lick one rosy tip, his cock now straining against the flap of his trousers.

  She swayed against him, a small moan escaping her lips as he took her entire nipple into his mouth, suckling her now, increasing the pressure as his hands cupped her breasts—firm, round breasts, and surprisingly full. She smelled so sweet, like sugared violets, and tasted even better.

  Fearing he might spend himself then and there, he pulled away, continuing to push down the troublesome undergarment—past her waist, her hips, until he
r dark curls, already damp with need, were exposed. Lower still he tugged the fabric, resisting the urge to bury his face in her curls ’til he had her fully naked.

  At last the garment dropped to the floor, leaving nothing but her stockings to dispense with. Easy, he thought, untying her silk garters and tossing them aside. His fingers brushed her thigh, smooth as the finest silk, as he reached for one stocking’s top. Taking his time, he knelt and pressed his lips to her skin as the stocking bared it, his mouth following the trail down past her knee, to her ankle. With the grace of a dancer, she lifted one foot, her toes pointed toward the ground, and allowed him to slip off the stocking.

  One more to go and she’d be entirely bare, he realized, blood thrumming hotly through his veins. The anticipation, the need…it was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, making his breath come fast, his heart thumping noisily against his ribs. Slowly, he commanded himself, wanting to savor every moment.

  This time he allowed himself more time to discover her soft thighs, to part them gently as his mouth explored the skin just above her stocking’s top. As he rolled it down and slipped it off her foot, his fingers moved higher, to her cunt, searching for the little knot of flesh hidden in her curls.

  He knew he’d found it when he heard her gasp, her entire body going rigid beneath his hands. At once his mouth replaced his fingers. The tip of his tongue danced across the hard bud, teasing it until she cried out, clutching fistfuls of his hair.

  “Do you like that?” he asked, looking up to see her bite her lower lip, her head thrown back.

  “Oh, yes. Yes!” she answered breathlessly. “But you must stop, you must…I mean, not yet. I want you naked, too. Now,” she added, tugging him to his feet.

  “Very well.” He stood, ready to oblige her. He couldn’t help but stare at her, transfixed, as he undid his necktie—marveling at her figure, at her posture as she stood there, entirely bared to him. She displayed no maidenly shyness whatsoever, made no effort to cover herself as she watched him unbutton his coat, then his waistcoat, and shrug out of both.