She was looking past him, into the darkness. “But that would devastate my parents. All my life I was their only hope to elevate themselves in Society.”
“You marrying an earl doesn’t elevate them. Your father will still be a baron and you will be a countess eventually. Viscountess is not so bad, either.”
Her bottom lip quivered, and he felt like she was slipping away from him, like she was feeling that all hope was lost. He could not allow her to lose hope for them.
“Ellen, listen to me.” She turned large, luminous eyes up to him. “We can do this. We can satisfy your parents, and we can be wed. In time your parents will understand why we had to do this.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. Once they see how happy we are together they won’t possibly be able to deny us.”
A slow smile formed, and she hugged him tight. “Oh, Oliver. You don’t know how scared I’ve been. I can never marry Fieldhurst. Not when I love you so much.”
Their lips crashed together. This kiss was different than the other sweet kisses they’d shared. This was filled with longing and a passion that had swept upon them quickly, with desperation.
Oliver pulled away and took her hand. “Come,” he said and ran to the gazebo he had seen when he’d first snuck out to the garden. It was deep in the shadows, far enough off the path that no one would see them. Three curved, stone benches were perched inside the gazebo, protected from the elements.
Oliver shrugged out of his coat and spread it over the bench in the deepest of shadows. He could barely see Ellen, but he could hear her breathing and feel the heat coming off her skin. He took her hands again, and they sank to the bench, legs and knees touching. It was exhilarating being this close to her, this isolated with her. There was no one else close, no one to whom they had to be careful around. For the first time ever they were completely alone.
He leaned forward and found her lips with his, but suddenly kissing was not enough. Oliver was not ignorant of sexual relations. There had been the maid in the closet at Eton, although he didn’t go all the way with her because he’d lost his nerve. But they’d gotten far enough.
Ellen leaned back, burying her fingers in his waistcoat and pulling him forward until he way lying on top of her.
“Ellen,” he said through a thick throat. He throbbed. He hurt so badly that it was uncomfortable.
“I want this, Oliver. I want you to be the one to do this.”
Her words gave him pause. “Don’t you want to wait until we get married?”
She shook her head. He could barely see the motion through the darkness. “What does it matter if it’s tonight or after we wed? I want it now. I want you now.”
He was powerless to deny her. Powerless against the raging need inside of him.
He kissed her until her breath became his, until he was breathing only her. He kissed her until they were both panting and she was whimpering. She took his hand and placed it on her breast. He froze, looking down at his hand cupping her roundness. He swallowed.
“Ellen.”
She placed her hand over his, and he closed his eyes. His cock was so painful. He’d never been this uncomfortable before.
“I-I’m not sure what to do,” she whispered, looking up at him with those big, dark eyes.
“Ellen… This might hurt. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Will it hurt terribly?”
“I don’t think so.” He didn’t know for sure, only that it could hurt for the first time for the woman.
She raised her chin. “I don’t care. I want this, Oliver. I want to do this.”
He thought to object, to demand that they do this the correct way, after they were wed. But his mind was befuddled and his cock was overriding any other thought that he had and his hand was burning as it held her breast.
She slid her hand off his and slowly lowered it down her body. He watched her hand stop between them, at their pelvises. She turned her hand over and cupped his stiff cock. On their own, his hips pushed his cock into her hand, and he hissed in a breath.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“No. God, no. Well, yes. But in a good way.” He was gritting his teeth, forcing himself to stop pumping into her hand lest this was all over before it even began.
“What do we do now?” she whispered.
He rolled to his side, careful not to fall off the bench, and inched her skirts up. Their rustling seemed so loud in the silence, and she watched him with unblinking eyes.
He touched her thigh, and she drew in a breath.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
She shook her head and licked her lips.
He inched his hand up her leg until he was at the apex of her thighs, touching the crisp curls there. They were wet, and she spread her legs wider, silently inviting him in.
Gently he spread the folds that protected the very vulnerable essence of her and touched the hidden nub.
She gasped, and his gaze flew to her, afraid that he’d already hurt her, but she didn’t seem to be in pain. Quite the opposite, actually. Emboldened, he flicked again, then rubbed, applying more pressure.
A small cry escaped her, and she arched her back. “Oh my,” she whispered. “I didn’t…I didn’t know.”
Transfixed, he carefully watched her reactions, wanting to learn what made her happy. She liked to be rubbed…just…like…that.
Surprisingly, her back and hips came off the bench, and she cried out. Afraid that someone would hear, he swooped down and kissed her, swallowing her cries of passion. Panting, she thrust her hips into his hand, rubbing against his fingers until long moments later she settled down.
Nearly blind with passion and pain he released his cock with one hand and hovered over her. She was looking up at him, her lips moist, her chest still heaving.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded and he slid into her, closing his eyes as her passage enveloped him, squeezed him, and welcomed him.
“My God,” he whispered reverently. “Ellen.” He moved, pulling out, sliding back in.
Pulling.
Sliding.
Pulling.
Sliding.
She started to move with him in counterbalance. The friction was unbearable. Unbelievable. Magical.
He didn’t last nearly as long as he would have liked. His release came fast and powerful as spots danced before his eyes.
When he finished, he found that Ellen was holding him, her arms wrapped around him as she kissed the side of his neck and his cheek.
“Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She was smiling up at him. “It was… I fear I don’t have the right words. Wonderful. Marvelous?”
They grinned like lovesick fools, neither caring that a ball was taking place just through the trees and shadows. For now there was only them.
“When we’re married we will do this in a proper bed,” he said.
She touched his cheek, and he leaned his head into her fingers. “We have a lifetime, but only one first night, and it couldn’t have been more perfect.”
He kissed her palm. “What do we do now? I have my father’s carriage. We can run away now. Tonight.”
“Not tonight. I’d like to pack a few things. Prepare myself.”
“When then?”
“In two days. Give me two days.”
“Meet me under our tree in Hyde Park at midnight. I will arrange to go to Scotland where we can wed.”
“And then what?” she asked, her hand slipping from his. “Where do we live then?”
“I’ve been thinking of purchasing a townhouse. I have some money set aside. And then we can start our life together.” He gathered her in his arms and hugged her tight, as if he could crawl inside her. “I love you, Ellen, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together.”
She hugged him back. “I love you so much, Oliver, and we are going to have the best, happiest lives ever.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Please explain to me what we are doing again?” Ashland asked Oliver as he jogged up the steps beside him.
“We’re attending Needham’s lecture.” Oliver had deliberately kept their destination from Ashland, for fear his friend would balk and not attend, and Oliver did not want to do this alone. To be truthful, he didn’t know why he was here. What did he hope to accomplish? Why was he torturing himself?
Because he was curious about Needham, the man who had won Ellen’s heart, the heart that Oliver could not seem to keep.
But Ashland was no fool. He stopped in the middle of the steps to squint up at Oliver. “What? Are you mad?”
“If we don’t hurry we’ll be late.”
“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Ashland muttered as he followed Oliver into the Royal Academy building.
The room was crowded when they arrived, and Oliver chose a standing spot in the back by the door. Two assistants were already on the stage, standing beside what appeared to be a body lying on a table, covered with a bedsheet.
Needham appeared on the stage and conferred with his assistants. The physicians-in-training who were in the audience with Oliver and Ashland, quieted until silence reigned.
Someone coughed. Another shuffled his feet. There was an air of hushed expectation.
“Good God,” Ashland whispered when he realized what was about to happen.
The bedsheet was pulled away, and Needham began lecturing. Oliver listened to the rise and fall of Needham’s voice, reluctantly admitting that the man knew how to captivate an audience. He was like a maestro with an orchestra, the knife his baton.
The men around them frantically took notes in their books, their faces scrunched in concentration.
Ashland edged toward the door, but Oliver grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.
Needham cut into the body, and steam rose from the incision. All around him the pencils stopped scratching. Everyone paused, and it seemed as if a collective breath was held. Oliver looked at the men curiously. Eventually, one by one, they resumed their note-taking, but a few whispered among themselves.
Oliver looked back at Needham and the body and tried to remember the few things he’d learned in anatomy class at Eton. Something about dead bodies cooling to the temperature of the outside.
Oliver continued watching. What was he looking for? Something nefarious? Something that he could take back to Ellen and say this. This is why you can’t marry the man.
But there was nothing. Or was there?
He did not want to draw attention to himself and Ashland, so he waited for a break in the lecture and followed the other students out.
Ashland shot him a curious look but didn’t comment. Although he appeared a bit pale.
But Oliver wasn’t finished yet. He hung back as the rest of the students filed out. Some were discussing the autopsy. Some were discussing the events of the night before. Apparently, they all had gone drinking together and had visited a brothel.
One did not seem a part of the others. He was standing in the shadows, reading over his notes. Alone.
Oliver headed toward him, motioning Ashland to follow.
“Excuse me,” Oliver said.
The man looked up and squinted at Oliver as if he couldn’t see him properly.
“This is my first lecture with Sir Needham. Could I ask you a question?”
The man’s pencil was poised above his notes, and he seemed to hesitate, unwilling to be pulled away from his studies. Ashland hovered at Oliver’s elbow, no doubt wondering what Oliver was up to.
“Yes?” the man asked. He didn’t seem overly pleased to be speaking to Oliver.
“He’s quite fascinating, Sir Needham. This is my first autopsy and, forgive my ignorance, but do they all…” He waved his hand in the air as if he were too embarrassed to say what he wanted to say. “Well, it seemed quite warm, the body. I had thought that bodies cooled over time?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and he snapped his book of notes closed. “Sir Needham gets his bodies like all the other professors. Resurrectionists.”
“Ah. Of course. That makes sense.”
The man made a huffing sound and moved away to a different shadowy corner where he resumed reading his notes.
“What the hell was that about?” Ashland muttered.
“He seemed a bit irritated by my questions.”
“A fine physician he’ll make,” Ashland said.
Oliver looked around the small space where everyone seemed to have congregated. They were all talking quietly in small groups. Oliver didn’t feel comfortable walking up to them and interrupting. He was on to something. He knew he was.
Or you could be reaching. Wanting something to be wrong with Needham when really there is nothing.
“Pardon me.” The voice came from behind him, and Oliver spun around to find a man whom he had seen at the lecture standing behind him. “I heard you asking Smithson about the bodies.” The man lifted his chin to the person Oliver had originally approached. “He’s a strange one, Smithson. Doesn’t mingle with the rest of us. Very off-putting.”
“Quite,” Oliver mumbled.
“I’ve not seen you at one of Sir Needham’s lectures before,” the man said.
“I’m new. This is my first. And this is my assistant, Mr. Brown.”
Ashland glared at Oliver, but Oliver ignored him.
“I’m Mr. Lindsay, a student of Needham’s. And you are?”
“Taylor. Mr. Taylor. I’ve long been interested in becoming a physician and am finally pursuing my dream.”
Ashland snorted quietly and covered it up with a cough. Lindsay didn’t seem to notice. He was watching the rest of the men closely.
“I heard you asking Smithson about the bodies that Needham acquires.”
“I was just interested.”
“Most physicians get them from Resurrectionists, men who raid the public cemeteries. It’s quite profitable, if you have the wherewithal to do it.”
“And the others?”
Lindsay swung his attention back to Oliver. “The others?”
“You said most physicians. I’m assuming others find their bodies by other means?”
“No. Not really.” Lindsay’s gaze went to his fellow students, but they were still in their groups and talking quietly. Smithson was alone in his corner, reading over his notes.
“The thing is,” Lindsay said, lowering his voice. “Needham’s bodies seem rather fresh. The other physicians…well, their bodies are ripe, for lack of a better word. As if they’ve been dead for some time. Needham’s are not like that.”
“Maybe Needham pays the Resurrectionists more money to bring him fresher bodies.”
This all seemed wrong, talking about the dead like this, but Oliver wanted answers.
“Maybe,” Lindsay said. “But there is talk among us all. It’s just strange.”
At that moment they were called back to the lecture, and Lindsay hurried away to join the rest of the group.
Oliver and Ashland hung back, watching them file in.
“What do you think?” Ashland asked.
“I think Needham has a mysterious supply of fresh bodies.”
“It could be like you said. He pays the Resurrectionists more to bring him the newly dead.”
“It could be.”
Oliver followed the last of the crowd back into the viewing area. “Are we really staying for more?” Ashland asked a bit thinly.
“You may leave, if you can’t take it.”
Ashland stiffened his spine and marched in with him.
Oliver paid little attention to the rest of the lecture as Needham carved up the body and produced the various organs. Oliver paid more attention to Needham himself and his assistants. One would think that a physician’s assistant would be another physician. Or an apprentice, one learning the trade and about to embark on his own. But these assistants seemed different than the men in the viewing area.
They were harder in appearance, and they paid little attention to the lecture, hovering about and fetching as Needham called for it.
Toward the end of the lecture—or what he hoped was the end—Oliver touched Ashland’s arm and indicated his friend follow him out. He circled the building until they were at the back entrance, where one lone door led into the lecture hall. Oliver hung back in the shadows of some trees.
“Dare I ask what we are up to now?” Ashland asked.
“I’m waiting for the two assistants to leave.”
“May I ask why?”
“Did you notice them? They weren’t what I would consider appropriate assistants for such a noted surgeon as Needham. They seemed more like ruffians.”
They did not have to wait long. The two assistants, one short and bulky and the other tall and thin, emerged from the back door and immediately headed toward the street.
Oliver and Ashland followed at a good distance. The assistants did not speak to each other. The shorter one was continually looking around, as if assessing the area for danger. The taller one seemed oblivious.
They walked for some time, until they were at the edges of, “The East End,” Oliver whispered.
“Should we continue to follow?” Ashland asked.
Oliver plunged forward. Now that they were in the East End it was more difficult to keep the two in his sight, but he managed. They walked with purpose—no loitering here. It was far too dangerous—until they disappeared inside a home that butted up against several other homes, all tall and leaning in toward the street, blocking the sunlight.
Oliver made note of where the home was and then motioned for Ashland to follow him out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next day Oliver and Ashland sat in O’Leary’s office.
Oliver had a hunch that Needham’s two assistants were killing people in the East End to supply the doctor with the bodies necessary for his numerous autopsies. Needham was known as the brightest, most brilliant surgeon. Not only did he educate up-and-coming doctors on human anatomy, but he performed autopsies on his own, in private, to learn more about the way the human body worked.
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