The Sins of Lord Easterbrook

by Madeline Hunter

  She was beautiful. More beautiful than he had imagined when his mind had stripped her in the years since they met.

  Her full breasts rose, round and firm, their dark tips tight and provocative. He traced his fingers around those swells, then down along the curve of her waist to the flare of her hip. He splayed his hand over her stomach, enjoying the contrast of her glossy soft skin against his palms.

  He dipped his head and kissed the side of one breast, then its hard nipple. She flexed sensually from the sensation and her gaze turned smoky.

  “You are perfect,” he said. He enjoyed no special advantage with her, other than the immediate connection that formed whenever their gazes met and the spiritual intimacy that sexuality created. He explored a mystery like any other man did when he gave her pleasure, and had to rely on instincts more primitive than in the past. The sheer normalcy of it fascinated him, as did the discovery that the less secure sensing could be more profound than the literal one.

  Her naked body luxuriated in his caresses. An indescribable expression softened her face. He saw the pleasure in her. Felt it. And as she became more lost, more abandoned, he sensed it.

  No fear. No holding back. She embraced more than his body. A deeper closeness existed in their mutual desire and warmth, in her cries and yielding. A state akin to the dark center formed, only she was in it too. It was not selfless and empty but full of need and it tremored with the ecstasy waiting.

  He pulled off his clothes while he kissed her soft curves. He flicked his tongue on her nipple until she cried out. He used his mouth and hand to take her deeper into madness. He wanted her screaming from the pleasure, begging for him, so that his possession would be complete when she gave herself and she would never again question how it must be.

  His own body tightened with each indication of her arousal. The darkness closed in more. He spread her legs and knelt between them and gazed down at her. She looked so erotic that his jaw clenched against the fury throbbing in him.

  Her lids rose, revealing glistening, enraptured eyes. She watched as he extended his arms and smoothed his hands down her shoulders and around her breasts. They were fuller now, tighter, and extremely sensitive as she approached her climax.

  She watched his hands and her breath shortened. She arched when he gently teased her nipples and she whimpered softly in her need. He caressed down her hips to where her thighs were parted near his knees. Moisture sparkled on dark hair around soft, pink flesh that her vulnerable pose made visible.

  She did not try to contain her delirium at all. She gasped with his first touch, then descended into cries while he stroked in ways that he knew would make her cry even more.

  A thundering pulse beat stronger and stronger and the darkness obscured every thought except the urge to have her. He made her come so any pain would not matter as much, then pressed his erection into her. He lowered his body into her arms and eased into her tight passage.

  Her body resisted. Even the throes of her release did not obscure her pain. He gritted his teeth and waited for the worst to pass. He lifted one of her knees to the crook above his hip to open her and ease it for her.

  Her hot breaths panted against his chest. He moved carefully, restraining the driving urge to ram deep and hard. She slowly relaxed, opened, accepted. She looked up at him, into his eyes, and captivated him with the wonder in her own.

  The dark center grew then. Nothing existed in it but the sensation of her flesh against his and the howling pleasure and the awareness of two climbing to ecstasy together.

  The whole world split apart. His mind disappeared for a long, black moment of bliss. The center did not shatter, however. Instead it absorbed everything, in a fulfillment that he had been promised since the first time he had looked into her deep, dark eyes.

  She did not want to return to herself. It was too pleasant floating like this, somewhere above the world, surrounded by his arms and nothing else at all.

  The intimacy soothed her. It deepened as his scent and warmth entered her head. His heartbeat sounded in her ears, quieter now, no longer the escalating rhythm of hot blood seeking a conflagration.

  Slowly she grew aware of her nakedness in the cool breeze of early evening. She noticed how her face pressed against his chest and the encompassing nature of his embrace. She felt small against him, but not as vulnerable as when he was in her and his power flowed unchecked, commanding surrenders that she had not expected.

  She opened her eyes and looked down his body. In the heat of her sensual abandon she had not really noticed when he undressed. Nor had she been shocked to see him without clothes kneeling above her, his dark hair framing eyes that all but scorched when he looked at her. Now his nakedness made her blink, and become more aware yet. His body reminded her in very frank ways of the implications of what she had just done.

  Her contentment did not permit much thought about that now. The world and its rules would not be denied, but she did not have to invite it into this chamber yet. She let her gaze meander down his flat stomach to the dark curls and soft phallus, and on to the legs, one half bent. He had very nice legs, she decided. Well formed, with dark hair covering lean, taut muscles.

  She shifted, seeking more closeness to his warmth. She felt moisture on her stomach and legs. She looked at her own body, and the streak of blood on her thigh.

  A memory came to her, of an instant of surprise when he withdrew from her as the climax broke in him. Her own mindless state had permitted no more than the briefest sense of loss, and the smallest relief that he had been more careful with her future than she had been.

  Her head rose and fell on his inhales and exhales. They came so regularly that he might be sleeping. Or meditating. Only he wasn't. His hand kept touching her head, his fingers languidly penetrating her topknot in a charming, comforting touch.

  “Do you sleep, Leona?”

  She turned her body so she could see his face. Her topknot tilted, then sagged to her shoulder. She spied a stack of hairpins on her pillow. She plucked at one more that dangled near her eye. Her hair tumbled more.

  “Kneel so I can see you,” he said.

  As she did so her hair fell around her body, a chaotic mass of curls that made Branca curse when she was a girl. She drew a corner of the sheet to her body, to cover what the hair did not.

  His arm reached out. A fine arm, revealing more strength than his tall, lean form implied in garments. The same tight muscularity could be seen in his shoulders and torso. For a recluse he appeared surprisingly athletic.

  He plucked at the edge of the sheet and peeled it away. Their nakedness suddenly made her shy. It was one thing in the frenzy of desire, and another in the cool light of day when rationality returned.

  “You are perfect,” he said. “I always knew that you would be.”

  His gaze almost made her believe him, even though she knew she was not perfect. Not nearly so. She certainly was not fashionably pretty, especially here in London. Now, after what they had shared, he saw her through very kind eyes.

  His words touched her, and not because of the flattery. He alluded to the past, and to the time apart. It would be nice to believe that she had not fallen from his memory all those years, only to reenter it when he saw her name on the calling card given to his aunt that day.

  “You must come to Grosvenor Square, as my aunt's guest. I will send the servants to move your belongings tomorrow.”

  “That would not be wise. You have announced your interest in me. If I now live in that house, everyone will think—everyone will know that—”

  The objection sounded silly even to her own ears. Everyone would think and know what they already thought and knew. Except it was not really silly at all.

  “I do not want society's heralds to announce me as your mistress. I do not want that kind of notoriety. It would not be wise for me to be that indiscreet, or that dependent.”

  He did not care for her resistance. But then he was Easterbrook, and a man, and did not care what anyone th
ought. “So you are going to force me to slip in your door, and leave before dawn? I would much prefer if you were up the stairs or down the corridor.”

  “I am sure that you would. Then you could go back to your old habits, content in knowing that your pleasure could be had with little inconvenience.” She bent and kissed him. “I know that attending those parties did not suit you. I am flattered that you wanted me enough to bother. I will not join you in that isolation, however. I am of the world, and have responsibilities that require I remain in it, and that I take some care with my reputation.”

  “That is a damned excuse.” His attention sharpened on her eyes. “You do not want me sure of you, that is what you really mean. You do not want to admit that you are mine. It is not society with whom you want to dissemble. It is with me and it is with yourself.”

  His accusation pierced her with its truth. Rather suddenly the playful negotiations ended and more serious ones began. “I cannot be yours because you cannot be mine. Or do you assume such things only go one way?”

  “I think that we are both incapable of denying how this will be.”

  “One afternoon of passion does not make the bonds you describe, and I am mature enough to accept that. Nor do a few months of pleasure, if we meet like this in the weeks ahead.”

  His expression found a severe beauty at her allusion to her eventual departure from England.

  That magnetic, invasive aura flowed from him. His gaze searched, as if he tried to read her thoughts. She instantly hid them away, from him and herself.

  He took her hand and tugged her into his embrace. He rolled until she was on her back and he was braced above her, looking down. “And here I thought that you had surrendered completely. It appears that I will have to do better yet, when we meet like this in the weeks ahead, Leona.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Vague sounds of London wakening entered with the breeze. Christian listened to the distant rumble of the first carriages and carts making their way down the streets.

  Leona slept in his arms. He derived enormous contentment in her femininity and softness. He could stay like this all day most likely. There had been little sleep last night and she was dead to the world.

  The pleasure had been very good. Whether it was good enough remained to be seen. He did not want any more of her ambiguities about how it would be between them. He would rather not propose a formal arrangement, but he would if that was what she wanted.

  Perhaps it was. She had spoken of security when they argued about Pedro. Right now her only security came from her place in her brother's home.

  He was an idiot. Of course a woman would worry about that. Especially Leona, who had known so much insecurity while her father's business wobbled under the onslaught of those ruinous setbacks when she was a girl.

  He looked down at her dreamy expression. Her cheek pressed his chest. He could see long, dark eyelashes and the subtle parting of her full lips. Her raven curls tumbled over his arm and shoulder.

  Some birds alighted on the tree outside the open window. Their song rang in the bedchamber. A little mumble provided a base line to the music. He closed his eyes and focused on that deeper sound.

  It was human, and part of it entered him inaudibly He had experienced an absence of all such intrusions for hours now, since he entered this house.

  He realized it came from the garden below the window. He eased away from Leona and rose from the bed. He went to the window and looked out.

  Isabella was down there, in a simple qipao. Her black hair hung long and straight, an indication that she had just risen. She spoke quietly to two men, but her agitated gestures made the broad sleeves of her garment fly around her.

  The three looked to be arguing. Heads together, they spoke so lowly that little more than that annoying buzz reached the window.

  “What in the name of Zeus are you doing down there, Phippen?”

  Shock. Alarm. Three faces turned up to him. Phippen froze, then scurried behind Miller and peered at the window from behind his shield.

  Miller smiled, being a young man too callow to know when he was about to die. “We are sorry if we woke you, my lord. But it may be just as well. The maid here refused to intrude.”

  “That is because she knows how very grievously it would displease me if she did. Being a proper servant, she knows the importance of discretion and the value of being invisible.”

  Phippen's eyes grew wide. Miller's smile trembled just enough. “Nothing short of a serious matter would ever cause us to be here, sir. Last night word for you came from your brother, Lord Hayden.”

  Hayden would only send word in the dead of night for one reason. “Is it over? Is it done?”

  “Yes, my lord. Lady Alexia has given birth and—”

  “Is she well? Is the child well?”

  “Yes, my lord. We waited to see if you would return last night. When you did not, I told Phippen here that we should try to find you since you have been waiting for this news and—my apologies, but I guessed that you might be here.”

  “Good man. Phippen, come up here. Help Isabella prepare baths. Miller, go to Hayden's house and tell him I will be there forthwith.”

  He turned from the window to find Leona sitting up in bed. She wore a puzzled frown.

  “Why are you shouting out the window?”

  “I was not shouting.”

  “You were at the end. All of the neighbors probably heard. You probably woke them. You certainly woke me.” She crawled off the bed and walked over, oblivious to her nakedness or his. She peered down. “Who was out there?”

  “My manservant and my valet.”

  “Is that customary? For your servants to follow you to the houses of your lovers?”

  “They came on a special mission.” He told her the good news about his new nephew. “Phippen will help Isabella with baths and such. We must hurry though. I want to leave within the hour.”

  “We?”

  “I want to introduce you to Alexia. You will like her.”

  She looked at him as if he were mad. Or at least half so. “She just gave birth, Easterbrook. She does not want social calls from strangers.”

  “I am not a stranger. As for you, she will not mind. She will be happy to meet you. I am sure of it.” A scratch on the door drew his attention to both of their naked states. He grabbed his garments and pulled on his trousers. “I trust there is another chamber for Phippen and me to use. Tell Isabella to make haste.”

  He gave her a quick kiss, then threw open the door. Isabella startled at his sudden appearance, then lowered her eyes from his naked chest. He pushed past her and went looking for Phippen.

  A new lover and a new nephew. It had been a splendid night.

  Leona liked to think that she had acquired a worldly sophistication over the years. She knew that she had a talent for adapting to the varied mores found in other lands.

  She covered her hair and face when in countries where women were shrouded. She ate whatever food was served her at dinners even if she could not identify its exotic ingredients. She had negotiated with men of every color and religion, but had never tried to be other than a woman to them. The profits she offered bridged any chasms her sex might create, as long as she did not treat their customs and beliefs with scorn.

  London was not Macao. There were nuances of propriety that differed from home, even if both were European in essential ways. She had spotted those variances quickly, and done her best to respect the English way of doing things.

  All of which meant that as she and Easterbrook rolled down Hill Street in his coach, she was very, very certain that his bringing her along had been a bad idea. She did not look forward to what promised to be an extremely awkward introduction.

  She could not reason with him. He was all Easterbrook this morning, sure of his privileges and judgments, impatient with rules that applied only to lesser men. He had fairly dragged her into the carriage when she demurred.

  The servant at the doo
r took his hat and gloves and the mantlet she had worn against the morning damp. Phippen and Miller had brought fresh garments to her house, so Easterbrook looked his lordly best as they were escorted to the drawing room.

  He paced while they waited, absorbed in thought, so oblivious to her presence that she wondered why he had brought her. Finally a man joined them. Lord Hayden Rothwell, no doubt. He resembled his older brother in many ways, only his face possessed subtle differences that made it even more severe. Stern, actually.

  His gaze swept the room and settled on her for a long moment. Her stomach kicked. She braced herself for withering politeness at best.

  Then he smiled. It was a very small smile, but it transformed his countenance. She suspected it was not really a smile for her, but the joy of a new father simply having its way.

  “I am sorry I was not at home,” Christian said after greeting his brother. “I would have sat it out with you if I had known.”

  “It happened very fast. By the time I could send word, it was over.” Hayden looked at Leona, directing his brother's attention.

  Introductions were made. Lord Hayden was too good to ask what in the name of heaven she was doing there. She tried to smile in a way that conveyed her apologies.

  “Is Alexia awake?” Christian asked.

  “She is. She insisted that I bring you up.”

  “I will wait here,” Leona rushed to say. “Please give her my best wishes on the happy news.”

  “You may give them yourself. When Alexia learned my brother had brought you with him, she insisted on getting a look at you.”

  It was perhaps not the best turn of phrase, but probably an accurate one.

  “So, let us go,” Christian said. “I am impatient to see my nephew.”

  Lord Hayden had taken one step. He stopped and cocked his head. “Were you not told?”

  “Told what?”

  “It is a girl.”