Her eyes brightened with surprise.
“Any other questions?”
After studying his face a moment, she blurted, “When do we begin? Do I share your bed tonight?”
His hand shook, and he spilled some soup on his cravat. Immediately, she took her own napkin, wet it with her tongue, dashed around the table, and proceeded to clean up the spot.
“I had planned to borrow Rothespur’s hunting lodge,” he muttered, looking at her hand, then her face. “It’s only a day’s ride…but…” If she was eager to begin, there was no cause to delay. “If you are ready,” he continued, watching her attack his stain, “then, yes.” He cleared his throat. “We may proceed tonight.” He was aching for her. Truly in some agony to possess her completely.
“Then I have only one term I should like to add,” she said quietly. “Something you overlooked.”
Eyes narrowed, he studied her face in the candlelight. “Oh?”
“A date of termination, of course. We must have one of those. All contracts must.”
He wasn’t sure about that, but she sounded very certain. Why not agree, if that was her only demand?
“Very well. As you wish. An end date.”
“It would be for the best,” she replied evenly, returning to her chair. “I think until September, don’t you? When the leaves turn.”
Six weeks. Plenty of time, he thought, to get this out of his system. She was right; it was all very sensible to have a date of expiration. That way there would be no clinging from her, no dreadful scenes when it was over. Quite a civilized arrangement, really. Everything under control. He was glad of that—of her eagerness for pattern and structure—because he’d felt severely in danger of losing control lately when it came to this woman.
“You’re not going to ask me to play the pianoforte, are you?” she demanded suddenly.
“Ummm…no.” That was not something he had in mind, he mused.
“Good. Because I can play only one tune. ‘Sing a Song O’ Sixpence.’ Your sister taught me, and that was as far as our lessons ever progressed.”
He laughed, relaxing finally. “I can promise I will never make you entertain me with music.” There were plenty of other things he had in mind, however.
Between each course, Richards and the footmen returned to clear plates and bring new ones. As always, they were brisk and efficient, but the butler’s disdain moved in waves down the table, all directed at the former lady’s maid. Molly did very well in pretending not to notice, but she must have. She was very intuitive. Not that Richards made any attempt to hide his disapproval.
Molly ate every morsel and sent her profuse thanks to Mrs. Jakes at the conclusion of each course, but the best Richards could manage was a sharp twitch and a mumbled sound that could have been anything. Finally, the dessert was set before them, and Carver was amused to see his guest’s eyes grow even wider. Although she had, only moments before, declared herself “full to the brim,” she soon found a little more space for Mrs. Jakes’s famous pineapple tart.
“I never saw a pineapple until I came here,” she told him as the door closed again behind Richards. “When the crates came from the Everscham estate hothouse and Mrs. Jakes told me to get one out, I was almost afraid of it. A big ugly thing like a giant pinecone with spiky leaves and prickly bits.”
“Prickly bits?”
“Well, I thought they were prickly. It looked as if it might attack me.”
“Were you afraid of me too?” he teased.
She licked her fork. “No. You don’t have any prickly bits.”
“Oh, but I do.”
He watched her tongue wet her lips as it chased after the last pastry crumb. Discreetly, he repositioned himself beneath he table. “Will they attack me?” she asked.
“They might.” They wanted to right then. On the dining table. He’d never felt such a savage lust before. But she was a maid, he reminded himself yet again, and he must proceed carefully.
Even so, she didn’t look too concerned by the possibility of his prickly bits. “When is Lady Mercy coming home?”
Ah. “I do not know.” He’d had a visit from Viscount Grey earlier that week, insisting that he do something about his sister’s behavior, so he’d written to her. Apparently Grey’s father was eager to seek financial reparations if the engagement was called off. But if Grey was incapable of standing up to his own father, Carver knew he’d never survive marriage to Mercy.
“She could come back at any moment.”
“So?”
Molly lowered her voice. “What if she finds me here?”
Carver wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Allow me to worry about that.” It would be his business what he did with his sister’s former maid.
“She would be furious with me, and with you, your lordship.”
He pushed his chair back and stood, knuckles resting on the table. “My sister, I suspect, is in no position to question you or me about our sleeping arrangement.”
He watched her swallow. “Oh?” Her eyebrows knotted themselves in confusion. “Aren’t you angry with her?”
“I am.”
“You don’t look it, or sound it.”
He shrugged. “No point in wasting the effort until she comes back.” Besides, he was glad of his sister’s absence at that moment. His own selfish needs took precedence. Although he never allowed Mercy’s disapproval to prevent his affairs before, this time many things were different. Including the maidenly target of his seduction, who was currently sitting at his table, licking her fingers, and watching the remains of pineapple tart with an extremely lascivious glint in her soulful brown eyes.
She ought to be looking at him that way, not at the tart. Soon she would be. He’d teach her.
“Are you certain, Miss Robbins, that you wish to go through with this?” he exclaimed impatiently.
She paused, a finger between her lips. Slowly her eyes lifted to meet his, and the finger popped out of her mouth. “You may as well call me by my first name, don’t you think?”
He couldn’t tell whether she delayed on purpose. “Very well. Margaret…are you sure about this arrangement?”
Head tipped back, she appeared to be surveying the grand chandelier and carved ceiling medallion above it, as if she’d never noticed it before. “I suppose so,” she muttered finally. “If I must.”
“What?” Now he began to get annoyed. “You suppose?”
But then the Mouse twitched her nose, and the beginnings of a smile tentatively moved her lips. “Only teasing, your lordship. Do get a sense of humor.”
Sixteen
He carried her out of the dining room and across the hall. To her relief, the staff were all below stairs, and no one saw. Not that he would care. Carver Danforthe was accustomed to getting what he wanted and never troubled himself too much about propriety. His sister was the one who liked everything in its proper place.
“How many other women have you carried like this?” she asked.
“None.”
“For some reason I find that hard to believe, your lordship.”
He carried her along to his room at the end of the passage. The door was ajar, and he nudged it open with his shoulder. “I can assure you, I’ve never needed to carry a woman to my bed before.”
She frowned. “Why carry me then?”
“I rather got the impression you might suddenly make a run for it. You’ve made a habit of scuttling from me. Like any mouse.” There was the hint of a smile. “And shouldn’t you call me by my name now?” He dropped her to his bed and immediately shrugged out of his evening jacket.
Propped up on her elbows, she watched him stride back to the door and close it. “I’m not sure I can.”
“Why not?”
Molly screwed up her face. “It sounds…odd.” She didn’t think she’d ever be able to call him “Carver.” It wasn’t the sort of name one could say in the throes of passion. “I’ll think of something to call you.”
He grimaced. “No dou
bt you will.” He was unbuttoning his waistcoat, and suddenly the reality of their situation and what she’d agreed to become hit her like a hard slap across the face. It was about to happen. She was about to descend into the abyss she’d carefully stepped around all this time. Oh, Ma, what must you think of me? She’d tried to fight it, hadn’t she? But her heart would have its own way, and it turned out to be far stronger than her head when it came to this man. She’d decided at last that they would have their moment together. Why deny herself the pleasure? But she’d insisted on an expiration date for their arrangement. That way he would not grow bored with her, and for Molly, there would be no painful wondering when the axe would fall.
“Aren’t we going to have conversation?” she asked.
He pulled his shirt over his head, and she forgot about the abyss and her mother’s warnings. “About what?” he demanded.
She knelt up on the bed and reached for him, placing her palms against the firm planes of his naked chest. “Current affairs.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you want to talk about current affairs?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither. We’ll save that for next time.”
There was no backing out now. She’d signed his contract amendment. It was done and dusted, kippers and custard. As her father would have said. She hadn’t thought of her father for a while, she realized. Her mother’s memory was the dominant one. But her father crept in now with his quiet smile, and she felt his hand on her head, momentarily sheltering her from the sun’s heat on a summer’s day as they walked to church. She must have lost her bonnet that day, or refused to wear it. “Molly, Molly, sweet and jolly,” he’d sung to her in a low voice and then whispered, “Look at that pretty blue sky.” And he’d lifted her up, as if she could touch it if he held her high enough. Her mother, walking ahead, had looked back and shouted at him soon after to “put the child down, for pity’s sake, before you drop her.”
But Molly remembered she was laughing, enjoying the warm air on her face, her pudgy hand reaching up for that beautiful blue sky above them. She wasn’t in the least afraid.
Her father had appreciated the colors of life. Perhaps that was where she got it from and why her mother was always so irritable with her when she spoke her “dozy” thoughts aloud.
Carver was leaning over. “Kiss me, Margaret.”
“Is that an order, my lord?” A thrill rushed through her when she saw the urgency of his need written plain upon that darkly handsome face. This man wanted her. He wanted plain Molly Robbins. And badly.
It was a powerful feeling to know this. She’d expected to hate herself for being weak and giving in, but in fact, she felt stronger than ever, knowing the extent of his desire for her. She could reach for it now and hold it in her hand. Quite literally.
His lips hovered over hers, and as she fell back to the bed, he followed her down. “Yes. It is an order,” he whispered.
She lifted her face to his and let her lips caress his mouth. He was heavy, but it was not unpleasant to feel his body stretched over her, his hard thighs moving against hers. Buckskin against silk. He stroked her face, her neck, her bosom, and wherever his fingers went, his lips followed soon after.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered, but her hands were already stroking his manhood through his clothing, moving instinctively, exploring.
He lifted his hips to toss her skirt and petticoats upward, and then discovered her drawers. Apparently they pleased him. Glancing down, she saw he was already stripping his breeches, and the organ that protruded took her by surprise. Raised with so many brothers in a one-room cottage, she’d seen the male appendage before, of course, but never had it looked like this. Thick and tall and stretching even as she watched.
With his large hands, he tugged her drawers off, but left her stockings. She lay back, trying to compose herself, but that effort was soon abandoned when he touched her intimately, tenderly, and his warm fingers began a trembling exploration of her body. He lay beside her now, resting on one hip, fierce dark eyes watching his hand and then her reaction to it.
She squirmed, getting hotter, a wicked flame leaping to life in that part of her where he concentrated his steady, rhythmic strokes.
“Oh.” She closed her eyes and felt his lips on hers again, devouring her hungrily this time, savagely. Her spine arched as shivers raced through her.
His palm possessed her entire womanhood now, the heel of his hand exerting slight pressure. And then his finger slipped inside her just a little, just enough to make her gasp into his mouth.
He moved that fingertip within her.
“How long I’ve waited for this,” he whispered, kissing her chin as she arched and pressed her head back into the bed. “A great deal of want has built up in me, but I’ll try to be gentle.”
She moaned. “Do you think you’re the only one with want? I have more than you. You’ve had ways to release yours.”
A soft chuckle warmed the side of her throat as his lips traversed downward and his tongue lapped over a sensitive point below her ear. “Shall we see who wants more?” His finger moved deeper inside her, and then he added another. “How much of me do you want, Margaret? Tell me.”
But the waves of heat washing over her and through her made any speech impossible just then.
His hand stilled.
“More,” she cried out.
“Oh. More?”
“Yes!”
Slowly he resumed his fondling, but only with his fingertips now at the crest of her sex. “I might have known you’d be a demanding mistress.”
Molly opened her eyes. “The worst you’ve ever known,” she assured him solemnly. “Are you certain you can handle me?”
He laughed, kissed her bosom through her gown, and proceeded to quicken his strokes between her thighs. His breathing deepened, and she felt his phallus pressed to her hip. The thought of what he meant to do with that soon sent her over the edge into blissful oblivion.
Pleasure seized her. It began in the very core of her being and shot outward like the rays of the sun. She was burned by it, left breathless and quivering. His hand continued to hold her until she moved herself against his fingers, pushing for more.
“More?” he chuckled deeply.
“I warned you,” she gasped.
He knelt up on the bed and gestured for her to do the same. She waited impatiently while he tackled the hooks and laces of her garments. In her peripheral vision she watched his thigh next to her own, the hard muscle moving under the skin and the rough dark hairs of his body. At last, freed of her gown, stays, and petticoats, she lay back. Clad only in her transparent chemise and stockings, she somehow felt even naughtier than she would if she was naked in his presence. “Don’t throw it on the floor,” she admonished him. “Have you no respect for my work?”
He paused, the buttercup gown bunched in his fist, about to be consigned to the carpet.
“It took hundreds of hours to sew that gown,” she said, exaggerating only slightly.
“Then you are right, my dear Margaret.” He shook it out and laid it reverently over a nearby chair. “From now on I shall treat your gowns with greater care.”
“See that you do.”
He came back to the bed and crawled on all fours to where she sat up in a nest of his pillows. First he kissed her toes, then her knee, then the ribbon garter around her thigh. His hands slid under her, pulling her down the bed.
“Mind my hair!”
Apparently he didn’t care about the careful arrangement of curls on her head, for he buried his face between her thighs. Thus, she very quickly forgot about Mrs. Slater’s hairpins too.
Melting into his bed, she gazed up at the ceiling until her sight fogged over, and then she closed her eyes. Never had she known it was possible to feel this way, to know this much happiness. But as he lavished her with his full attention, her world was transformed. She went from hard-working, tired seamstress to pampered princess in just those few moments.
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br /> “Margaret,” he groaned, moving over her again, parting her thighs with his knees. “I hope you are ready. I can’t wait longer.” His lips closed around her left nipple, tugging through the lace chemise, not waiting to remove it.
She grasped his shoulders, silently assuring him of her own swelling need.
And then she felt his manhood against her inner thigh. It was rampant, hot steel.
“Is this what you want, Margaret?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” His voice was even deeper than usual. It left goose pimples across her skin, made her pulse race. “Here it comes.”
A moment of panic stalled her breath, but a sharp, startled exhale was pushed out of her in the next second as he thrust with his strong hips and her body opened around that forceful sword. Had he cleaved her in two? Perhaps.
But now he was half sheathed, paused there, the effort to restrain himself causing a slight tremble, beads of sweat breaking on his brow.
Molly stroked his shoulders and slowly slid her hands down his back to grasp his taut, hard backside.
“I want all of you,” she whispered, spreading her fingers and squeezing his buttock muscles. “All of you.”
He groaned and swung his hips again as she thrust with hers. Thus he claimed her fully at last.
***
Carver had never known the like of it. The woman who had played the meek, prim, disapproving miss for years suddenly transformed into a wildcat in his bed, insatiable and possibly untamable. Not that it would stop him from trying.
She was a delectable surprise, a luxurious treat. He forgot himself completely and was overtaken by primal urges never before experienced. The voice screaming in his head to withdraw from her body before he spent was fiercely ignored. Another first that night. She, of course, was too naive to know when the moment was upon him, and even if she had, Carver suspected nothing would have stopped him. Such a need had built up in him over the course of the last few weeks that it over took his usual sanity and willpower, beating it into the ground. He slid his hands under her bottom, lifting her body to meet his remorseless thrusts in that moment of sublime madness, wanting to fill her with his seed. To claim her fully for himself, and damn the consequences. So he did.
Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction Page 19