In His Pocket
The Arcanist’s Ward
by California Dawes
Copyright © 2018 by California Dawes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All characters in this story are eighteen years or older and are consenting adults.
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A passionate young woman of an alternate-world Regency England and a rich arcanist who doesn’t trust his own dark desires…
Verity Gibbs is the beautiful, lively, intelligent ward of the brooding perpetual bachelor and arcanist, Christopher Windham. She arrived on his doorstep at age sixteen, tragically orphaned and looking for a new home… and he immediately shipped her off to boarding school so that she might finish her education while staying safely out of his reach.
Now at eighteen, she has returned to Crossfox Hall as a woman grown and eager to step out into the world to make a match for herself. Then Christopher brings home a special gift for her on her birthday... a gift that has the power to link them in unseen—but definitely felt—ways. A gift that might just change the nature of their relationship, and their lives, forever.
A fast-paced Regency-era tale of love, lust, magic, and obsession by the dynamic new voice of romance, California Dawes. This is a story you'll want to sink into again and again!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
The day that Verity Gibbs turned eighteen, her guardian, Mr. Christopher Windham of Crossfox Hall, gave her a birthday present. They were breakfasting together in the sun room when Mr. Windham quietly slid a small velvet box across the table to his ward, where it rested next to her cup of hot chocolate. Verity, who had been reading a rather salacious bit of gossip sent in a letter from her cousin Elizabeth in London, looked up guiltily and set the letter aside face-down, but not before Mr. Windham caught a glimpse of the contents.
…and you would not believe, dear Verity, who I caught Thomas Bagley in the middle of an Extremely Lewd Act with behind the hatter’s shop last Tuesday. It was Mary Woolscomb! She was on her knees and had Thomas’ prick all the way down her throat! I thought surely she would no doubt choke. But she was sucking on it as greedily as though…
Verity cleared her throat and picked up the box, hoping to distract her guardian from inquiring into any details about the letter.
“What’s this, Mr. Windham?” She asked innocently.
“Happy birthday, Miss Gibbs,” Mr. Windham replied with his usual intense and somber baritone. The girl was momentarily stricken dumb by the surprise gift. When she had arrived on his doorstep two years ago, Mr. Windham had practically given Verity the briefest of glances before immediately shipping her off to boarding school, which she had only just finished attending some two months prior to her birthday. And in that time since she had come to live permanently at Crossfox Hall, she had seen Mr. Windham perhaps three or four times in total and exchanged but a handful of words with him on every occasion.
She found him magnetically attractive with an air of severity and danger in his every moment. Talking to her guardian was to Verity like the thrill of encountering a wolf in the woods. Conversely, he had left her with the impression that he did not care a fig for his ward at all, and she imagined she bored him. Certainly she did not think she merited enough esteem in Mr. Windham’s eyes for him to procure for her a birthday gift.
“Thank you, Mr. Windham,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. To receive any present from her guardian on her birthday was unexpected, but for it to so clearly be jewelry—! A maidenly blush crept across her face and stained her pale cheeks peach, and not just from the contents of her cousin’s letter.
She opened the box carefully and beheld inside a most curious pendant. It was wrought to be curving and sinuous, like miniature vines made entirely out of gold. The vines formed an intricate heart shape where in the center rested a single, pure, perfect diamond, sparkling out from the shadows of gold. Curiously, the diamond did not seem to be set into the gold, but somehow by an ingenious trick of jewelrysmithing, was made to seem as though it simply floated ethereally within the pendant of its own accord.
“Mr. Windham,” Verity said, her breath quite taken away by such a gift. “This is lovely! And so very generous of you. I could not possibly begin to thank you for it! Wherever did you find such an extraordinary piece of work?”
Mr. Windham smiled at Verity in a way that had the effect of making her heart—and other places further down—flutter and her pulse race. He was in his prime, being but thirty-five years old, and there was no question that he was exceedingly handsome. Dark, long hair fell around a perfectly chiseled, aristocratic face and intelligent dark eyes the color of woodland pools, fringed with just enough lashes. Verity often found herself daydreaming of those dark, flashing eyes on quiet nights when Mr. Windham was away on business.
On top of everything else, Mr. Windham was an arcanist. That is, a professional dealer of arcane artifacts, and he enjoyed an income of £12,000 a year. How a man of such looks and such wealth remained unwed was a mystery to many of Verity’s friends and acquaintances. Certainly, if his late-night callers of the fairer sex were any indication, Mr. Windham did like the company of women, but evidently not enough to live with one. Save for his ward, of course.
“As you know, my work takes me across the world to many far-off locales.” He stood and stepped around behind where Verity was seated and gently took the necklace from her, then took the liberty of clasping it around her neck. The pendant rested atop her breastbone, just before the curve and swell of her breasts beneath her gown. It suited her immensely. Mr. Windham continued: “I purchased this necklace in a colorful little side-street bazaar the last time I was in Bombay.”
“How interesting!” Verity exclaimed, turning one way and the other so as to catch the light on the gemstone at different angles. “Why, it doesn’t look of Indian origin at all!”
“An excellent observation, Miss Gibbs. I suspect that you have the right of it,” Mr. Windham said. He fished in his pocket and withdrew another item, this one a gold band too small to be a bracelet yet far too large to be a finger ring. He held it up closer so that Verity could see, and she noticed right away that the band was created of the same gold vines, these ones woven tightly among each other to form a solid ring.
“The necklace has a mate,” she mused, wondering what this could signify between her guardian and herself. If this was his idea of a proposal, it left much to be desired. But no, Mr. Windham simply smiled enigmatically.
“It does, and the two of them are certainly not Indian in origin. How they came to be at that stand, I’m sure we will never know. So you do like it, Miss Gibbs?”
“The necklace, Mr. Windham? I love it. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. But what sort of accessory is that band? I cannot see what sort of body it would fit at all. Why, even a child’s wrist would be too large to wear it as a bangle and yet I imagine only the finger of a giant would suit a ring of that size.
Mr. Windham
smirked and ran his fingertips along the edge of the ring. There was something more to her birthday present and its partner, the mysterious band, but what it was it seemed he would not say. When Verity continued to look expectantly at him with her wide blue eyes, Mr. Windham put the band back in his pocket and shrugged elegantly.
“I suspect that their true nature will be revealed in due time.”
“I’m sure I don’t follow your meaning,” Verity said. She tilted her head to side in a winsome way that she did when something puzzled her greatly. Mr. Windham stared at her for a moment longer than was really necessary, then cleared his throat and hurriedly finished his coffee.
“The morning hours wane, Miss Gibbs. I’m due at the customs house and then I will be traveling once again. This time to Berlin.”
“Oh! Mr. Windham I had not realized you were leaving so soon.”
“It is a bit of last-minute business, nothing to worry over. I expect I will be home within the fortnight.” He stood and offered Verity a slight bow. “I wish you joy of your birthday, many times over.”
Verity smiled and inclined her head, then watched wistfully as Mr. Windham strode out of the house and out of her life once again.
Chapter Two
Christopher carried out his business at the customs house in a daze. He barely remembered signing his name to the reams of paperwork set before him, let alone plotting out an entire month-long business trip overseas with his customs agent. Yet apparently he had done both, all the while thinking of Verity. His Verity, who was finally of age. A woman at last. She had come to his home only two years before, the orphaned daughter of a dear friend of his, Mr. Owen Gibbs, who had died in a tragic train collision on his way to Paris.
He could remember the day she arrived at Crossfox Hall well, as though it were only last week. When Christopher’s lawyer had delivered Mr. Gibbs’ last request that his daughter’s final years of education and youth be tended to by his friend and long-ago business partner, Christopher had felt a sinking trepidation in his stomach. What sort of education could he, a bachelor, traveler, and purveyor of arcane trinkets provide a young lady? What sort of role model would he make? And how could she ever hope to be happy in a house as dull and quiet as his own?
Furthermore, he speculated, would he ever know peace in his own home again? Or would a young lady in the prime of adolescence be ever annoyingly underfoot, demanding of the staff, bringing home schoolgirl chums? Would she fill his staid and dignified household with the fripperies and whims of girlish nonsense? The thought was almost too much for Christopher to bear.
Then the carriage had pulled up outside the front doors and Boones, the butler of Crossfox Hall, had opened the doors and a vision had stepped into Christopher’s life. Verity Gibbs was an absolute vision with skin like fresh cream, angelic blue eyes, and cascading locks of hair like golden silk. He was taken with her immediately.
The shame of those feelings knew no bounds, and only grew after their first meal together that night, when he learned firsthand that a brilliant, lovely, kind mind lay beyond those beautiful eyes. She was his ward, sent to him for protection and the tending of her education, and there he was lusting after her like a schoolboy! A fine way to honor his dead friend’s last wishes, indeed! Christopher arranged for Verity to be sent to the very best girls’ boarding school first thing the following day.
When she returned to Crossfox Hall, he discovered that in her time away, she had grown into an even lovelier young woman. He had endeavored to steer well clear of her as much as he could, but on some occasions, conversations were unavoidable. With each meeting, Christopher learned some new strand of information about his ward. Precious details about this mysterious, beautiful young thing that fate had conspired to throw into his world. His affections for Verity grew, along with the bulge hidden in his trousers.
Now it was Verity’s eighteenth birthday and she was of age, and there would be nothing improper about making her an offer of marriage. Christopher wanted nothing more than to make Verity his and his alone. Except… he was gone for so long for so much of the year. Surely a beautiful young woman just entering the world deserved better than to be saddled into a marriage that practically forced her to stray as soon as it had begun. Better to never ask at all than to be self-damned a cuckold.
So Christopher had thought, until he had found the necklace and its curious mate for sale on a blanket in old Bombay. He had known at once it was mystical and ancient, but tracking its purpose took some time. The pair, it turned out, were linked far more than just by maker and aesthetic. When each piece was worn and the latent magic within was activated by a simple ritual, an… amorous portal opened between the two.
It was the thought of the enchanted jewelry’s potential uses that caused Christopher to practically dreamwalk through his entire day. It wasn’t until he was aboard the train and safely ensconced in his locked & shuttered private railcar that he could take out the curious bangle and finally, at long last, put the artifacts to the test.
Mr. Windham withdrew the bangle from his pocket and unfastened his trousers. Next, he pulled out his manhood, already standing proud and tall at ten inches of throbbing heat. He held the ring with both hands and murmured the incantation as taught to him by the roadside vendor. Nothing happened at first. Just as Christopher was beginning to feel a bit foolish for being so easily duped out of his money, the bangle glowed with a soft, otherworldly red light. It was only for the space of a heartbeat and then it faded back to normal, but beneath his fingers Christopher could feel it—a shift in powers, a long-dormant energy pulsing and longing for its other half. Christopher slipped the ring around his prick and nestled it securely at the root.
As soon as it came into contact with his member, he felt her, Verity, as though her hands were brushing up against his. He felt her sweet warmth so close that when he closed his eyes, it was as though she were truly there with him, snuggled into his lap.
He had to be careful, now. This magic was under his command and she had no idea what was happening on her end. More likely than not, she would assume it was entirely her imagination. Still, best to take things slow. Christopher did not know exactly how much of a true connection there would be, and he didn’t want to risk breaking her maidenhead like this. After all, this was merely a test to see if the device would assist them in a potential long-distance continuation of marital relations—should she accept his eventual proposal.
Christopher slid his prick along the soft phantom thighs of his ward and audibly exhaled at the thrill of her warm, silken skin against his. Suddenly, there was a sensation not of his own creation: like that of a feminine hand lightly tracing her fingertips along his shaft. Christopher shivered with pleasure. Wherever Verity was, she was clearly enjoying the invisible connection.
Christopher’s gyrations and thrusts of his pelvis grew faster and faster, as though she were sitting in his lap and he was rubbing himself off, pressed between the chaste skin of her inner thighs. As he felt himself coil inside, tightening around towards an unavoidable climax, he cut the connection short with a swift word. Now, in a train car, was not the time for wanton release with no way to clean it up.
As much as it pained him to do so, Christopher fumbled with the ring around his member and pulled it off delicately, panting with need and unfulfilled yearning. He slipped the ring back into his pocket and opened the train car’s window to let in a blast of chilly night air, taking deep gulping lungfuls like a man half-drowned.
There would be time enough to explore their new connection further once he had made his way to Berlin.
Chapter Three
Verity lay in her bed, wide awake and staring up at the ceiling. What had that been? Her overactive imagination? A wishful dream? A lusty ghost? The Devil himself? What? Never before had she felt anything akin to the keen craving that seemed to fill her up from the inside and take full control of her senses. She could almost still feel it, that phantom member that had rubbed against her so needfully.
She wondered what it would be like if he came home to Crossfox Hall after one of his journeys and she was there, waiting for him in bed—in their bed—dressed scandalously in nothing at all but the cool evening air. Would he press up against her, as her phantom had, and pull her into his warm lap? Would he rub himself between her thighs as he gripped her close to his flawless body and warmed her lips with his? Would he sate himself of his need for her as she sated herself with him? Would he kiss her as hungrily as though she were the only thing that mattered in the entirety of God’s creation?
Verity wondered these things and her hand slipped beneath her nightgown and touched herself in that place she knew she mustn’t touch. The place that throbbed with longing for Mr. Windham. A lightning bolt of pleasure seared through her as she touched herself, and she found that she could not stop. She knew it was wrong, so wrong, but whatever apparition had come to her that night, it had awakened a sensation that would not be sated on girlish dreams and wishful thoughts. It needed, it demanded, a physical release.
And when it finally arrived and shot through her like lightning, when her back arched of its own accord and her hand buried itself in the sticky, wet warmth between her legs, it was Mr. Windham’s name that she gasped out into the watchful stillness of the night.
The next day, Verity could think of little else save for Mr. Windham. She had resolved that as soon as he had returned home from Berlin, she would confront him at once and do the honorable thing. She would confess her true feelings for him, rather than live a sham under his charitable roof a moment longer. Better that he knew how she felt and came to his own decision—one way or the other—than for her to skulk about and play the dutiful ward by day while harboring indecent thoughts of him by night, all the while poor Mr. Windham remained uninformed. No, it was the right thing, the only thing to do. She would tell him how she truly felt. And then, perhaps, if he felt the same way about her, he would take her into his arms and…
In His Pocket: The Arcanist's Ward (Mystic Sins of the Regency Book 1) Page 1