A Thoroughly Compromised Lady

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘I thought massages were for backs,’ Dulci observed languidly, her body boneless beneath the soft caress of his thumbs high on her rib cage, tantalisingly close to her breasts.

  ‘Only for those of a limited imagination, my dear.’ Jack lowered his head and kissed her belly. A hot shiver shot through her and Jack gave her an iniquitous smile. ‘That would be like saying kisses were only for the mouth, don’t you think, Dulci?’

  ‘You’re a wicked tormentor, Jack.’

  Jack merely chuckled and did away with her trousers, his hands sliding up the bare skin of her legs. ‘I love your legs, Dulci,’ he murmured, stopping to kiss the inside of her knees and stopping again to kiss the inside of her thighs. ‘They’re so lithe and so very long, supple enough to wrap around me, you can hold me tight when I am deep inside you.’

  His hot eyes shot up to her face, full of want and anticipation, reminders that the pleasure the two of them invoked now was a prelude to the mysterious pleasure yet to come.

  Then it was his turn. He moved apart from her and un dressed swiftly, letting her look upon him. ‘Would you like to touch me, Dulci?’

  She nodded, letting him take her hand, guiding it between his legs, to where he wanted her hand the most: on him, at the core of his manhood. He held her there, showing her how to stroke him fully, how to tease the tender tip of him. Dulci was in awe. These were glorious secrets.

  He stopped her hand. ‘You’d be the death of me if I let you, Dulci. But there’s more to come. Let me show you.’ He gently pushed her back against the sofa cushions.

  He drew a deep breath and lay over her, covering her with his length. She could feel his strength in his reserve; the effort he took not to burden her with his full weight, the power of his erection where it lay between them prodding at her entrance. Jack was kissing her again, taking away any ability to think, reminding her now was not the time for reflection but for action.

  She shifted her hips in intuitive welcome and Jack took her in a quick, thorough thrust, tearing away the thin proof of her virginity. She gasped. Jack stilled inside her. She stretched around him and then they plunged together, meeting each other in the ancient mating waltz, finding the exquisite rhythm that pushed them towards brilliant fulfilment. Her legs locked about Jack, holding him deep, her body feeling each intimate tremor as he neared his completion, shattering inside her while she shrieked her own satisfaction, oblivious to the fact that though locked doors can keep people out, they can’t always keep sounds in.

  It was a while before she wanted to talk again. In the after math of their love-making, all she wanted to do was lay on the sofa with Jack, somnolent and satisfied. Somewhere in the depths of the house a clock struck the late hour. The evening had fled. It was now technically morning. It seemed surreal that balls were still going on all over town. That world seemed irrelevant and far away compared to the world she and Jack had created here.

  But this could not last and she knew it. Still she could not willingly rouse herself. Not even reality could compete with being tucked against Jack’s naked warmth, his sex stirring already against her buttocks, his voice teasing in her ear. ‘What shall we do for an encore, my dear?’

  ‘I have an idea,’ Dulci whispered, moving to sit astride his thighs, fully ready to give herself over to a night of decadence.

  In the early hours of the morning, another idea occurred to her, surfacing from the warm depths of replete desire. Maybe this was why she hadn’t found the right man. Who could possibly give her the pleasure she’d found with Jack? Sexual pleasure, certainly, but there was another level of pleasure, too; their sharp repartee in the ballrooms, the other exchanges, too, like when they’d been fencing, when their mutual guard was down. All of that would disappear when she married. No man let his wife keep any male friends she might have acquired previous to him.

  Probably for this very reason, Dulci thought, snuggling a bit closer to a dozing Jack; fear that his new bride had a lover prior to him, which in turn created an awkward, competitive triangle. No man wanted to worry about living up to past comparisons, especially if that comparison involved Jack.

  Unless that husband was Jack, came the unbidden, for bid den thought. The thought was shocking, a violation of what she’d promised herself with regard to Jack: expect nothing beyond the moment, want nothing beyond the moment. He would not stay and this had been about curiosity only.

  She must have tensed. Jack murmured in his sleep, his hand warm where it lay splayed across the flat of her stomach.

  Jack was self-pro claimed non-husband material and Dulci couldn’t disagree. Jack as a husband only seemed like a good idea in the after math of their passion. It was probably natural to entertain such thoughts. But it wouldn’t always be like this. She knew empirically that outside the passion, outside the body he shared to its fullest in bed, there were times when he’d be gone and things he could not share when he returned. She would only ever have part of him. The trail of women he left behind him was testimony enough in that regard.

  Needing to distract her mind from such errant and dangerous thoughts as marrying Jack, Dulci rose from their make shift bed on the floor, the sofa having been outgrown by their antics hours ago. She draped a burgundy throw about her shoulders and went to the work table. Jack groaned his disappointment behind her.

  ‘I’m looking for something I want to show you.’ The throw slipped down one bare shoulder as she shuffled through the objects on the table.

  ‘I like the view from here,’ Jack murmured appreciatively.

  ‘You’re in satiable,’ Dulci scolded, but she didn’t mind. His comment warmed her on the inside. There was a certain pleasure in knowing she was an equal match for her lover’s enthusiasm.

  Lover.

  It was the most apt term for describing Jack. He was her lover. Nothing more and certainly nothing less, if she were entirely sanguine about it. After last night, they now existed in an erotic limbo between merely slaking physical needs with the other and something more philosophical, more committed. What would it be like to meet in society after this?

  Above the work table, the long windows captured the moonlight. Evening had become night.

  ‘Aha! I found it,’ Dulci crowed triumphantly, making her way back to him.

  Jack levered himself up on one arm. ‘What treasure is this, Dulci?’

  She sat down beside him on the floor and slid in close. ‘It’s a journal. Vasquez brought it in the last shipment.’ Dulci flipped open the worn leather book. ‘The drawings are very detailed. I thought you might recognise some of the things from your trip.’

  ‘Is this a gift?’ Jack teased.

  ‘Sort of. I haven’t read it yet,’ Dulci began. ‘It has occurred to me that it might be a good source of information regarding my artefacts. Perhaps I could pass it on to you when I’m finished?’

  Jack reached for a strand of her hair and twisted it about his finger. ‘It’s a lovely gift, Dulci. You may use it as long as you wish. It’s like giving someone a book from the lending library as a present, though, if you think about it,’ he joked but she could tell he wasn’t offended.

  Dulci snuggled down against him. She could feel his eyes moving over her shoulder, taking in the pages illuminated by the fading light. Dulci reached for a nearby oil lamp and dragged it to a low table closer to them. She turned up the wick. ‘Now you can see better. There’s all manner of information in here, birds, plants, even maps, Jack.’

  Dulci flipped through the book. Jack offered a comment here and there, but it was becoming exceedingly obvious he was more interested in the warm woman curved against him and the flame-lighted intimacy of their situation. Then something on the pages caught his eye and the hand absently stroking her hip stalled in its lazy motions. ‘Wait, Dulci. Go back a page.’

  ‘What is it? Did you recognise a place?’

  ‘The page is creased awkwardly by the book spine.’

  Dulci ran her hands along the place where the spine met the page. �
��You’re right, Jack. The page unfolds into a larger page.’ Dulci unfolded the sheet and another care fully folded sheet fluttered out.

  Excitement seized Dulci. She scrambled to her feet, eager to lay the new paper out on the table, Jack following close behind.

  Dulci lit another lamp at her work table, illuminating the place names and the land contours. Dulci traced the lines of rivers, pronouncing their names, ‘Orinoco, Cassiquiare, the Amakura, the Essequibo.’ She paused. ‘This is a map of British Guiana. These are the rivers that form the boundaries with Venezuela. The Arawak live along here.’

  Excitement thrummed through her. This would help her re search immensely. She turned to look at Jack. ‘Do you know what this means?’

  Chapter Seven

  Oh God, did he know. It meant the rumours were right. There was a forged map. More than that, it meant Dulci was in great peril. He could no longer pretend her cargo wasn’t the cargo Calisto Ortiz was looking for. The map made it a certainty. Still, there was one more test the map had to pass.

  Jack held his breath, his suspicions high despite the plea that ran through his mind like a litany: Please don’t let it be the map. But he was almost certain it was.

  In the dim light, the map looked remarkably accurate based on his knowledge of the region. Jack leaned forwards and scrutinised a faintly darker line along the Essequibo that shouldn’t be there. Based on currently recognised boundaries between the two territories, this map was a fraud.

  Jack tamped down his fears. His imagination was running away with him. There was nothing to fear yet. No one knew Dulci had it yet. No one even remotely suspected she had it and no one would as long as she didn’t tell Señor Ortiz she had recently purchased artefacts or that she did business with a Señor Vasquez.

  ‘What is it, Jack?’ Dulci queried at his silence.

  ‘Nothing,’ he lied swiftly, placing a light trail of kisses on her shoulder where the blanket had slipped again. With one hand he pushed back the heavy weight of her hair, exposing her neck, his kisses moving upwards. ‘I was just thinking how much I’d rather explore you than a sheet of paper.’

  Dulci turned in his arms, ready and eager in the wake of her excitement over the map. Jack hated himself. Never, ever mix business with pleasure. That was one rule he never broke. He ought to make his excuses to Dulci and track down Gladstone right away. But for the sake of business, he couldn’t risk Dulci, in her excitement, telling Calisto Ortiz about her discovery during casual conversation on the dance floor. There were things he couldn’t risk for the sake of pleasure either, such as Dulci’s wrath at another interruption. In the wake of the débâcle in the garden, she would not under stand another abrupt departure. Especially now their relationship had somewhat changed.

  Dulci reached between his legs, duplicating her earlier actions with a smile on her face. Jack groaned in expectation. He had to have time to think: what to do about the map, about Dulci. For now, the rules could go to hell.

  Calisto Ortiz lifted his tumbler in a silent toast. He reclined against the leather comfort of his chair in his expensive suite of rooms. He took a sip of the excellent liquor, savouring its mellow tastes. Tonight, he was well satisfied and in good humour with the world. Vasquez had been found, questioned and dispatched. And he, Calisto Ortiz, had the answers he wanted. In a vain attempt to save himself, Vasquez had told his captors who had bought the journal. Ironically, such an ad mission sealed the importer’s fate.

  Dulcinea Wycroft.

  Calisto swirled the liquid in his glass. It was about as pleasant as surprises got. He’d not perceived the beautiful woman’s interests went that deeply. Retrieving the map would be delightful and, with luck, there’d be no more need for another murder. Lady Dulcinea would have no idea what she possessed. Women had no head for politics and maps. All he had to do was gain access to her home and ask her to show off her collection. That should not be difficult. Surely she hosted an ‘at home’ like other women he’d met here in London and surely, like other women in London, she found him charming enough for an invitation to call. It would be the work of a few seconds to pocket the journal during a well-placed kiss. A little flirtation and his plan would be back on track. Ah, yes, after a rough time, there would be some luck at last.

  Two nights later at the Mayfield ball, the easy attitude Ortiz possessed was being severely tried. Dulcinea Wycroft had disappeared from society, making it rather difficult to pursue his plan to seduce the journal from her. He was not a patient man. He nodded politely to a passing group that stopped to exchange plea san tries, hiding his growing impatience. Where in the world was Dulcinea Wycroft?

  Where the hell was Wainsbridge? Gladstone checked his watch for the third time on the perimeter of the Mayfield ballroom. He dared not check it again. It was unseemly for a gentleman to glance at his watch too often at a ball. Such a pre occupation with time suggested he was only waiting until he could politely move on to the evening’s other entertainments, hardly an endearing endorsement of one’s hostess and Gladstone was careful not to upset hostesses.

  Gladstone was getting impatient. He had news to share. He’d rather have shared his news in a more business-like setting, but time was short. He had not seen Wainsbridge in two days. It didn’t help matters that Dulci had been absent from the usual circuit of entertainments too. Their mutual absence raised all nature of jealous conjecture in Gladstone’s mind.

  Four years ago, he’d made the delectable Lady Dulcinea an honourable proposal of marriage, knowing himself to be an entirely acceptable match for her. She’d refused him, left London quite suddenly in the dead of winter and turned up at her brother’s home where Wainsbridge had also coincidently taken up residence a few weeks prior.

  It all looked very suspicious to Gladstone, who could not fathom why Dulci Wycroft would turn him down unless there was another. That the other was a man whose only title had been earned through actual work and not inherited from the efforts of earlier generations, rubbed salt in Gladstone’s wounded ego.

  Gladstone glanced about the ballroom, which seemed reserved in its atmosphere tonight without the presence of London’s most sharp-witted bachelor and the Season’s reigning beauty. Others appeared to sense the difference too. A few columns over, Señor Ortiz, whom Wainsbridge was supposed to be watching, appeared bored with the conversation about him. Every so often, Gladstone noticed the man’s eyes drift over to the doorway then, disappointed, drift back to the group surrounding him, many of them women interested in testing the hypothesis of Spanish virility against the real thing.

  Volume at the entrance rose suddenly. Gladstone resisted the temptation to look that direction. He kept his eyes fixed on Señor Ortiz, gauging the man’s reaction to determine who had walked in. Ortiz’s eyes lit up. Gladstone turned slowly to confirm his guesses. Already surrounded by admirers, Wainsbridge and Dulci Wycroft sailed into the ballroom, together, utterly beautiful. There was no handsomer couple in London. It was as if a great spark had been lit. The dancers whirled faster, the music’s tempo was livelier, the laughter of the guests less brittle. Was it his imagination or did Lady Mayfield, the hostess, breathe a little easier?

  Gladstone moved towards them, anxious to speak with Wainsbridge.

  Dulci saw him coming with a sinking heart, her euphoria over the past two days disappearing with each approaching footstep. It didn’t help that she knew it would be like this. Knowing didn’t make it any better. She had hoped…oh, how she’d hoped. Gladstone shouldered his way through the crowd with none of Jack’s con sum mate ease, stepping on feet, proverbial and other wise. A subtle unease crept slowly through her at the determined set of Gladstone’s very square jaw and intent grey eyes. Reflexively, she tightened her light grip on Jack’s arm.

  ‘I don’t think he’s here for you, m’dear,’ Jack murmured, detecting Gladstone’s less-than-discreet progress towards them. ‘Tonight, it’s me he wants.’

  His words were an effective killjoy. Dulci knew what he meant. Back to work.
Their sweet interlude was over, and if not over, then definitely on hiatus. When Jack ‘worked’ he disappeared for stretches at a time. He might surface after a few days or it may be months before he rejoined society. No one knew where he went or what he did until afterwards and then only in vague snatches. Whatever he did, he had done it well enough to earn the accolade of viscount. His services were viewed as valuable to his monarch and to his country.

  ‘Lady Dulcinea, you’re looking ravishing tonight.’ Gladstone bowed over her hand, his eyes lingering on her face in his usual annoying manner, searching for any sign of affection.

  ‘Gladstone,’ Dulci answered with stiff politeness. She dare not give him even the slightest of polite encouragements. After four years, he’d proven to be the most tenacious of all her would-be suitors. Her quiet rejection had not resulted in the desired effect. If anything, the rejection had made him more persistent.

  ‘Wainsbridge, I’m hoping I might have a private word with you.’

  ‘And I am hoping Lady Dulcinea will favour me with a dance.’ Jack’s eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘What do you think our odds are of both of us getting our wishes?’ Those around them laughed. Gladstone narrowed his lips into a grim line, unamused at Jack’s light humour.

  Dulci did her duty, masking her immense disappointment. ‘Wainsbridge, go on with Gladstone. I am sure Lord Gilmore can admirably dance attendance on me until your return.’ She smiled at young Gilmore, who seemed over whelmed by the honour she was bestowing on him.

  ‘Very well, it’s all been arranged, Gladstone.’ Jack shot Gladstone an ungrateful glare. ‘I believe there’s a library just down the hall that will suit our purposes. If you’ll follow me?’

  Dulci fought the urge to follow Jack with her eyes, but that was the behaviour of a besotted fool in love. She dare not give the gossips any grist for their mills. People accepted that she and Wainsbridge might occasionally be seen together because of his friendship with her brother and long association with the Wycroft family. Their clever wagers and sharp humour ensured people believed them tenuous friends at best, two persons who would not have sought the other out if it hadn’t been for Brandon Wycroft, which had been somewhat true until that evening in the orangery. Dulci had no desire to change society’s perception. She did not want anyone speculating about the true nature of her association with Jack, especially not now that she had something truly scandalous to hide. How could anyone under stand it, this need that drove her towards him? She hardly under stood it herself.