The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  The two watched as the crew rimming the perimeter of the ship began to throw the heavy lines out to men waiting on each side of the dock. What should have been impossible in fact began to take shape, the India Queen’s bulk reacting to the brute force of the men as they guided her safely in.

  Niles returned his knife to the hidden pocket in his coat and offered his hand to Langdon. “Just in case you die a horrible death tonight, you should know working with you has not been the worst thing to happen in my life.”

  “I thought we were dispensing with the pretty words,” Langdon said, taking Niles’s hand in his and shaking it.

  “I like to keep you guessing, Stonecliffe,” his friend replied, then yanked his hand away and strode off toward the stern.

  Langdon smiled at Niles’s uncharacteristically sentimental farewell as he scanned the shadowy wharf for any sign of additional men. Other than those assisting with the docking of the India Queen, no one appeared to be about.

  “Are you prepared, sir?” one of a handful of agents aboard asked.

  “The men are ready?” Langdon countered, continuing to look out into the dark night.

  “And waiting, sir.”

  “Then let us proceed.”

  Langdon walked across the deck and waved for the men to move out of his way. “Wait for my signal,” he instructed them, then walked to where the men standing on the dock could see him.

  “Long journey, eh?” one shouted by way of a greeting. He looked to be in his fifties, his face tanned and lined from too many hours in the salty sea air.

  Langdon smiled in response, readying himself for action. “Too long.”

  “Aye, the Company does not mind sending you halfway ’round the world, that’s for sure,” the man said, offering Langdon a grin that revealed his six teeth. “My name is O’Donnell. Me and my men will get you started with the forward hull. Drop the gangplank.”

  Langdon casually stretched, offering a large, lion-like yawn. “Do you know, I am too tired to go through the trouble of lowering the plank. I believe there is a better way.”

  The man smiled a second time at Langdon and let out a bark of laughter. “Been drinking, have you? Do not blame you. In my sailing days the bottle’s the only thing that got me through.”

  “Indeed I have,” Langdon said, reaching for the cask at his feet and lifting it so that O’Donnell could see. “The Company’s brandy is hard to resist.” He tossed the cask over the side of the ship and watched as it hit the water, then bobbed gently away.

  O’Donnell’s friendly countenance turned hostile. His mouth dropped into a somber thin line and he widened his stance. “You’ll be paying for that out of your wages, of course. Now lower the plank before I lose my patience.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. O’Donnell.”

  Langdon raised his arm, the signal to his men. All at once, casks of brandy, reams of silk, and enough spices to make an insignificant country wealthy were flying from the men’s hands, over the side of the ship and into the deep waters of the Thames.

  “Stop!” O’Donnell shouted as he reached into his coat pocket and produced a pistol. “That’s Company property!”

  Langdon smiled down at him, as the man’s first shot narrowly missed. “You’re mistaken. This here belongs to the Kingsmen. And we will do whatever we like with it.”

  A second shot landed in the wooden railing near where Langdon’s hand rested.

  A piercing whistle sounded and Langdon looked to where Niles stood at the stern. “Time to go,” his friend called, then gestured at the longboat that waited on the water.

  Langdon turned back and saluted O’Donnell. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he shouted before signaling his men to abandon ship, making a run for the stern himself.

  “I always did fancy myself a pirate,” Niles told Langdon as they reached the railing and prepared to jump.

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  Langdon returned to Aylworth House from the wharf much calmer than when he’d left. Breaking Niles’s nose had felt good. Looting the ship even better. Telling Lady Grace of his feelings for her would be the best. But he wanted to compose himself first, to clear his mind and prepare for what would come next.

  He’d decided to walk the library, the scent of old books pleasingly familiar and calming. One complete tour of the large room failed to prepare him. And so he ventured forth on a second.

  A third trip around the room had him closing his eyes to see if he could navigate the enormous room blind. The tall French case clock in the entryway unknowingly aided him when it chimed, announcing the two o’clock hour. The melodic tones allowed Langdon to orient himself in relation to the front of the house.

  He was in the farthest, most northern corner of the room, nearing the end of his circuit, when a familiar feminine voice spoke behind him.

  “I see you’ve come around to my favorite pastime.”

  Langdon stopped walking at the sound of Grace’s voice and opened his eyes. “I’d no idea how useful pacing could be,” he replied, infusing his voice with a careless note. The sight of her took his breath away.

  “Oh yes, quite useful,” Grace agreed, walking down the library carpet toward him, the golden light from the candlestick she carried softly illuminating her.

  Her deep rose robe was tied at her waist with a satin ribbon, glimpses of the paler pink of her nightrail revealed as she walked. Her hair was loose, a thick mane of silk that fell past her shoulders, and she was barefoot, her small feet almost ghostly against the deep blue and gold of the carpet.

  Botticelli? Yes, he thought, the Italian artist. Langdon had mastered the least amount of art knowledge he could, having never felt a particular affinity for the discipline. But something in Grace’s ethereal appearance certainly spoke to him.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you well, Mr. Clark?”

  “That depends.”

  She held the candlestick aloft and studied him. “On what?”

  Her clear concern shook him, even more than the pull of her curved, feminine body.

  “On you.”

  She took a slow step back, then another. “If I’ve done something wrong, please tell me what it is.”

  “What could you possibly have done wrong?” Langdon asked.

  “Please, Mr. Clark. Tell me what you mean,” she urged, taking a step toward him this time.

  Langdon closed his eyes for a moment, afraid to begin. “I’ve been such a fool.”

  Lady Grace set her candlestick on a nearby bookshelf. “In regards to what, Mr. Clark?”

  “Not what, whom,” he gently corrected.

  “May I assume you are speaking of me?” she asked, coming dangerously close to him.

  “You may,” Langdon replied hesitantly. The room began to spin a bit. “I want you—need you. But I am afraid, Grace.”

  She looked at him with surprise, then reached out and laid her palm on his coat, right over his heart. “I have been afraid as well. Terrified of my husband, of the men he worked for and the things I saw. But here you are. And here I am. I want you, too, Langdon. I need you. And I will not let fear keep me from you.”

  Even through the layers of his coat, waistcoat, and linen shirt, her delicate hand branded his skin. He pulled in the intoxicating citrus and floral notes of her scent each time he drew a breath. Her face, so beautiful, so earnest, filled his vision. All he could feel, smell, hear, and see was Grace.

  “I don’t know what comes next,” Langdon got out, his heart beating too loud in his ears. “I only can see right now. Right here, with you.”

  Grace trailed her fingers from his chest up his throat to his face to cradle his cheeks in her soft, warm hands. “That is all I need,” she whispered, then lifted on tiptoe and kissed him.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. Lowering his head, he covered her mouth with his.

  Grace succumbed to the urgent, hot seduction of his mouth, without a thought. She felt surroun
ded by him; his arms crushed her against the hard, heated length of his body and she wrapped hers around his neck in an attempt to get closer.

  He tore his lips away, lifting his head just far enough to look down at her.

  “I want you in my bed.” His voice was gravelly, smoky with passion.

  Grace never thought to say no. Instead, she nodded mutely.

  His eyes flared with heat and he caught her hand, grabbed the candlestick she’d set down, and tugged her after him, out of the library, to the stairway, and upstairs. The hallway was quiet, deserted, and they saw no one as they reached Langdon’s room.

  The door closed after them and Grace barely registered the quiet click as he turned the key in the lock. Langdon took her to the bed, set the candlestick on a table beneath the window, and without pausing swept her into his arms again.

  This time, the kiss was slow, sensuous, and very thorough. When he lifted his head at last, Grace was heated, needy, and she murmured a protest when he unwound her arms from around his neck.

  “Patience, love,” he murmured, bending to press a kiss at the corner of her mouth before trailing his lips down her throat.

  Grace purred with satisfaction, tilting her head to give him better access and clutching handfuls of his coat in a vain effort to pull him nearer.

  He untied the sash that held her robe together and it fell open. Then he lifted his hands, slipped them along the neckline of both robe and nightrail and slid both off her shoulders in one movement.

  Grace would have protested the sudden brush of cooler air against bare skin but then he kissed her again and she was lost. His hands cupped her bare bottom and lifted her, fitting her more perfectly against him, the cove of her hips against the hard thrust of his. Grace gasped, awash in sensation.

  She was heated, flushed, and panting when he tore his mouth from hers.

  “I have too many clothes on,” he told her, his mouth quirking as she stared up at him, uncomprehending, unable to adjust to the sudden switch from heated passion to conversation.

  Then she translated what he’d said and nodded.

  “Yes, you do.” She brushed his hands aside and tugged at his cravat, then abandoned her efforts, leaving him to unwind it while she moved on to his shirt.

  She couldn’t help pausing to stroke and explore each part of his body as he shed clothes. Her curiosity and fascination made his undressing take longer than it should have, but at last he shoved his breeches and smalls to the floor and stepped out of them.

  Grace caught her breath, staring. He was amazingly built, with sleek powerful muscles layering his broad chest and down his abdomen, which tapered to narrower hips and strong thighs.

  Her bare feet looked delicate and narrow, so close to his much larger ones.

  Her gaze traveled back up his calves and thighs. Her eyes widened as she took in the aroused length of him, and caught her breath.

  “Oh my,” she breathed when he visibly thickened beneath her stare.

  “Did you never see your husband unclothed?” His voice was deeper, rougher than before.

  “Oh yes,” she replied. She tore her gaze from the fascinating sight and looked up at him. “But never like”—she gestured at the jutting length of him—“like this.”

  A faint frown of confusion creased a V between his brows before it cleared. “You mean aroused? Your husband didn’t get hard when you had sex?”

  Grace felt the heat of embarrassment move up her throat and warm her face. “We didn’t, actually, um …” She cleared her throat, her gaze chasing away from his. “He couldn’t, so we never had sexual congress.” She laced her fingers together, staring at them. “He said it was my fault. I suppose I should have told you earlier … that I’m not good at this.”

  Langdon’s low growl yanked her gaze back up to his.

  “It was not your fault, sweetheart. He was older, maybe that’s why he was incapable, but whatever caused his problem, it damn sure wasn’t you.” He lowered his head and pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss against her mouth and set her simmering once again, relieved and aroused. “You have to be honest with me,” he said when he lifted his head, his voice rough with desire. “Are you a virgin?”

  “Of course.” She frowned at him, confused. “I just told you that I didn’t have marital relations with my husband. Why would you ask if I’m a virgin? What else could I possibly be?”

  His eyes turned darker, more slumberous. “Oh, Grace, I’ve never met a woman quite like you. What else could you be, indeed?” He cupped her face in his hands and brushed cherishing kisses over her cheeks and closed eyelids until she shivered.

  “And since you are,” he continued, breathing the words against the shell of her ear. “I’m thinking you might like to explore a little, yes?”

  She nodded, her cheeks hot, and he chuckled before releasing her and easing back. He dropped his arms to his sides and nodded. “I’m all yours, Grace.”

  She caught her breath, hesitating. But when he didn’t move and waited patiently, she reached out and closed her hand around his penis.

  He twitched, going completely still, fists curled at his sides, his breathing labored, as she explored, smoothing her fingers over the head and testing the fascinating contradiction of silky smooth skin over steely hardness. He throbbed beneath her palm, pulsing with a rhythm as fast and hard as her own heartbeat.

  At last, he groaned and covered her hand with his. “Grace, sweetheart, any more of that and I’ll be finished before we’ve started.”

  “But …” she protested, not ready to cease exploring.

  Gently, he took her hand from him and bent to swing her up in his arms, turning to lay her down on the bed. The sheets were cool against her back but she did not have time to do more than briefly notice before he came down on top of her. His much broader body blanketed her as he wedged a place for himself between her thighs. She felt a brief moment of panic but then his mouth took hers once more and desire claimed her, erasing her fear. He cupped her breasts, his big hands warm as he caressed her. He touched her everywhere, smoothing his palms over her throat, shoulders, and down her arms, stroking over the smooth skin of her abdomen and lower.

  She loved every slide of his hand, every brush of his mouth against her throat and breasts. She’d never really been touched with affection and love by a man, and he tore away her defenses and loneliness with each glide of his hands and press of his lips.

  His slow, heated seduction had Grace twisting beneath him, pleading, when he finally shifted, settling deeper between her thighs. She felt the hard length of him nudge against her, then a slow, heavy penetration that pinned her and had her clutching his shoulders to pull him closer.

  He slowed, then surged forward and held himself still when she couldn’t hold back a moan. Braced on his elbows, he lifted his head and looked down at her, eyes molten.

  “Are you all right?” His voice rasped, deep and gravelly.

  “Yes,” she murmured. Threading her fingers into his thick hair, she urged him back down. “Do not stop.”

  He obeyed, his mouth taking hers as his hips shifted against her. Within moments, she was gasping, begging him for release from the tension that strung tighter with each slide of his body against hers.

  Then the world exploded and she cried out, catching him tighter as he climaxed, then fell with her into a deep well of pleasure.

  Exhausted, Grace fell asleep and was only vaguely aware that he left the bed, returning with a warm, damp cloth that he stroked gently between her legs. When he slid back into the bed beside her, she rolled against his side and murmured her pleasure as he wrapped her in his arms, and she slept.

  He woke her again during the night and they made love with an intensity that left her feeling vulnerable, her emotions laid bare.

  When she woke the next morning, she was in her own bed.

  Langdon must have carried her back to her room, she thought. She smiled and wondered if he would come to her bed, or take her to his, that night.
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br />   The possibility made her heart beat faster.

  She couldn’t wait. And she was giddy with the good fortune that had let her first lover be Langdon and not her husband. She couldn’t imagine spending those hours with anyone else.

  She tossed back the covers, crossed to the armoire and pulled its door open, then bent to rummage through a stack of nightrails.

  “Where did Mrs. Templeton put the umber nightgown?”

  She wanted to wear it tonight. A mischievous smile curved Grace’s lips.

  She now understood exactly why women became mistresses, she thought. It was time to embrace all the benefits of being the Wicked Widow.

  Grace adjusted the intricate mask of silver and gold she wore. “Well, I suppose an uncomfortable mask is better than the oppressive hat,” she said to Langdon, burrowing closer to his side as the crowds of Vauxhall Gardens pressed against her.

  He tightened his arm about her waist. “Very pragmatic of you,” he confirmed, a charming smile appearing just below his fanciful mask.

  Grace smirked in reply. “Are you teasing me for being practical?”

  “Not at all,” he replied in earnest. “It is one of your most admirable traits. And until you came along, one of mine.”

  “What do you mean, until I came along?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she considered whether he’d meant to pay her a compliment.

  Or not.

  The crowd around them seemed to pulse with excitement. Cries of delight and anticipation broke out in the cheaper boxes. Wearing concealing masks apparently made the revelers feel anonymous—and more uninhibited.

  Langdon bent closer and his lips brushed against the shell of her ear. “I mean, when you are in sight, I cannot think rationally, let alone practically. All I want is you and damn all the rest.”

  “Oh,” Grace replied, delight flooding her. “Is it wrong that I find the idea of holding some sort of power over you enjoyable?”

  He laughed out loud, a charming dimple creasing his cheek. “Not at all.”

  “Very enjoyable? Extremely so?” she pressed, desperate to see him smile.