by Deana James
She pressed her lips together and turned her face into his neck.
"That's right. Close your eyes." He stroked her shoulder. Gently, he gathered her skirt in his hand and slid it upward.
She twitched, but he continued to stroke her shoulder. His other hand at last found the hem of her skirt and slipped beneath it. The thin lawn of her drawers was no barrier to his heat. She stirred restively and raised her head to look.
Seizing the moment, he tilted his head to kiss her. Instead of drawing back, she waited. His lips gentled. His heart pounded as he felt her soft breasts lift in agitation against his chest. As part of the same movement, she shifted her bottom in his lap.
"Vivian," he exclaimed with a groan. "Sit still. You've got to help me in this."
She drew back, a frown on her face.
He grinned. "Yes. Don't look at me like that. Good lovemaking only happens when two people help each other."
She smiled uncertainly, but she had forgotten his hand on her thigh. It took her by surprise slipping into the slit in her drawers and finding the warm mound at the apex of her thighs.
Her response was electric, she jerked her hips back, sliding across his lap, rubbing herself roughly against him. He groaned at the excruciating sensation and caught her more tightly.
"Don't buck and pitch around like that."
His hand followed her inexorably. His thumb brushed the secret lips, spreading them.
Dizzy with sensation, she let her head fall back across his arm. Her mouth opened in a silent cry as he pushed and flicked at the pearl of pleasure that throbbed there. She tried to writhe her hips to escape the exquisite torment, but she had wedged herself into the chair, so she could move no further.
He must stop. The sensations were tearing her apart. Her eyes opened wide. At the same time, she realized she had hands that she was not using. One draped limply across his shoulder, the other hung useless at her side. She tried to clench them, but as she did, his fingers slid down between her slack thighs to the opening of her body he had violated only a few days before.
"How I must have hurt you," he whispered. "Here you're like velvet. And soft, so soft. Vivian, forgive me."
One of his fingers slid into her, slid out, and joined by its fellow slid in again.
She gasped soundlessly. Her hands clenched, but she made no move to pull him away. Her eyes closed as sensations rocketed through her body.
"Vivian," he whispered. "Can you feel that? Feel how good that feels. You're made for more. There's more. And better. More."
His thumb pressed hard against her, rotating on the spot from which spurts of white hot pleasure rocketed up to the crown of her head and down to the tips of her toes.
Her whole being seemed compressed within the semicircle formed by his thumb and his index and third fingers. They were pressing and sliding ceaselessly building a painful fire that drove her higher and higher.
"Now, sweetheart," his voice called to her from out of the red fog. His powerful fingers squeezed and thrust.
She exploded outward, propelled by his force whirled and drowned in indescribable sensations that seemed to go on and on until finally her flesh could stand no more.
************************************
The tapping of the earl's stick swung the housekeeper around. "Eavesdropping, Emma?"
"Of course not, sir." She pulled herself up haughtily. "I merely came to supervise that silly girl. She's never served any tea before, let alone such an elaborate meal as that woman wanted brought up."
"Leave it be." The earl directed her down the hall with a sweep of his stick. "They'll work it out by themselves."
"But the incompetent little fool will make a mess of it."
"If she's such a fool, why did you assign her to my new daughter-in-law?"
Emma Felders flushed. Her tight lips barely released the words. "The girl is good enough with dressing. I didn't expect a bead-rattler to put on such airs."
"Of course not." The earl waited, his hands crossed over his stick while Emma opened the door to his room and ushered him in. "I find I am in need of a restorative, my dear."
She raised one eyebrow. "Are you?"
"Emma, leave my son and his wife to their own devices. We have business of our own." He came toward her, pushing her back against the door.
Chapter 17
Vivian's mouth gaped open; she stared sightlessly at the ceiling, hearing only the sounds of her own breathing. Dimly, she was conscious that he lifted her as he rose to his feet. Kissing her on the forehead, he moved with her to the bed. "Time for myself," he murmured, standing her on her feet and letting her skirts fall.
She swayed finding the bedpost with her shoulder and wrapping her arm around it. In a bemused state, she slid her palm along its smooth oak. Her temple and then her flaming cheek rested against it. Eyes only half open, she stared at him.
"Steady now?" he asked.
She swallowed, restoring some liquid to her dry throat, and nodded. Her eyelids drooped. Taking a deep breath, she caught her lower lip between her teeth as he shrugged out of his jacket.
Her eyes opened wide as he did not stop with that but stripped off the rest of his garments with an economy of motion that was almost frightening. When he was naked, he bent over his coat and pulled a length of silk from the inner pocket.
In splendid nudity he walked toward her. His fine white skin was almost translucent, with faint shadows of blue veins across the hipbones. The male organ thrust out toward her from a halo of dark red hair. A dark fire flickered in his eyes. His voice was a sensuous rumble, deeper than she had ever heard it. "Vivian, did you enjoy what I did to you, the way I touched you?"
Her fingers splayed around the thick smooth wood. Her tongue slid out to moisten her lower lip. Her blood was pounding in her ears as her eyes scanned him fearfully. He wanted her to make love to him. She knew he did. But how? He was not shaped at all like her.
"A man feels the same things if he is touched and kissed as I touched and kissed you."
Heat rose in her. She had never thought that she would ever look at a man's body, much less touch it. Yet—
He held out the material, letting it ripple from his fingers in a column of pale silk and lace. "He also gets a great deal of pleasure from the sight of you."
With an effort she tore her eyes away from him to look questioningly at the material. Her hand moved of its own volition, reaching out to take it from him.
“I want to bury myself in your sweet body."
She shuddered at the words. Her belly quaked as liquid weakness wet her between her legs. His voice poured over her with much the same heat. Her nerves responded, creating exquisite sensations in her belly, in her nipples, up her spine. Was that what lovemaking was? Nerves responding to nerves. Would she be aroused by this man every time he spoke to her?
"Please allow me to enjoy you as you have enjoyed me.”
Their fingers touched as she allowed him to drape the material over her hand. It was silk, the color of white wine. It slithered down her wrist until she held it by a pair of lace strips. It was a gown, a nightgown. She had seen fashion plates of the like in dressmaker's shops. But she had never considered having one made for herself.
Now her husband was handing one to her, a request implicit that she don it. She shivered again. A blush rose in her cheeks.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as if he fought for control. Without another word he stretched himself full length on her bed, one hand behind his head. The other rested lightly across his belly only an inch or so from the tip of his organ. The dark fire in his eyes flamed higher.
Beneath the burning eyes, her fingers rose to the neck of her own gown. There they performed their tasks mechanically. The dress fell open. She pulled the sash loose, pushed the shoulders down, stepped out. Bending, she snapped her garters and rolled down her hose.
He groaned faintly. She lifted her head inquiringly to find him staring at her breasts, bare to his eyes w
here the chemise fell away from them.
When she straightened up, suddenly shy, he shook his head. "Please go on. You're very beautiful."
She nodded, her face pink, and bent again to her task. When her feet and legs were bare, she straightened, clad only in her chemise and drawers. Her nipples were turgid, her breasts hard. They pressed against the soft material, their aureoles dark.
"God," he whispered. His hand had moved; his fingers played up and down the length of the swollen staff. "You are so beautiful."
She was trembling, having trouble pulling enough breath into her lungs to keep oxygen to her brain. How could she possibly take such a monstrous thing inside her? She was terrified. Yet she slid the straps of the chemise to the points of her shoulders. Her vision misted and swam. She was cold and hot by turns.
"Let me see you," he beseeched. "We're husband and wife. The sight of you will give me pleasure."
Closing her eyes, she slid the straps down her arms and pushed the garment to her waist.
"Go on," he whispered, "take off everything."
A tug at the ties and both those garments fell from her.
His eyes scanned her figure, caressing her pointed breasts and the pale curls at the top of her thighs. "I've never seen anyone more beautiful. Never seen such silvery hair," he murmured. "It's almost a sin to cover it up. but there are other pleasures."
Their eyes met as she lifted the hem of French silk, and then she slipped it over her head.
Its cool draperies slithered over her curves, its lace appliqués scratching faintly. The combination of textures made her shiver. Her blood simmered in her veins, yet her skin felt chilly, and she set her teeth to keep them from chattering.
Piers leaned up on the bed. When she swayed before him, he held out his hand to her. "Come here."
The French silk sliding icily over the heated flesh of her limbs, Vivian moved to the edge of the bed.
His fingers brushed her cheek, her neck where the pulse throbbed against his hand. They trailed down her breast, caressing the nipple until she trembled from head to toe. "I can't believe you're so beautiful," he whispered. "I can't believe you're mine. Come to me."
Without knowing exactly what to do, she put a knee on the bed beside his leg.
"Oh, yes." He caught her other thigh at the back and pulled her across his hips. She was dragged down to sit astride the throbbing, swollen length of him. The intimate contact with heat and velvety hardness acted like an electric shock. She instantly shifted her weight.
"God!" He set his teeth. "Wait a minute!"
She started at his vehemence and shifted again.
He clutched at her thigh and at her waist. His hands were so long and strong that they frightened her. She was a toy to him. He could twist her, use her, break her. Her own thoughts frightened her. She tried to raise herself away from his hips, but he pulled her back.
"Don't move," he grated. "I’ll get control of myself in a minute and then I'll—”
She could not help herself. Knees and toes digging into the mattress, she pushed herself upward.
Acting like a creature with a will of its own, his staff sprang up. His hand guided it to her entrance. "Don't be afraid," he whispered through set teeth.
Hot liquid poured from her, wetting his hand and the creature at her gate. Desire fully as hot flooded her. The woman in her knew what she wanted. She wanted to be filled. She wanted the feeling. Wanted him inside her. Wanted him. She let herself down, felt herself surround him, felt herself spread, felt the pain, the good pain.
She threw back her head and arched her back, thrusting her hips forward, unconsciously, instinctively accommodating herself to his shape. Then weakness, the weakness of submission, a part of the elemental female makeup, filled her. She slid farther down the staff until she was resting on his belly and thighs. Her head fell forward, her upper body tilted.
His hands found her breasts, squeezed them. Through half-closed eyes, a prey to the sensations of fullness and exquisite stretching, she nevertheless could mark his face.
His eyes were closed, his head thrown back. His white teeth clenched as if he fought a battle he had no chance of winning. "I- I- My God!"
His hips bucked upward, thrusting him into her, pushing higher into her, driving her breath from her lungs in a silent scream of pleasure. He bucked again. His hands slid around her waist, holding her tight against him.
And it was happening again. The hot flooding of pleasure, the explosion of sensation. Her eyes opened wide, then closed as she slid weakly forward to lie upon to his chest.
************************************
"Not bloody likely, yer bleedin' lordship." Jack Beddoes slapped his hat on his head and pulled the ends of his muffler together under his chin. He strode to the door, his coattails switching.
"Keep a civil tongue in your head there." Sebastian Dawlish, face red with anger, brandished a heavy walking stick at the man's retreating back.
"Be seein' you."
"Mr. Beddoes, hold on." Dawlish hauled himself to his feet. The dampness of this wretched seacoast had settled in his gouty foot. He was miserable and angry at having to lodge at an establishment with so ridiculous a name as the Singing Herring. To cap the climax, he now was having to deal with this riffraff. For two cents he would chuck this whole thing and return to London. Except then he would have to give up all that lovely money and those beautiful properties. "I'm sure we can reach some sort of a compromise on this."
"Naw, we cain't." The man actually swung open the door and stood there, letting his voice carry down the hall. Rowlings' face turned from red to dead white, Beddoes grinned evilly. "You'll do what I tell you to do, and when the time comes, she'll be a widow. Then you get what you want, and I get what I want."
"For God's sake, close the door," the solicitor bleated.
Dawlish kept his eyes on Beddoes's face. "Which is?"
The smuggler grinned, revealing stained and broken teeth. "You aint above turnin' a trick here and there. The way the earl's always done it. He's been the connection with the gentry. That's why we've made so much money. You'll be the connection."
"Absolutely not," Rowling declared. "We're here merely to rescue a poor unfortunate girl whose wits have been addled since she was nine years old. Everything is strictly legal. What you're demanding is simply not possible."
Sebastian moistened his fat lips.
Beddoes raised his eyebrows and cocked his head in Rowling's direction.
The solicitor looked from one to the other. "Impossible," he said again. "Absolutely impossible."
Sebastian made up his mind. "And in exchange?"
Beddoes closed the door and stalked back across the room. "You get the bird and not only her money, but a share of a real sharp business deal."
"For God's sake, we're talking murder and smuggling. We're talking about breaking the law. I can't believe this. You can't be serious."
The smuggler swung on the mewling solicitor. He swept his coat aside to expose his duckfoot volley gun stuck in the left side of his belt and a horse pistol stuck in the right side.
Rowling squeaked at the sight of the arsenal and backed against the wall. His fist pressed to his mouth.
"That's right. We aint serious," Beddoes sneered. "We ain't serious at all. So just shut yer yap and back out if y' want to. But just remember you had your chance. Don't come pantin' around us when we got plenty and the business's goin' good."
"Rowling, it's the perfect solution," Sebastian urged. "When she's a widow, we can move to regain control of her estate on the grounds that she's incompetent. You can surely fix up those papers."
"But what about the law?" Rowling was white to the lips. He looked at the door and then at the pistol butts glinting in the flickering light. Never had he seen so much firepower on a single man. "Dawlish, you're talking about breaking the law."
"Yer friend here's sure got a yeller streak," Beddoes sneered.
"Not yellow," the solicitor objec
ted. "I'm not a coward. But neither am I a criminal."
"Oh, an' I suppose lockin' a woman up and stealin' her money's right and tight with the Parly-ment?"
"She's incompetent."
"So you say."
Sebastian brought his cane down hard on the floor. ""Gentlemen. We are getting nowhere. Sit down, Rowling, and keep your mouth shut. You're in this up to your neck and you know it. You can't go back without the Marleigh estate to manage. Old Barnstaple will fire you even if you are his partner's son. Remember his late partner, so loyalty can only extend so far." He turned to Beddoes. "How can we trust you?"
Beddoes laughed. "We’ll now, you can't. But I can’t trust you neither. Look, you bleedin' fools. It ain't like we're goin' to be friends. We're business partners just once in a while. So we don't see much of each other. That way we don’t get into each other's hair."
"I think—”
Dawlish nodded his head. "Shut up, Rowling. You haven't even started to think." He tucked his cane under his arm and walked across the room to Beddoes extending his hand. "To a mutually profitable partnership."
Beddoes stared down at the swollen white fingers, then up at the pudgy face. He grinned onesidedly. "Oh, it'll be profitable all right. For ever’body."
When the smuggler had gone, Rowling rounded on Dawlish. "Have you lost your mind? We can't get mixed up with an operation like that. I absolutely refuse. Do you hear me? Absolutely."