by Lavinia Kent
The warm breeze of the night caressed her, sliding over those places yet untouched. She squirmed as air moved between her legs, as her hidden secrets were bared. She wanted to turn, to press herself against him, to have the hairs of his chest press against her breast, to feel his fullness pressed against her belly. The stone gritted against her palms as she pushed hard against the wall, refusing to give in to her desires.
“Open your legs. Yes, just like that. You glisten in even this dim light. Do you know what it does to me to see your desire? To see how much you love doing what I say? My cock weeps for you.” His thumbs slid down the cleft of her ass, until they trailed in her moisture.
A low moan escaped her lips. Now, her mind cried. Now. She held back the word, biting hard on her lip, pressing her face more tightly against the cool stone.
One of his hands slipped fully between her legs, delving between the folds, teasing, caressing, searching.
“You like that. Don’t you, my lovely?” His lips pressed against her ear, the words hardly more than a sigh.
“Yes.” It seemed to be the only word he wanted to hear—and the only word she wanted to say.
And then his fingers were in her, plunging deep, driving her farther against the wall, and she could not restrain the moan, her hips driving back against him. More. She wanted more.
He pushed higher, digging deep against the soft flesh, not gentle or playful, but demanding.
“Ohhh. Please,” she moaned.
“Please what?” He pressed higher, fuller, his fingers stretching within her, spreading.
It was not comfortable—it hurt—but still she wanted and wanted, her need growing, the ache expanding to fill her.
“You. I want you. I need you now.” The words could not be contained any longer.
His fingers dove even deeper, lifting her to her toes. God. Her body sucked at him, demanding. Her breath came in sharp pants each time he plunged deep. She tried to push back, to take more, but the angle would not allow it.
“Greedy, aren’t you,” he laughed against her neck.
A hand landed on her upper back, pushing it into the wall, tilting her hips to him. The stone bit against her nipples, cold and rough. She twisted, increasing the feeling, each rub sending sparks along her entire being.
She was nothing but sensation.
And then his fingers were out of her. She cried at the loss, but rejoiced as she felt him grab her cheeks, separating them, felt the head of his cock positioned between her legs.
He thrust in, fully.
She cried out.
It was too much. He was too much. Her being would burst with fullness.
Her toes left the ground as he pushed farther, catching her between himself and the wall.
Her palms pressed back, trying to make room for breath, but it was useless. She was his to do with as he chose.
He held her there, toes dangling, letting her feel his strength and power.
He pulled back, pushed again, and again. Her body scraped against the rock, but it did not matter. Her whole being was centered on the ache that grew and grew.
One of his hands slipped about her to the front, settling between her legs, holding her even more tightly against him, almost but not quite touching that bundle of nerves that centered her need.
“Please,” she moaned against the rock, almost mindless in her desire, almost hopeless in her drive to fulfillment, her body crying with hunger.
He brushed a thumb against her, but held back, refusing to give that which she wanted.
She tried to push forward, to push back, unsure which way lay fulfillment.
His second hand slipped forward, bracing her.
And then he pounded into her, harder than ever before, deeper than ever before. There was nothing gentle, nothing sweet. This was demand—heat and demand.
It felt as if her body would split, as if she could take no more, and yet she did, softening for him, stretching for him—accommodating him. Her hips began their own motion, swaying, reaching. It was as if she no longer controlled her own body. All she knew was him, all she needed was him.
His finger brushed across her again. She cried out.
And again. Harder. Firmer.
She was almost there. She reached for it with all her might, seeking that single moment, that flash of light.
And then his fingers pinched her hard.
“Now,” he demanded
And she came—and came—and came.
Light. Blackness. Kaleidoscopes of color. She had them all, felt them all.
Came apart and was remade.
Still he plundered her, faster, harder, deeper.
The stone bit cruelly into her and she did not care, could not care.
It was all beginning again. The tightening. The aching. The need.
She heard her flesh slapping against the wall, heard the pant of his breath, heard her own cries.
She felt the burn of stretched muscles, the coldness of stone, the ache of unending need.
But mostly she felt him, all of him, felt his wants, his needs, his demands.
And she gave herself over, gave him her all, as she felt his cock stretch and grow, felt it pulse within her.
He ground her hard into the stone as he gave that final thrust, that hardest, deepest thrust of all. He cried her name then, and spilled his seed deep within her.
And as he cried she felt herself give way again, felt the whole world collapse into a single pinprick of light and then explode.
And she flew.
Afterward she could not move, could barely breathe, as he lifted her and carried her to the stone bench, then smoothed her skirts back down along her legs. The stickiness of their joining seeped along her thigh as he positioned her against him. His hand rose to her bodice, hesitated, gave her the gentlest of caresses. He leaned toward her, laid a soft kiss of adoration upon one bruised nipple, and then with utmost care pulled up her gown.
Her eyes had drifted closed and she knew she should open them, should look about. But it was all too much effort. Perhaps if the weather had been cold and brisk she would have found the strength, but it was warm and sultry and sleep was beckoning.
Surely it could not hurt, not just for a second.
Burrowing her face into his shoulder, she let herself drift, let herself continue to float upon that cloud of wonder and satisfaction.
Fulfillment. She’d heard that term a thousand times, but had never understood it. She’d found satisfaction before, but nothing like this. Her whole body was languid, her mind hazy with pleasure.
Nothing could have been better. She cuddled closer and his arm rose about her, sheltering, protecting. His scent surrounded her—leather, smoke, the subtle edge of amber … and the scent of their joining. She’d never thought of the smell of sex as comforting, but as her mind lost focus all she could think of was how peaceful it all was.
She awoke with a start. Had it been minutes—hours? Surely not hours.
Lifting her head, she shook off the heavy folds of Geoffrey’s cloak. The fabric was so soft and warm. It should have been a baby’s blanket, not a man’s cloak. Her head felt heavy, but she lifted it anyway, turning to gaze up at the man who held her with such tenderness.
“How are you? Did I hurt you? I should have acted with more care.” His voice rang with concern.
“No.” She shifted on the bench, feeling the ache in unpracticed muscles. “I am perhaps sore, and may grow sorer, but I am quite content. Happy even, I believe.”
“Still, I should have—”
She raised a hand and laid it upon his lips. “It is my turn to shush you. I did not complain, did not stop you. I wanted this too.”
“I do not deserve you.”
She could not resist. “You probably do not.”
His chuckle reverberated against her. “Are you hungry?”
“Don’t tell me you have a lobster patty in your pocket? Oh, that did not come out as I meant it.”
He chuckled again
, and then held out her pomegranate.
How had he gotten that—from the ground, where she must have dropped it?
He pulled a small dagger from its sheath and pierced the fruit deeply, slicing it open. With the tip of the knife he pulled out a number of seeds. They glistened in the starlight. Looking deep into her eyes, he held the knife out to her, inviting her to taste.
She hesitated, sensing there was more to this simple moment than was immediately apparent.
His deep voice rumbled. “You do know that if you taste the food of the underworld you will be mine forever, my Persephone, my Grace.”
He knew. There was no mistaking the heavy emphasis he placed upon the name. Holding his gaze, she slowly parted her lips, and remained still as he slid the tip of the dagger between her teeth; then she bit down and let the tart, juicy seeds run into her from the cold steel. She chewed, feeling the pop of flavor within her mouth, swallowing his promise.
Reaching out, she took the blade from him, slid it back into the firm flesh of the pomegranate, scooped the glistening flesh. “I do believe it was only six months, not forever, my dark lord.” She held the knife out to him, watched as his mouth opened and his teeth closed about it. “I do believe, however, that if you partake also we may both be prisoner, bound together each year, all year. Bound together forever, my Charles.”
His teeth bit down on the blade, and he pulled back, taking the seeds. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the glisten of crimson juice upon his lips. “Yes: forever.”
Part Three
Unmasked
Chapter Twenty-four
There was so much still unresolved. Swanston slipped from his bed, careful not to wake his slumbering wife. A small snore escaped from between her parted lips, and he grinned. He’d carried her from the party last night, his cloak wrapped tight about her to hide the damage to her gown. In the future, he would remember to be more careful.
More careful in so many ways. He could have hurt her last night. He’d been out of his mind with desire—and frustration. For so long he’d used sex as the release of all his emotions. Now it was so much more than that. And yet …
He didn’t like this feeling of not knowing, of not being sure what to do. His life was about knowing exactly what to do and then doing it, perfectly.
He’d hoped for talk—and perhaps more—after they arrived home, but Louisa had crawled into the bed exhausted and not woken since.
Brushing a hand in Louisa’s silky curls, he wondered how he could ever deserve her. He’d never had a woman give herself over as completely as Louisa had last night. Even the most obedient submissive always held something back.
Louisa had not.
She’d given him her all, given him herself.
But questions still hung between them.
In the middle of the night, in the middle of passion, it had all seemed so simple, they seemed so simple—but morning and daylight brought questions.
Questions from her.
Questions from him.
How much did she know about Ruby’s? He still could not believe that Louisa had ever found herself in such a place. He could barely believe that Brookingston had frequented the house. It was unbelievable that a woman as innocent as his wife had known of such a place.
Yes, he had questions.
Why had she been so passive on their wedding night? What had happened to his Grace to turn her into a woman who did not move? And when had she known who he was? Is that why she’d agreed to marry him?
He’d always wondered. Almost any woman in the kingdom would have been delighted to marry the heir to the Duke of Mirth, and yet he’d never sensed that about Louisa. She’d agreed to marry him, not Mirth’s heir.
Blast. There was so much he needed to know.
But where did a man begin? He could not even imagine the conversation.
With another quiet curse, he pulled on his pants and shirt and, grabbing his boots and stockings, went to find his valet. It was not the moment yet for this conversation and so he’d let Louisa sleep.
Could life be as wonderful as a dream? For ten seconds, twenty seconds, two minutes, it was—and then thoughts of her daytime life intruded. What happened now?
Finding out that Geoffrey was Charles should have been the end of the story, should have been the happy ending. It would have been in any of the Minerva Press novels Louisa had read. So why wasn’t life so simple?
Sitting up in the large bed, she looked about. It was the first chance she’d really had to observe the space Geoffrey chose to live in. The furniture was large and masculine, heavy wood pieces without a flake of gilding in sight. The two chairs by the window were well cushioned and comfortable. They were not worn, yet looked well used. The fabrics were thick and plush, but plain; Geoffrey evidently did not care for brocades and fancy embroideries. A large landscape hung above the mantel, a brilliant sunset over golden fields. Louisa was confident that it depicted a piece of his estate. There were two small portraits above his dresser. His parents? He did not seem the type to have his mother watch over his bed, even if he slept alone. And the style of hair and dress was a good decade or two past what Louisa would have imagined his parents wearing. Plus, she knew his feelings about the duke. It seemed impossible that he would hang his father’s likeness in this chamber. Then who? She would have to ask.
One more question among the many.
Rising from the bed, she grabbed Geoffrey’s robe and strolled to her own chamber. A pot of cooling chocolate sat upon the table. Should she instruct her maid to start bringing it to Geoffrey’s chamber? She’d spent the last two nights there. Was this a pattern for the future?
She poured a cup of the chocolate and mixed it with milk and sugar. Although somewhat tepid, the chocolate glided down her throat, coating it with rich sweetness. Each swallow restored a bit of life, renewed a bit of hope.
Reaching out, she rang for her maid, and asked her for a hot bath. She certainly needed one after last night. Every muscle ached and no matter how much she might have enjoyed the scents of their joining, some things grew quickly stale.
How should she scent the water? Her usual lemon soap and vanilla oil? It brought comfort and familiarity. She could use a few drops of the rose perfume. Geoffrey did seem to like it, but it was not a scent for day.
Lemon and vanilla for now, but she would need to visit the perfumer soon, perhaps even today. She felt a new woman, and a new woman needed a new scent.
“I’ll wear the yellow silk day dress, Marie,” she said as the bath was filled. “Do you know where the marquess is? Has he gone riding?”
Marie looked up from her task. “I believe that he is in the library, my lady. He rode early and then breakfasted. Now I believe he is closeted with his account books.”
“Thank you.” So he was here. There was no reason not to talk to him—except what did one say? This could be as awkward as her conversation with Lady Ormande. Well, perhaps that was unlikely, but it could still prove difficult.
But it was time to talk, time to face things straight on. The woman who had stood at Madame Rouge’s door a few months ago had done what needed to be done. It was time to prove that she was still that woman.
Dropping the robe, she stepped into the bath. Was there a better place to think than a tub of hot bubbles?
Geoffrey looked up as, with a light tap on the door, Louisa walked into the room. It threw him for the briefest of moments; no one entered this room without his summons. She, however, was not “no one.” He could picture her response if he told her to wait for his call.
She was lovely this morning, the light silk of her dress highlighting her pale complexion and dark, glossy hair. Her lips were red and slightly swollen. Her eyes were slightly shadowed, but that only added to her fragility and allure. Each step she took was chosen with care, and he wondered if he had left her sore. The thought should not have excited him, but his cock moved against his thigh. And her nipples. They’d been so chafed the night before; did the
very touch of her chemise send ripples of sensation through her?
He smiled in acknowledgment, shifting in his chair, glad that the heavy desk kept some things from her sight. “And how are you this morning, my wife?” He gestured her to a chair.
She smiled back at him, and then chose a different chair, one more directly in his line of sight. “I am quite well, my lord. And you?”
“I am also well. I was concerned you might be … a trifle worn after last night.”
“No. I am quite well.”
A bird chirped outside the window.
The sound of hurrying footsteps sounded from the hall.
“The day is quite lovely, is it not, my lord? I do love midsummer.”
“Yes, early July is quite an accommodating time of month. I sometimes visit Risusgate so that I can enjoy the country when the weather is so fair.”
“And such a wonderful way to escape the coming heat.”
“Yes, the country can be quite a bit cooler, and there is always a good breeze.”
“I have heard that. I must confess that Brookingston’s home tended to be rather humid and damp in the summer. But the gardens were spectacular. My roses were among the best in the county.”
“And are you partial to roses?”
“Yes, although I’ve always preferred the whites and yellows to the reds and pinks. They seem so underappreciated.”
He stretched his legs beneath the desk. “I must confess I’ve never considered the appreciation factor of roses.”
“You should look about. Hostesses always have the reds and the pinks, and sometimes the whites, but almost never the newer yellows.” And then Louisa’s cheeks curved up, a smile lit her face, and a slow, rich chuckle fell from those full lips. “I can’t believe I am talking about flowers with you. I think we’ve talked more this morning than at almost any other time, and it has all been flowers and weather. That is not what I came in here to talk about.” Her face grew serious again, her lips losing their curve.
“I know.” He leaned forward. “And yet, it is not a bad thing to just talk about that which matters little. I fear I do not spend enough of my life in such talk.” He loosed a slow sigh. “I seem to spend all my time being serious.”