by Amelia Hart
"Can't call you Carhampton, though. Too much of a mouthful. Why did you have to pick such a long-handled title, hmmm?"
"I beg your pardon for inconveniencing you."
"Quite all right. I'll survive the strain. I didn't know you were back in town. Following your wicked countess, are you?"
"My-Pardon?"
"Lady Carhampton. She's set some tongues wagging, as you can imagine." Then as Christopher simply frowned at him, his eyebrows rose. "Dash it, I've put my foot in it, haven't I? Have you only just arrived in the city?” He shook his head at his own tactlessness, then shrugged in resignation and completed his tale. “It's no secret Michael Seton's been squiring her everywhere, and damned particular in his attentions. She doesn't shake him off. Your wife is delighted to dance and make merry with the boy, and he's a handsome lad. Speculation is rife. If she starts increasing in the next months, there'll be doubt it's yours." He finished with uncharacteristic grimness, no doubt responding to Christopher's expression.
Christopher could feel an unfamiliar rigidity in his face, his body, and the powerful urge to rend something.
"Are they here?" he asked with quiet menace.
"They were waltzing. Just-No, I can't see them anymore. Or wait, isn't that her over-Ah."
Both men saw her tall figure whisk out of sight down a dim corridor at the very farthest end of the ballroom, her hand in Michael Seton's.
"If you'll excuse me," said Christopher, with careful deliberateness.
"Perhaps you'd prefer company-"
"Thank you. But what I'd prefer is no witnesses."
"Don't kill anyone, will you?"
"I'll try not to," said Christopher, and was not certain his words were a joke.
_____
She stumbled after Michael, and lifted her skirt a little. When they rounded the first corner of the narrow hallway they were in near darkness. No candles burned here, and the noise from the ballroom was a muted roar, indistinct and oblivious.
"Slow down. I can't even see-"
But he suddenly stopped and she ran into him. Instantly his arms were around her, and she could feel he was shaking.
"Elizabeth. Oh, Elizabeth." His voice throbbed with passion.
"Please. This is wrong. Let me go."
"I can't wait any longer. I have to hold you."
"No you don't. You've misunderstood me. I'm sorry but I-"
His mouth came down on hers, rough and hasty, and she struggled against him. He was stronger than he looked, his arms hard whipcord. She had compared him to Chris's size and underestimated him, but she was no match for his strength.
She strained to push him away, and when that did not work she struck upwards with a clenched fist. It was a weak blow - she had so little space - and it caught her jaw along with his, so she bit her tongue and tasted blood in her mouth. It still snapped his head back and his arms fell away in shock.
"Bastard," she hissed. "Don't come near me again!" She picked up her skirts, and whirled to flee back the way they had come. But she took only a single step before she ran hard into a broad chest, and reeled back. Her upper arm was seized.
"I see I've arrived at a bad time," came a steely voice out of the darkness, and when she raised her head she could make out the familiar planes of his face, his eyes glittering in the faint light.
"Chris," she gasped, Her heart hammered. Relief coursed through her, followed swiftly by dismay. What had he seen? What did he imagine this was?
"Take your hands off her," Michael said from behind her, in a threatening growl. Chris's hand dropped away from her, but only so he could brush past her and with a powerful thrust, clout Michael on the jaw and lay him flat on the floor. The force of his blow was so great Michael slid a foot further on the polished wood, before he stopped, motionless.
Chris turned back to her, his chest heaving. "Madam," he said, and his voice was pure ice.
"I did not expect you," she said stupidly.
"Obviously."
"I didn't mean to-" she waved a hand in Michael's direction.
"Then take greater care." He loomed over her and she shrank back, but he took her shoulders and held them hard. She could feel heat roll off him, the tension of his rage. What would he do?
"I can explain-"
"Let me be clear, so there is no confusion," he said, silky soft. "You are mine. Don't make this mistake again."
"You don't understand. I wasn't-"
"I'm not inclined to listen to excuses and lies. Not in this moment. I am not . . . calm."
"Please, I don't know what you think but this is not-"
"I think you are very young. I think you are foolish and too easily led. I think you have made a mistake you must learn to regret, and never repeat. I should not have left you alone to these temptations. We are both at fault-"
"But I-"
"No!" Carefully he released her, set her away from him. "Don't argue with me about this."
"Listen to me! You have leapt to conclusions. It is not what it seemed to be-"
"Did you go alone into the darkness with a man who has been everywhere over town with you, your constant companion? Did I come upon him kissing you here, where you thought yourself alone?"
"Well-Yes, but-"
"Was it all you hoped? Did you enjoy it? Did he touch all your sweet body?" Now his torso was suddenly against hers, the wall at her back so she had nowhere to go. She was held in place by him, unyielding and implacable. There was so much of him, and his scent was in her nose, dark and alluring. His hand cupped her jaw and raised it, fingers digging in in fierce possession. His other hand slid from her waist to her hip, and squeezed. Every tingling nerve ending came alive and sang.
"Did you moan, Elizabeth?" Her name in his harsh voice was a curse, but his breath feathered her lips and she tilted her head back even more, as it became suddenly heavy in his grip, her neck growing weak. She arched her back, ruled by instinct, so her full breasts pressed against his chest in a gliding rub.
He lowered his head, rested his cheek on hers. "Shall I make you forget? Make you forget his touch-"
"He didn't-"
"Hush. Don't speak of him." She felt his hands at her skirt, taking great handfuls of the fabric and lifting. He shifted his pelvis so he could force the delicate cloth higher and trap it between them. Between her bare legs was suddenly the rough slide of his breech-clad thigh, wide and firm as she straddled it. He grasped her hips and ground her down on himself in forceful friction that made her gasp and flinch. Her hands lifted to his shoulders and she clung, unable to think, her fingers digging in as she gripped him fiercely.
Did he feel the subtle signs of her body? "You like that? Say yes," he commanded.
"Yes," she said, her voice tight and strange.
He shoved fingers into her bodice and eased a nipple free of its minimal restraint, deftly pinched it in a hold just short of pain, intensely pleasurable, so she gave a breathy cry of astonishment. His thigh between hers thrust with rhythmic pressure and she turned her face against his, seeking, seeking-His mouth came down on hers, madly possessive, shaped her lips, sucked on them as if he would devour her. She moaned and strained to be closer, her whole body lifting to him, fingers tangled in his clothes. She could not think, could not name what she wanted, only knew there was a great yearning in her for him, for all of him, to grab and consume and sink into him. She shook with the force of it, and made pleading, formless sounds.
"You are mine," he growled at her. "Mine. Say it."
"Yours."
"Don't forget."
"I didn't. I-"
He hitched her further up the wall, so now her legs lost all contact with the ground and fell either side of his waist. He buried his face in her breast, grasped a nipple in his mouth and worked it feverishly. She clutched at his head, her own head angled far back, as she was held up by him and the wall and pinned there. His hands were on her thighs and they slid up the underside of them, swiftly traveled higher until suddenly his fingers were the
re on that most secret, private place. So slippery, smoother than silk, he thrummed that tender flesh and groaned loudly in her ear.
His groan was echoed by a second to one side of them. They both froze, and looked at Michael.
He rolled his head from one side to one side, then tautened as if pain had suddenly hit. His hands went to his head and he moaned like a wounded animal, opened his eyes and blinked into the dimness.
Elizabeth made a convulsive effort to be free, but Chris's grip on her firmed, and when she looked at him she saw a cool challenge in his face.
"You will not go to him."
The next mangled sound Michael produced was her name, and he repeated it as he gathered his limbs and stood, awkward and swaying. She knew the moment he saw them for he stood still and peered at them. "Elizabeth?"
What a picture she must make: skirts lifted, her legs around Chris's waist, one breast bared. She was silent. Chris's body kept her pinned in place. When she lifted an arm to cover her exposed breast, he gravely pulled her bodice to one side and eased her soft flesh into the space he had created. His fingertips lingered.
"Elizabeth," Michael said again, his voice breaking, and when she met his gaze she saw his face twist and crumple. "Whore," he whispered.
Instantly Chris's hands were at her waist, He set her down and stepped away. His face held murder, and she was afraid.
She caught his arm. "Don't hit him again. Don't touch him. It doesn't matter-"
"You defend him?" he spat out, incredulous, and shot her a dark look under his brows.
"No, but he's not worth your trouble. Come away. Leave him be."
He looked at Michael, shoulders bunched, fists clenched. "You live by her grace. Come near my wife again, speak one word of her to anyone, and I'll call you out and shoot you where you stand." He took her by the upper arm and hurried her down the corridor, towards the light and laughter. They rounded a turn and he stopped abruptly while they still stood concealed by the shadows. "Pull yourself together."
She gazed up at him, frowning, and he tugged on a tendril of hair that hung loose from her coiffure. Her hand flew up and discovered the disarray.
"Your dress, too," he told her.
"I can't fix this here. I need a mirror, and more hairpins."
He only looked at her, very level, so she blushed and said sharply, "It was not I who ran fingers through my hair."
"Come," he said, and led her to a branching corridor a little ahead of them, keeping his body between her and the milling crowds in the light. This corridor was lit by occasional sconces, and he only put his head through two doorways before he found a woman's bedroom. He ushered her in and strode to the dressing table, shuffled through the tiny coffers on the dressing table and found one full of hairpins. He tipped them out, his movements sharply abrupt, then folded his arms across his chest and stood back to watch her.
She came forward on tentative feet. His expression was very grim. She sat at the dressing table and assessed the damage. Sections of her hair had been loosened, and although she poked at them hopefully, it was obvious she must take them down and start again. Carefully she began to unpin the dozen loops and her coiled braids.
There was a hectic flush on her cheeks and her eyes were wide and excited. He was here, and focused only on her. Yet he must be angry.
"Whatever you saw, just now,” she said, “I'm certain you misunderstood."
"Did I?"
"You must have. I imagine it looked dreadful." His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. "Michael has been my escort many times these past weeks. I knew him before we married. When I returned to the City he was kind and convenient and I-" she took a deep breath, "I was lonely and I encouraged him to accompany me."
His jaw tightened. She saw a muscle flex there. Still he was silent.
"I suppose I must take part of the blame, because he developed a tendre for me and imagined I returned it. I should have disillusioned him. I didn't. I-" she paused, pretended tying off a braid and securing it under another required all her attention. Honesty. She must be completely honest, or he would not think her penitent. "I liked his attention. After what you said to me, I needed-Wanted- I wanted to be cherished. It wasn't wise. Forgive me?"
Instinct told her it was a hopeless request. If there had ever been a chance he would learn to care for her, she had likely destroyed it when he came upon her being kissed in the darkness with another man. Her hands trembled as she slowly braided and tried to be brave in this dreadful moment.
"Forgiveness is not so cheap, Madam wife."
"I never intended to betray you. I didn't think it all through wisely enough. I'm so sorry."
He put one gloved hand around the base of her neck. She froze. It looked shocking in the mirror, so masculine against the demure white softness of her skin. Powerful and controlling.
"Do you intend to see him again?"
"I don't want to, ever. But I will have to. His family are invited everywhere."
"Will you seek him out?"
"Never."
"And nothing occurred with him that you keep secret from me?"
"Nothing. I swear it."
She watched in the mirror as he gazed contemplatively at the top of her head. "You do realize if you lie to me there is a very easy way to find out the truth?" His hand flexed, tightened. Present but not painful.
"What do you mean?"
Now his stare met hers in the mirror, fiercely burning behind his apparent calm. "If you have cuckolded me, your lack of innocence will make it obvious."
"I haven't." Her lack of innocence? She was not sure what he meant by that. Then she remembered a long-ago conversation with Lydia about female anatomy. "Do you mean my hymen?"
"Yes."
She took a breath for courage, then said the words on her lips, regardless of the consequences. "But you won't know for certain until you-" what was a correct euphemism? "try me."
He lifted his head, and his eyelids flickered. For a long moment there was silence except for the harsh sound of his breathing. "You suggest I test you?"
"You must. You don't have a choice. Otherwise how can you know for certain?" Her heart was beating so hard, so fast.
"You would have it happen so? Dispassionate? Distrustful? That is what you dream of between us?" His chest visibly rose and fell, and his eyes were hungry.
"However it must happen, my lord," she said, not entirely certain what she promised him, what this would mean, but knowing it was better than a barren limbo of a marriage. "I abhor waste. Right now, I am wasted. I won't live like this."
"So it will be me or someone else? Is that what you are saying?"
"I-" she faltered. That would be a lie. But would it achieve her goal? Was it a lie worth telling?
His two hands cupped her shoulders now, and squeezed almost hard enough to bruise. "How did I think you were sweet and demure?"
"I’m learning to be wild." There was something about his intensity that made her want to walk the edge with him, to plunge over into madness. She could tell he read more into her words than she truly understood, but there was nothing indifferent about him as he stood over her. She was not ignored. His focus was completely on her.
"So I am to test you?" His hand slid over her collarbone, then lower, until his fingertips were inside her decolletage, where they flexed against the slopes of her breasts.
She closed her eyes and longed for him to touch her nipple as he had before. Could it really have felt as good as she thought it had? Surely that was imagination?
Suddenly his mouth was on her neck, sucking on her tender flesh at the place where neck met shoulder, his tongue flicking the damp surface of her skin. Her eyes flew open and she gripped the edge of the seat.
"Yes."
His arms wrapped around her ribs from behind and he lifted her from the seat, knocking it over, and bore her to the bed, barely visible in the shadows. She clutched his forearms, iron bars around her midriff. Here? Now?
Should she tell him no?
Should she say she had been too bold, she was not ready after all?
But no, if the heat was in him now, she would not stop him. She wanted this. Even flawed, even knowing he still loved another, he was her husband and she wanted to be with him, and let the future fall how it would. In this moment she would act.
He dropped her onto the covers, and she scrambled towards the center of the bed, then turned in expectation. He stood beside the bed, staring at her, but when their eyes met he leaned over the bed and prowled onto it in pursuit. Her heart pounded, and she panted with excitement and terror. He was so close. Closer, inches away. She fell back, propped up on her elbows, and he braced himself with one arm on either side of her body so she looked up at him.
Nowhere did they touch, but the air between them pulsed with suspense.
Then he swooped, sudden as an eagle stooping to prey, and her faint shriek was muffled by his mouth as it came down on hers. His torso pressed hers into the mattress, her arms wrapped around him, her hips were pinned by his. She could not have wriggled away, but she did not want to.
His mouth was dark heat and temptation, slick and ravenous. He devoured her as if he was starving and she the feast, one hand holding her head still, the other hard on her breast. Her hands tunneled through his hair and with the scant inch of freedom he gave, she writhed against him. The feeling of him was magic, so potently masculine, hard and hot and everywhere. She could not sort one sensation from the next, there were so many of them and all so intense.
He shoved her dress and stays down far enough that her nipples sprang free, and then his hot mouth engulfed one, his fingers plucking at the other, and she moaned, her head tilting back hopelessly. He shifted his weight, rolled her to one side without releasing that devastation suction, and his hands fumbled feverishly at the line of buttons on the back of her dress, then the laces of her stays. Inch by inch he gave her freedom to breathe, until fabric bunched loosely around her.
But that awareness was near swamped by what he did to her breasts, that made her hips press to him in innocent welcome, untutored and fervent. She shook with the extraordinary bolts of sensation that shot through her as if her nipples were connected to that place deep within, low in her abdomen, that yearned to be closer to him, closer still.