by Cheryl Holt
Any number of seedy soirees were currently under way. He knew the locations of all the late gatherings, knew the hostesses, the guests, the types of lewd diversions being offered. After lengthy consideration, he chose his old friend Lady Carrington. She could always be counted upon for a great deal of indecent distraction, and her home was unceasingly occupied by uninhibited, comely, amenable women.
He recited the lady's direction, and several minutes later he was climbing her front steps, a butler accepting his wrap. He strolled through the downstairs rooms, sipping strong Scottish whiskey and murmuring hellos to those clustered in the shadowy corners.
Couples were everywhere, in various stages of intoxication and undress. All were unable to wait for a private chamber, plus there was the added excitement of having others watch. No matter which way he turned, he saw bare breasts, fondling, copulation. In one salon, a naked woman danced on a table while numerous gentlemen sat in a circle, ogling her. In another, a man was reclined on a sofa, a woman balanced over him, sucking his cock. The man's friend knelt behind the woman, fucking her with furious determination.
The carnal atmosphere only served to increase his desire for a tumultuous, mindless sexual tryst. Michael had the right of it: This was the exact cure for what ailed him. With a bit of help from any of the depraved females in attendance, he'd readily vent the turmoil he'd been experiencing
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in Lady Abigail's company. As he looked around, he realized that this dark world of lust and sin, with these people who could and would commit any despicable act, was what he understood, where he thrived. He belonged here with them, and he couldn't imagine what had possessed him to believe he could fit into the sunny, daytime sphere of a lady such as Abigail Weston.
Certainly he would continue to meet with her, to give her lessons and impart information. He would do it rationally, calmly, carefully. But after.. . after, he would come to a place such as this.
As he finished his second glass of whiskey, he espied Barbara Ritter, a widow and past paramour. He'd stopped bedding her simply because he never dallied with the same lover for any period of time. He belonged to no woman, and an extended affair might have caused her to believe otherwise. Renewing their salacious acquaintance was risky, since it might furnish the wrong impression about his purely sexual interest, but there were obvious benefits, as well. His cock was already stirring at the memory of the forbidden delights in which she regularly engaged.
An added boon, she was tall, buxom, and ebony-haired, the complete opposite of his petite, blond Abby. A worldly, dissolute woman, she grasped—in a manner Lady Abigail never could—how a person could fornicate without strong emotional attachment.
A commoner who had married well to an aging baron, she was lured by the attractions of the night—just as he was. They'd met during the months when her husband had been on his deathbed. While he lay dying, his young, pretty wife had drifted through the maze of London's parties, and she'd gradually allowed herself to be drawn into the city's squalid underside.
Catching her eye was easy. A tip of his glass, a nod, and she was standing next to him. Thankfully, the small talk was minimal. She knew what she wanted, as did he. Holding hands, they maneuvered the stairs, searching through the rooms until they located one that was unoc-
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cupied. Quickly, they disrobed and went through the beginning motions.
Happy to let her be in charge, he reclined against the pillows, and she straddled his thighs. Familiar with what he enjoyed, she handled his balls and stroked his cock, using all the wiles at her disposal, which were a formidable amount. Finally, she impaled herself on his rigid member and rode him, her cleft milking him, her large breasts dangling in his face.
Then there was only the sex. Rough and hard and meaningless.
When she finally traveled down his chest to his stomach, then lower, he stared at the ceiling, waiting for that rush of sensation, that blaze of desire, but it never arrived. He held his breath, tensed, ready, longing for the nasty pull of arousal she usually induced, but he was unable to focus on gratification because he was so thoroughly distracted by the lack of feeling the joining generated. When she ultimately closed her lips around him and sucked at him, he absently reached for the back of her head to urge her closer.
If he thought at length about what he was doing, he'd recognize his disgust with himself, his weaknesses, his inability to bond with a woman of refinement, but he didn't choose to dwell on his abundant character deficits. Instead, he centered his musings just on the moment. On hands, and mouths, and tongues, but nothing more.
It was easy to disassociate himself from the room, the behavior, the depraved woman with whom he copulated. None of it truly mattered. The brunette widow, who serviced him so efficiently, gradually taded into the background . . . until. . . she became Abby.
His beautiful Abby was kneeling before him, wanting him and loving him with her sensuous mouth and talented fingers. The fantasy image sizzled to life and spurred his ardor to a previously unexperienced height.
He closed his eyes and let himself go.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Abigail heard his footstep on the stair and nearly staggered with relief. After their last parting, she hadn't known if he'd return. He'd been enraged and perturbed over what they were doing, and his bizarre attitude made her want to laugh aloud. Considering their backgrounds, she was the one who should be suffering all the anxiety. Not him. Their change of roles seemed ridiculous.
He grappled with protecting her from herself, but she required no protection. She cherished these encounters, longed for them. For him. Completely overwhelmed, she could concentrate on nothing else. Her world had shrunk to these stolen moments. The dull hours passed in an imprecise haze of monotonous tasks while she brooded away for this single instant when he would walk through the door and their secret assignations would begin anew.
Her entire life was disrupted. She couldn't eat, chat, sleep. Her unendurable nights were a restless litany of tossing and turning, peppered with scattered erotic dreams of James Stevens in various states of undress, of his breath against her skin, of his face buried against her bosom. She would wake in a sweat, her heart pounding, her breasts full and aching and beckoning her toward a release from physical agony that never arrived.
All she could think about was the intimate manner in which he had let her touch the front of his trousers so that she could feel his aroused condition. It was a heady adventure, this initial understanding of the power she held over a man. Who would have guessed that she maintained an ability to excite such a potent, sexual creature?
He had wanted her in the worst way, just as he did his other women, and the knowledge filled her with a strange awe that she could be so fervently desired by one such as
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James. She'd never imagined herself as the type of female who could lure a man to desperate carnal heights, and the idea was as exciting as it was frightening, for of a sudden, her body seemed to be possessed with a will of its own, and she had very little say about what direction was taken.
Surprisingly, she'd become this out-of-control, sensual being, and she couldn't change her route and travel back to the person she'd been before. All she could do was hope that James would kiss her again. That he would keep on kissing her and never stop. That the sensations he stirred would grow and spiral until they were beyond her conception.
The door opened, and there he stood, looking handsome, dignified, magnificently virile. He lingered on the threshold, silent and composed, and his stern forbearance gave her pause, but despite his reserved entrance, she couldn't contain her exuberance.
"Hello, James." She smiled warmly, loving the chance to speak his name, and relishing it like a fine wine. "I'm so glad you came. I was so afraid you wouldn't."
Her modest disclosure destroyed his control. Resigned, he shrugged, then flashed his own smile as he held out his hands in welcome. She ran
to him, and he began kissing her: her hairline, her forehead, brows, eyes, cheeks.
Finally, finally he found her mouth. Their lips melded, and she was assailed by his indescribable taste. With a flick of the wrist, he removed the ribbon she'd utilized to bind her hair, and his fingers tangled in it, working over and over through the long strands until he wrapped the mass around his fist and used it as leverage to tip her head back.
He intensified the kiss, his tongue dipping inside. She met his with her own, urging him deeper, closer, and he groaned with pleasure. The sound sent a tingling flurry of butterflies coursing through her stomach.
Greatly encouraged, she cradled him in her arms, treasuring the sensation of his robust physique. Her own feminine shape conformed against him perfectly. He was firm where she was soft, flat where she was rounded, and she
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felt as though she were created for embracing him and no other purpose at all.
They were merged; stomach, thighs, calves forged fast. Her breasts were heavy, the nipples throbbing and extended, and they pressed agonizingly against his chest. Each time he inhaled, they rubbed against him, creating an unbearable friction.
He roamed down, past her waist, to where he kneaded his fingers into her curved bottom, pulling her nearer than she could have imagined. He flexed into her, and she responded in kind, unable to believe the jolt her body received from his erect member pushing against her abdomen.
It was as though a shot of lightning had suddenly pierced her. She sensed a burst of fire in the woman's spot between her legs. The flame roared upward, through her veins, to her nipples, then passed out to her extremities. Yearning to encounter more of the same, she bravely dropped her own hands, landing on the tight cords of muscle across his backside and thighs.
Their hips rocked together. His cock was hard, solid, ready for her, and it occurred to her that, right then, she'd have done anything for him. Removed her clothing. Given up her virginity. Jumped off a cliff! Whatever he might request, she would happily acquiesce—if only he would keep these marvelous sensations escalating one after the next.
There was a definite madness connected to this conduct that made a person quite forget everything that mattered, and she suffered the fleeting realization that this was why young ladies were so heavily chaperoned, watched, and guarded. Others had already learned what she was just discovering: Desire knew no bounds. She could and would please this man in any fashion, with nary a thought or a moment's regret.
He ended their kiss, and she couldn't believe how greatly she immediately missed its absence, or how ardently she craved the instant it would start again. His lovely blue
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eyes gazed upon her, and they were filled with lust, but also with another sentiment she didn't recognize. Longing, perhaps?
"How do you do this to me?" he queried in a raspy voice. "I've spent the past four days telling myself that I could behave. That I could discipline myself in your presence, and then I have but to see you and all my good intentions fly out the window."
"So .. . you're not angry with me?" she asked.
"Angry? With you?" he asked in reply. "Lord, no. I was upset with myself. I continue to forget why I am here, that you have need of my knowledge and nothing more."
"I find myself forgetting, as well," she admitted.
The torment that had plagued her—that she'd offended him with her brazenness, that she was acting too boldly, that she had pushed him beyond some personal limit—had been torture. Relief flooded through her that her fears had been groundless, and she sagged against his lean body, overwhelmed by the smell of his skin, by the starch and soap in which his shirt had been laundered.
For a long while, he hugged her tightly, so tightly she could scarcely breathe. "I'm terribly enamored of you," he said, "and I can't seem to exercise better judgment."
At his stunning admission, her heart did a desperate flip-flop, and she shut her eyes against the actualities, wanting his words to be true, to be true forever. "That's not such a bad thing, is it?" she inquired.
"Oh, Abby . . ." He buried his face in her hair, then shifted away, slipping his fingers into hers. "Come sit with me?"
Eagerly, she nodded, and he led her to the small sofa. When she commenced to seat herself next to him as she had previously, he reclined against the arm and drew her down until she was stretched out across him and resting between his thighs. She fit neatly into the space, her hip and stomach pressed against his erection, her breasts against his own. His lips hovered inches from hers, a warm sigh sweeping across her cheek and, just when she thought he
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might kiss her again, he impelled her to relax, and she was snuggled against his shoulder.
Oh, this was sweet! So very sweet! Unable to resist, she kissed against his nape, and in response she earned herself one on the crown of her head. They remained joined as she adjusted to the novel sensation generated by the intimate contact, his hands lazily massaging her back, hair, hip, thigh. Overcome with a vast sense of contentment, she could have kept on in perpetuity. There was nowhere else she wanted to be; no other place that she belonged.
"What are your days like?" she murmured happily.
"My days?"
"Yes, your days. When we're apart, I can't help but ruminate about you."
"You shouldn't."
"I realize that, but I do anyway. I wonder who you're with, where you are, how you've spent your time."
"Boring tidbits, to be sure." A laugh rumbled through his chest, making it rise and fall, and she laid a palm in the center, liking that she could feel his heart beating so slowly and steadily.
"Not to me," she insisted. "It seems as though we're very close, but in fact, I know nothing about you at all, and I would like some substance to round out my imaginings."
"What would you like to know?"
"Let's see . . ." she mused. "How about your home? Where do you reside?"
His hesitation was so prolonged that she decided he wasn't going to answer, or perhaps he didn't wish to tell her. Finally, he said, "I live in a three-story row house here in the theater district." As though he needed to justify the location, he added, "It's convenient for my mother."
"She's an actress?" He stiffened imperceptibly—if she hadn't been in his arms, she might not have noticed—but he seemed to be bracing himself for the cutting remark he expected to follow. When none came, she was rewarded with a kiss against her hair.
"She doesn't take to the stage all that much anymore.
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But the theater is in her blood, and she can't leave it alone. She's quite involved at the Chelsey."
"That's where she began her career?"
"Yes"—she could perceive his nod—"she does a little of everything, raising money, directing, and teaching. Occasionally, she acts when there's a part in which she's interested."
"I don't recall that I've ever seen her on the stage, but I hear she was quite something in her day."
"She was," he agreed, chuckling. "She still is."
"What's she like?"
"Oh . . . how does one characterize one's mother?" He pondered his description, then said, "She's extremely dynamic. Talented, tough. Determined and strong-willed."
"Very beautiful?"
"That, too, even after all these years."
"And your home, does your brother abide with the two of you?"
"Yes, and he assists me with the running of our gaming establishment."
"How did you get involved in owning such a business?"
"Our father gave it to us."
Shocked, she reared up to look him in the eye. She couldn't fathom any father buying his children a gambling house, especially Edward Stevens. "Your father? The Earl of Spencer?"
"The very one," James proclaimed. " 'Twas after we returned from France. He hoped that gainful employment might keep me off the streets."
"Did it?"
"Well, in my day,
I had acquired a deserved reputation as a terror." As he grinned in that mocking way he had, she could just picture how he'd been a young man full of trouble and mischief. He clarified, "My father's family had always owned an interest in it, and he bought out the other two members so that we could have the sole management of the facility. I had just gotten married, and he theorized that it would smooth things over if I had a reliable income, but. .."
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He shifted uncomfortably, gazing across the room, witnessing a replay of old memories. With a shudder, he complained, " 'Tis old history, Abby. I don't like to talk about it."
From the anguish in his voice, it was evident they were poised on the edge of subjects he never shared with others, but she wanted him to share them with her. She felt connected to him as she'd never been with another, and by the very nature of their association, he should be able to tell her any tale. His secrets would readily become her own. After all, to whom could she possibly mention them?
His attempt to avoid discussion of his marriage was highly informative, and though she hated to acknowledge her pettiness, she was privately pleased that his experience had been less than satisfactory. Somehow, she'd started to regard him as her own, and she had difficulty envisioning him linked with another woman, especially a long-deceased wife.
Gently, she prodded, "Your marriage wasn't happy, was it?"
"No," he admitted, shaking his head. "She was very miserable, inconsolable over her fate at having to wed me. She took it out on my mother and Michael. 'Twas dreadful."
"Why did you go through with it?"
"I was young," he said, as if that explained all- "I allowed others to convince me that it was the proper route. My father, mainly, but it turned out to be a frightful decision. I'd never do anything so foolish a second time, no matter the pressure, no matter the cost." Appearing puzzled by his own ardency, he rested his hand on her neck and snuggled her, once again, across his torso, her face burrowed into the crook of his neck. "I can't believe I just confessed so much to you. I never talk about her or that period with anyone."