by Cheryl Holt
"That's all right. We have plenty of time." He stood, too. "I'll discuss our agreement with Father so that everything's arranged with him, but in the meantime, we should probably keep our decision a secret until Jerald gives us his permission."
"Silence will be extremely difficult. I yearn to shout the news to the entire world."
"As do I." Shockingly, he bent down and nibbled against her neck. Her skin prickled, and she blushed furiously, but just then a strangled sort of birdcall arose from the terrace, and he whirled around. "What the devil is that?"
"My maid." She glanced through the latticework toward
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the house, and the servant was leaning against the balustrade, scanning the lawns. " 'Tis our signal. Margaret must be looking for me." She hurried to the stairs, but turned for a final good-bye, and as she did, Charles swept her into his arms, bestowing an ardent kiss—the kind she'd always longed to receive. It was urgent and invasive; he toyed with her mouth, and his hands stroked up and down her back, once even landing on her bottom! He groaned with his desire for her, and the sound unleashed a flurry of mad butterflies that swirled through her stomach.
Her maid whistled again, more frantically, and regretfully their lips separated.
"I must go," she asserted, nervous and disappointed. She wanted to kiss him again, to continue kissing him until. . . Well, she didn't understand what until would entail, but her body unmistakably recognized the appropriate direction. She was aching and disturbed in ways she'd never been previously, and with extreme clarity, she grasped that Charles would be able to ease her distress in a manly fashion she couldn't define.
"Will you be in church on Sunday?" he asked.
"Definitely."
"Sit where I can see you."
"I will," she promised, then she was away.
She traveled through the garden, walking sedately as she'd been taught, even though her flesh was screaming with an overload of sensation. With a practiced patience and control, she waltzed up the steps to the terrace and slipped in the rear door. As she passed her maid, the girl whispered, "Lady Margaret was asking for you."
"Thank you," she mouthed in reply.
Passing a mirror, she took a peek. Her nose was red, mist glistened in her hair, goose bumps riddled her arms. Other than those small catastrophes, she was in one piece. She looked cold, but not undone.
As she approached the front parlor, Margaret huffed into the hall. "Where have you been?" she snapped.
"I decided some fresh air would be beneficial. You recall
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how I hate riding in the coach." It was the perfect lie. As a child, she'd often gotten motion sickness from the rocking.
"We are ready to depart. Go make your au revoir to your sister."
"I shall."
"Don't dawdle."
"I won't, Margaret."
Relieved by the brief respite, she headed for the stairs, while wishing fervently that she could remain in London with Abigail. At the best of times, Margaret was unpleasant, but trapped in an enclosed carriage, she was categorically impossible. Caroline never minded Jerald—as it was, she hardly ever saw her older brother—but Margaret was a different matter entirely. As was his detached custom, Jerald at least tried to be pleasant, but Margaret went out of her way to be annoying.
She reached the top landing and made for Abigail's room, disheartened that she couldn't spill her grand secret to someone. Especially Abigail. This was the greatest day of her entire life! She was promised! But Charles had the right of it. She couldn't gamble by confiding in a single soul.
Abigail was a wonderful person, but she could also be extremely conservative. Caroline had wrongfully sneaked off with Charles, and Abigail might not like learning of it. She might tell Jerald, then Jerald would tell Margaret, and how it would go from there was anyone's guess. With her marital status about to be resolved, Caroline couldn't risk creating an uproar.
She knocked on Abigail's door but didn't receive an answer. Assured that her sister was inside, she entered. A quick scan of the premises indicated that Abigail wasn't present, but on her bed were two boxes with Madame LaFarge's distinctive logotype on the front. The lids had been removed, the contents rifled through, and she looked in the first one to see what Abigail had received from the eminent dressmaker.
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Unequivocally surprised, she stumbled upon a one-piece undergarment, the likes of which she'd never previously confronted. It had two narrow shoulder straps, and it attached at the crotch with three small buttons. The color was shiny and seemed dark black, but when she slipped her hand under the fabric, it was nearly transparent. There were bosom cups, but they were extremely low-cut. Lacing down the center could be untied to the waist.
She picked it up and turned it back and forth. It was skimpy, and it wouldn't cover anything a woman needed to keep covered. If Abigail were to don the scandalous costume, she'd be prancing around naked under her clothing, and Caroline couldn't help pondering the purpose to be served by such a sordid ensemble.
Unless Abigail had a man who would . ..
The notion burst out of nowhere, and it was so outrageous that she couldn't possibly conjure a means of finishing it. Some thoroughly feminine part of her discerned that the scant speck of silk was exactly the thing a man would enjoy for some sort of passionate activity. There couldn't be any other reason to wear it.
Apparently, there were major events transpiring in Abigail's life of which all in the household were grossly unaware.
Wouldn't Margaret just expire if she knew!
Intrigued, she dug through the box. Underneath was a gauzy robe that would only fall to midthigh, black garters, black stockings, and two black shoes with very high heels. Her gaze shifted to the other box, and she saw red ... a red mini-robe, red stockings, red garters and shoes. Whatever costume had been there was gone.
"My, my ..." Caroline muttered.
In the adjoining dressing room, Abigail was moving about, and like the worst voyeur, Caroline tiptoed to the door and peeped through the crack.
Abigail dawdled in front of the mirror, studying her reflection. Fully dressed, but holding the bright red garment against her torso, she was swaying as though dancing to an
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unheard tune. Clearly, she was picturing how the apparel would appear once she had it on.
Like the black contraption on the bed, the garment was meant to tantalize and seduce. Two pieces instead of one, the top was a cupped affair with a single string of lace in the middle to bind it together—or let it fall open. The bottom was an inadequate swatch of crimson, a sort of pantalet, that would leave a woman's privates completely exposed.
If Abigail had been modeling the frippery, her entire midriff and backside would have been bared!
Lost in her reverie, Abigail twirled around, and abruptly, the two sisters were face-to-face. They regarded each other silently, both flushing with embarrassment. Caroline knew why she was chagrined: She'd been caught snooping. But she wasn't sure why Abigail was so abashed unless her suspicions were correct. Perhaps there was a man in Abigail s life.
"I'd thought you'd departed without a good-bye," Abigail said pleasantly, as though Caroline hadn't witnessed any untoward behavior. She dropped the red outfit to her side, not attempting to hide it, but plainly not intending to allow Caroline a close assessment.
"I came to do just that," Caroline responded, trying to act as nonplussed as her older sibling. Casually, Abigail proceeded out of the dressing room and into the bedchamber, where she put the red ensemble into its box with the other scarlet-colored items and replaced the lid. She covered the black items, as well.
"Is Margaret ready?" Abigail inquired.
"She says she is," Caroline indicated, and they both stifled a giggle. Their sister-in-law was a master at delay.
Then a jarring quiet descended, and Caroline struggled to tactfully break it, ultimately deciding to blurt out
the question to which she was now dying to have an answer. "Abigail... are you involved with someone?"
"What?" Abigail gasped.
There was such a glimmer of alarm in her eye that Car-
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oline knew, without a doubt, that she'd hit on the truth, despite what Abigail's rejoinder might be. "Well, my goodness," Caroline pointed out cautiously, "look at these undergarments you've ordered from Madame LaFarge."
"Oh, those. .. ." Abigail scoffed, gesturing toward the bed as though they were of no import. "They're just a spot of foolishness. I let Madame convince me to purchase them when I was at her shop." She walked to her vanity and began fidgeting, rearranging her brushes. "They're quite unsuitable. I believe I'll return them."
Caroline might have bought the lie if she hadn't caught a glimpse of Abigail's manic joy that was hastily replaced by misery and despair. "You can tell me who he is," she implored quietly.
" 'Tis no one," Abigail maintained. "Truly."
"Is it Edward Stevens? Is that why you're afraid to say?"
Abigail forced a laugh. "Whatever would make you think so?"
"People have been noticing the two of you together.
There's been gossip. Even Margaret's commented "
"That's downright silly. We're friends, nothing more."
"Then what gentleman has you so enamored that you're dancing in the closet with your underwear?"
For a moment, just one, Abigail flashed an expression of such unbridled hopelessness that Caroline was sure she was going to admit all. Whatever was weighing on her sister's mind appeared to be a heavy burden that she would gladly unload.
But just as abruptly as the moment came, it vanished as she pasted her customary serene smile on her face. "Really, Caroline! As if I could keep some man a secret from all of you! Even if I wished to commit such an atrocious act, how would I go about it?" She sauntered toward the door and advanced into the hall, effectively preventing any further discussion. "Your imagination is playing rather wonderful tricks. Let's go down, shall we?"
Left alone in Abigail's room, all Caroline could do was follow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Abigail lounged on the bed, leaned against the pillows, and awaited James. As he had done previously, she'd staged the room for seduction. Candles burned, and a fire sizzled in the grate. Outside, a cold drizzle was falling, and the drops splattered at the windowpanes. Inside, all was warm, cozy, and snug, a welcoming lovers' nest filled with fine wine, scrumptious treats, and an eager, willing woman.
She'd chosen the black ensemble for their encounter, and before reclining, she'd taken a prolonged evaluation in the mirror. James had been wise, she'd readily decided, in asking her to wear the scandalous attire.
Just from staring at her reflection, she'd become unsettled and excited. James hadn't even joined her as yet, and the intriguing costume was working magically, augmenting her level of agitation and anticipation, and she couldn't help but contemplate how much extra delight the carnal apparel would bring to their assignation.
She ran a hand across her scantily covered breast and stomach, letting it rest on her naked thigh. The material clung to her like a second skin, and she adored how it slithered across and cooled her heated surfaces. She couldn't wait to see his expression when he espied her in the slinky garment, or to feel his fingers skimming across it, gliding underneath and down.
In their haste to depart after the prior meeting, he'd left his precious portfolio of risqué pictures, and she balanced the stack on her lap, casually scanning the renderings. During their sexual lessons, she never had enough time to peruse the paintings, and she flipped to the nude of James, assessing his hairy chest, his erect cock, and the manner in which Lily so affectionately tended him. At the thought that
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today would be the day she'd finally be allowed to do the same, her entire body tingled.
She skimmed the picture, then hastened on to the one where Lily was servicing him with her mouth. One of his hands was at the back of her neck, guiding her. The artist, Pierre, had truly been a master at depicting profound emotion, for James's enjoyment of the event was excessively manifest. He gazed at Lily, monitoring her ministrations with an incredible expectancy.
Abigail traced the spot where James's phallus met Lily's ruby lips, and she stifled a groan. She hated viewing James with another woman, but even as she despised the sight, she was fascinated and unduly stimulated. Disgusted with herself, she couldn't quit staring, wondering how it had felt—to Lily, to James—and hoping she would have the chance to experience some of the same undeniable pleasure.
Though James wasn't with her as she would have liked, she wanted to discover what naughty adventures lay ahead for the pair, so she accelerated past the portion they'd surveyed together. Past where James suckled Lily's breasts, past where Lily's privates were detailed, past where James was positioned between her legs and savoring her with his tongue.
One at a time, she pitched the individual parchments on the mattress until she was surrounded by a sea of lewd drawings. Inevitably, she arrived at new territory, and she received her first true inkling of what marital intercourse entailed.
Lily was lying down, her knees wide, and like a conquering hero of old, James crouched between her spread thighs, tightly gripping her hips, ready to plunder. Lily stared at him possessively, with feminine approval and admiration, as though daring him to proceed. James scrutinized her in return, pompous and sure of himself and his purpose.
Inflamed, Abigail flipped the portrait onto the bed, then gazed at the next.
The lovers had switched positions. James was now on
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the bottom, Lily on the top. She was straddling his groin, riding him much as one would a horse. In pure anguish, her palms were on her buttocks, her shoulders thrown back, and the position thrust her large breasts forward. James cupped them, his thumbs on the elongated nipples.
As long as she could stand to, she let the image wash over her and through her, but try as she might to will away the representation, she couldn't get beyond the fact that she was watching him as he made love to another woman. The exhibition was ominously arousing in a fashion that acutely bothered her, and she wanted to cast the illustration aside but couldn't.
His perpetual search for mindless liaisons was a facet of James's personality that she couldn't abide, yet she had to understand it if she was to ever really know him. It hurt her to think that his life of dissipation led him to consort so aimlessly with any woman who gave the slightest indication that she was interested—in Lily's case, a friend's wife. Perhaps she was only fooling herself, but she refused to believe that he actually preferred the insensitive couplings in which he so regularly engaged.
Miserably, she continued on, only to find the couple in another pose. How many ways could the sexual act be consummated? Apparently, there were at least three!
The vigor of the joining had increased, the lovers near-ing the conclusion. Lily was on her hands and knees, much like an animal. Her head was hanging, her forehead pressed into the pillows, and she bit against her bottom lip as her bountiful breasts swung unimpeded, her enormous nipples brushing the sofa cushion.
James was rutting on her from behind, his slender fingers stark against her skin. He was perched at her entrance, his erect rod slick and wet. Though the picture was motionless, it was easy to imagine him thrusting, working at her mercilessly, taking what he needed, and in return giving her all she could handle and more. His demeanor was bleak with a beautiful sort of desperation, his body stressed, zealous, exultant.
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Brimming with regret, she tossed away the remainder of the paintings, suddenly feeling very sorry for James. He was supposed to be the expert on men and women and their antics, but she was convinced that the kinds of things he was doing with Lily should only happen between two people who were in love. The sins of the flesh were too dramatic, personal, and overwhelmi
ng to be committed so casually.
Then and there, she resolved that their physical engagements would become events he could recall with comfort and joy. When they separated for good, she wanted him to carry fond memories of their affair, perhaps to recollect it as the one and only time he had been truly treasured by his paramour. She couldn't bear it if, in the end, he dumped her in with all the others with whom he'd fornicated. In actuality, she couldn't stand to contemplate the future at all, to hypothesize over the nameless scores of women he would ultimately seduce after her, or to imagine how she might be perceived during his periods of reminiscing.
Belowstairs, noise erupted. He had arrived!
Chaotically, she grabbed the scattered pictures and stuffed them into the satchel, then she struggled to pull herself together, smoothing her features, burying her worries. Instinctively, she fathomed that he had come for an evening of spontaneous sexual play, and he wouldn't be disposed to witness any emotional upset. He'd already made it clear, on numerous occasions, that he didn't wish to be reminded of extraneous issues. Not his father, or his family, or their lives outside this room.
If she raised the topic of his lifestyle, he'd protest her intrusion of his privacy while insisting, as he seemed wont to do, that he couldn't be expected to act any differently since he was lacking in morality and reveled in debauchery. Should she prod too deeply, he might depart, and her enchanted night would be ruined, a catastrophe for which she'd never forgive herself, so her concerns had to remain her own.
The door to the bedchamber opened, and James stepped
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through. He brought a wave of frigid air with him. With a wifelike attention to detail, she noticed that he'd shed his outer garments, that his clothes were dry, but his hair was damp, and she could smell the rain on his skin. She thought to go to him, to tend him while he dried in front of the hearth, but as she started to rise, he stopped her.