It couldn’t be. He was on his way home. She thought she’d made it perfectly clear to him…
Her stomach felt hollow, her pulse played hopscotch. “Goodbye then, William,” she murmured, averting her gaze from the other man.
“Can I take you home? I have a curricle waiting.”
She shook her head, nervously touching her netted veil. “I would much rather walk. It’s not too far, and it’s a fine day.” In her peripheral vision, she saw the shadow unfold his arms, so she turned William quickly and steered him out. He walked off to find his curricle, and she watched until he was a mere speck on the emerald horizon. Gathering her courage, she stepped back inside the stables. It was warm, the air thick with the odor of horses and hay. The groom had disappeared, leaving the two people alone. She sensed it wasn’t by chance.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a train?”
He turned up one corner of his lip and scratched his chin. “Come here,” he said, his voice low.
“Were you spying on me?”
“No.”
“Liar.” She strolled to where he lounged against the beam. This afternoon he wore hunting cords and a white shirt with a tweed jacket. Casual but smart, a man who didn’t have to try too hard.
“I’m glad to see you’re not encouraging the Berwick boy.”
“Of course I’m not,” she exclaimed. “What do you think I am?”
He tilted his head to one side. “I’m not sure yet. Are you?”
“I’m his sister and I mean to be his friend.”
“He’s going to keep following you about, pursuing you for more than a friendship, Christina.”
“He’ll give that up.”
He reached for her veil and lifted it from her chin, folding it up over her hat. “You underestimate your appeal.” Before she knew what was happening, his hands were on her waist drawing her closer. “It’s not that easy for a man to give you up. I know.” His lips touched her brow, the tip of her nose, and finally her lips. She let her arms hang loose at her sides, determined not to touch him. Even when his mouth traveled to her jaw and then her neck, nibbling her gently, while his hands tightened, moving her body against his, she still resisted.
In the next stall a horse whinnied. Hay rustled under their feet.
“Go home, Harry,” she said. But it sounded too feeble, more like a plea than a command. He lifted her, moving back into the stall, holding her between his body and the broad wooden slats. “Someone might come in.” She groaned.
Already fighting his way under her riding habit, his knee pressing hers apart, he shook his head. “No they won’t. I paid the groom to keep watch.” Then he cursed. “How many petticoats are you wearing, for pity’s sake?”
“Not enough to put you off, evidently.”
Grinding out a low laugh, he hoisted her up under the arms. “Put your legs around me. I want you, here and now.”
How could she refuse? Yesterday he’d fought to resist her. Today he wanted in and demanded it with all the grace of a bull, but after thinking about him all day since he walked out, she wasn’t at all reluctant. Her legs went around his waist, her arms around his neck, and she felt his urgent cock pressing forward in greeting.
“Goodness, Harry, how long have you been waiting like this for me?” It was gratifying to know he wanted her so badly.
“Too long.”
They fell together into a pile of straw in the vacant stall, and he twitched against her inner thigh, the warm crest of his amorous staff touching her sensitive flesh, priming her, but not advancing further.
“Hurry then,” she urged, fearing someone might enter the stables and see them.
“I thought you liked taking chances,” he reminded her, still teasing with the head of his cock, rubbing it over her moist entrance and then withdrawing, leaving her wanting. “You don’t know what you like, Miss Deveraux.”
“But I do!” She lifted her hips, trying to tempt him in.
“You don’t even know what a real chance is.”
She could see her face reflected in his dark eyes as he leaned over her. “Of course I do.”
“We’ll see.”
“Very well.” She pouted. “Take as long as you like.” And she spread her legs shamelessly wide, stretching in the straw, slowly unbuttoning the little jacket of her riding habit and then the blouse beneath. Her breasts strained above her corset and chemise, wanting his touch again and his mouth. It took all her willpower not to tell him so, not to let him see her eagerness.
Harry knelt in the straw between her legs, staring down at her. She let her gaze drift to the jutting beast he held in his hands. He began to stroke it.
She touched herself likewise, first her breasts and then where she yearned for him the most, between her thighs. Her long fingers skimmed over her pulsing wetness, lightly at first, then with more pressure. Lifting her hips again to show him, she already felt the tightening tension and tried to delay until she could share it with him.
She didn’t have to wait too long after all. The sight of her fingers pleasuring herself must have been too much for Harry Blackwood. He covered her in the next instant, pinning her to the straw, hissing out her name as he ravished her noisily, heedlessly.
Smiling up at the wooden rafters of the stable, Christina clung to him and said a mute prayer of thanks to Randolph Blackwood for sending him her way, however inadvertently.
* * * *
Breathless, she tried setting her bonnet back in place. He looked smug, she thought.
“Don’t think I’ll let you do that to me again just because you want it,” she warned briskly, straightening her skirts, wishing she could wipe all vestiges of a smile off her face.
“What’s the matter?” he purred. “Didn’t you say it was only sex and everyone does it?”
For want of any other reply, frustrated and annoyed at him, but mostly at herself, Christina stuck out her tongue.
“Aha,” he laughed. “The argument I would expect from a nineteen-year-old girl.”
Her cheeks warmed. He was right, of course. “Well…” She hesitated. “You won’t get anymore from me. That’s it,” she threw up her hands, “you’ve had more than enough, so stop following me about and go home to wherever it is you live.”
He helped her up with one hand. “A town called Redcliffe, near Derby.”
She wondered why he bothered telling her. “That’s nice. Go back there then.”
Picking straw out of her hair, he chuckled dourly. “And leave you to your own devices?”
She laughed, feeling light-hearted now that he was there again. “Exactly.”
* * * *
He liked to see her laugh. But it was bittersweet, because it also made her look her age, instead of the self-possessed madam with the world’s burdens on her slender shoulders. It reminded Harry that she was still too young, born too late for him.
She tried straightening her little cap, which had been knocked askew by their encounter. He helped her as best he could, although she pretended not to need his assistance. Wide blue eyes peered up at him through the veil as he readjusted it under her chin.
“Why did you come back, Harry?”
“Unfinished business.” He ran his thumb along her jaw. “Don’t think I came back just for you, Miss saucy-mouth, bossy-drawers.”
Her lashes were long, curved, tipped with sunlight. When they fanned downward, he imagined the soft featheriness stroking his entire body.
He softened his tone. “I’m staying at the Clarence. Perhaps you’ll join me for dinner this evening.”
The tip of her tongue passed swiftly along her plump lower lip making it shine. “I’m afraid I’m busy this evening, Mr. Blackwood.”
His fingers ran slowly down her neck. “Busy?” How could she be busy with anyone but him? The idea was inconceivable.
“The house is open this evening,” she explained. “It’s Thursday.”
Thursday. He’d only met her yesterday. It was incredible to think how qu
ickly she’d swept him off his feet, made him break all his old rules about women. No one had ever turned him down for dinner before. Or for anything, actually.
The afternoon sun mellowed to a dusty gold, but the air still fizzled with all the promise of spring, and tiny pricks of light danced around them as they stood together in the straw and said their goodbyes again. This time it was polite, muted. They both knew this wasn’t goodbye at all.
He watched her walk away, letting her go for now, because he felt the danger all around, in every fingertip, bone and muscle of his body, every organ inside, particularly the one that pumped blood through his veins keeping him alive. He should have known better than to stay and come after her again. At his age he shouldn’t be chasing after a flighty, naughty bit of skirt who seemed to think it was her mission in life to drive him to madness, forcing him to break all his rules.
* * * *
Thursday was always busy at the house. It was the first of the three nights they were open each week for meetings of the “Whitechapel Improvement Committee”. Impatient, charity-minded ladies began arriving at the door in hooded cloaks soon after the hour of seven, and by eight the drawing room was a lively, merry place. Christina occasionally played requests at the pianoforte, but her hostess duties kept her on her feet for most of the night. Some of the clients were already familiar faces to her, but she was always pleased to see a new one, to watch them lose their nervousness over a glass of wine and a game of cards.
Tonight she saw that “John” was settling in already, even though he still lacked a new set of evening clothes. He charmed the ladies of the “Committee” with his bold smiles and ribald jokes, soon making a particular conquest; a new customer who sat timidly in a corner on the velvet chaise, nursing a brandy for half an hour, until he caught her eye. A few minutes in John’s company made her relax enough to laugh. She was very elegantly attired, her face pretty with delicate bones. Her hair was dark, her skin snow white. There was a fragile look to her, but she was braver than her outward appearance suggested since she came to the house on Arundel Square, obviously knowing what went on there.
Circling the room, Christina sought out Mrs. Draycott, who had just brought in a tray of fruit and little cakes for the sideboard.
“Who’s the new lady in the corner? In the mauve?” she whispered discreetly in the old lady’s ear.
Mrs. Draycott looked. “Oh, that’s the Duchess of Berwick, Miss Christina.”
Startled, she quickly shoved a fondant cake into her mouth. Well, William needn’t worry anymore about his mother’s happiness, she mused dryly.
A wicked flame of delight pulsed and stretched inside her belly. There was nothing she wanted more than to see an unfortunate woman finally get a little vengeance. Catching John’s eye, she gave him a subtle wink, and he grinned, before leaning over to whisper in the lady’s noble ear. Whatever his suggestion, the Duchess was agreeable and the two of them walked out of the drawing room, arm in arm.
Christina smiled contentedly and crossed the hall to her private parlor, leaving Mrs. Draycott in charge for a while. A small fire burned in the grate, and the lamps were turned down low. This was her quiet sanctuary, where she came to regroup her thoughts and rest her feet.
He was at the Clarence Hotel.
She wished she could stop thinking about him.
Knowing he was still in London bothered her immensely. Far more than she should let it.
Would he dine alone tonight since she turned him down? No, probably not. He would find some other woman to entertain.
She strode around her desk and lifted the portrait of her mother.
No point asking Louisa what she would do about Harry Blackwood. Louisa would say, “Take him for every penny while you have his attention, for it won’t last. It never does.”
She carried the portrait to the mantle and set it there. It was a very good likeness, and in the burnished glow of firelight, the pale skin on the model seemed to come alive, to move. When her mother posed for the painting, she and Randolph were lovers. Yet there was no warmth in Louisa’s eyes, just sadness.
Christina stepped back, rubbing her arms, suddenly feeling a chill.
Had Randolph never made her mother laugh? Never made her feel glad to see him?
His son did both those things to Christina and she didn’t know how to cope with it. She wasn’t prepared for him in her life. There was no advice in her mother’s diaries that could deal with a problem like Harry.
He was at the Clarence Hotel.
She could be there in twenty minutes.
A proper young lady wouldn’t meet a man in a hotel, alone, unchaperoned. Good thing she wasn’t very proper then, wasn’t it?
* * * *
Luckily for him he was dining alone, because she was quite prepared to make a scene. She knew she had no right to do so, but she very much doubted anyone could have stopped her. Her temper, when it came to Harry Blackwood, was beyond even her control. The relief she felt, therefore, as the waiter led to her to his small corner table and she saw him devouring spring chicken and new potatoes without the company of another female, was immeasurable, far greater than it should be.
The waiter held out her chair and she sat, while Harry looked at her and chewed his food, a slight twinkle of surprise under his lashes.
“Perhaps Madam would like a menu?” the waiter intoned gravely.
“No thank you. I’m not here to eat.”
The waiter hurriedly backed away in a smooth bow, hiding his expression, and Harry almost choked on his dinner. She poured him a glass of water from the jug on the table and he drank it down.
“You’ll get me thrown out of this hotel,” he muttered, wiping his lips on a napkin.
“Don’t be such an old stick in the mud. You did invite me.”
There was a little bulge in his cheek where he tucked his tongue as his eyes swept her with heated approval. “And you came.”
“Don’t think this is your victory.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“And it won’t happen again.”
He smiled. “If you say so.”
She looked around the dining room. It was almost empty tonight, and the few diners were quiet, demure. It was like a library or a museum, she thought. The couple at the next table looked their way and then whispered together behind their menus. She considered sticking out her tongue, but remembered what Harry would say.
He’d seen them too and he chuckled. “They think you’re my daughter probably. Or my niece.”
“Can we go upstairs?” she said abruptly.
“You only just arrived,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “Are you sure you won’t eat? A growing body needs three square meals a day. I hope you don’t neglect your health.”
She pursed her lips, glaring.
“What’s that face for, young lady?”
“You know very well what I came here for, Harry Blackwood. Don’t try my patience.”
Less than ten minutes later, they were in the hotel foyer waiting for the lift to his room.
“Why don’t we just use the stairs?” she complained.
“I prefer the lift,” he replied with a little smile.
The young boy on duty held the brass doors open and they stepped in together, arm in arm.
“Take us to the second floor, will you?” Harry said to the boy.
“Yes, sir.” He closed the outer door with its frosted glass panels and then the brass grill.
Christina rubbed her cheek on Harry’s sleeve, breathing in his scent of sandalwood and something she had no name for and so called it simply his masculinity. “I didn’t even know they had a lift in this hotel. With only three floors, it seems rather unnecessary.”
“It’s quite new, miss,” the boy said proudly. “They renovated the hotel two years ago to fit one in, for guests with luggage and the like.”
It was a slow, creaky machine that made her wonder if they would ever reach their destination in one piece,
or before Christmas. As they reached the second floor and the boy opened the doors, Harry slipped him a few coins and whispered in his ear. The boy took the coins and got out. Harry closed the doors himself, and they were alone in the small wooden box.
“Isn’t this your floor?” she demanded.
“No. My room is on the third floor.”
She backed into a corner and he followed, blocking her in. “Now I know why you prefer lifts,” she muttered archly. “I thought it was just because of your old bones not being able to climb the stairs.”
He pulled up the froth of petticoat and silk ruffles. Then his hands stilled. “You’re not wearing any drawers tonight, young lady. Tsk, tsk. What can be the meaning of this?” He bunched her skirts up to her hips, and she felt the air cooling her loins.
“I didn’t see the point,” she replied, curt.
He shook his curly head, feigning disapproval, lips tight and thin, smoky eyes assessing her lack of undergarments. “What were you thinking to come out like this, alone?” he muttered, huskily. “What if some other man had stumbled upon this,” he slid his hand between her legs, cupping her sex in his large palm, “before I did?”
Enraptured (A Private Collection) Page 10