by Conn, Claudy
Yes—a tart, she thought, for an innocent maid did not give herself to anyone but her intended … but she had never wanted to be innocent.
She blocked all reason. Rules were made by men—and this one was absurd.
What she wanted was more of his touching—like the night he had found her naked in his bed and his fingers had created magic throughout her senses.
She threw back her head as his kisses traveled over her neck, down further to the breast he was fondling. She wondered, Is this love? And does he feel what I do?
* * *
He wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t evaluating, and he wasn’t going to. He had lost all reason, and he didn’t want it back … a thing that had never happened to him before. He had pleasured and been pleasured by exquisite women in his time, but … this …?
She filled him with need, and he threw caution to the wind as he let himself surrender control.
He had always been careful, telling himself not to allow his cock to rule his head … but he couldn’t stop. He wanted her beyond imagination—and damn well meant to have her!
Her kiss tasted like strawberries and honey, and he wanted to go on kissing her forever. Her body … he had to have her body. Before he knew what he was doing, he had pulled her blue velvet gown until it fell to her ankles. He sucked in a long drag of air because she had nothing—absolutely nothing—on beneath her gown.
She was ravishing … every inch of her under his fingers felt like silk. He burned with an ache that sizzled through his veins and made his dick throb and dance with wanting.
Her breasts were full and so perfectly rounded he wanted to bury his face there. He took her nipple between his fingers and teased her until she was arching and making delicious moaning whimpers that set him on fire.
She removed his jacket, and he hurriedly threw off his white shirt. She touched his tattoos, and he heard the feral growl escape his lips as he bent to suckle at those beautiful rosebuds, fondling her all the while.
One hand worked the buttons of his breeches, got them undone and off. He easily, expertly used his heel to get off his Hessian boots, and kicking them away he kissed the hollow in her neck, licked her nipples, and pulled her butt into him …
Boots gone, breeches followed, and then he held her naked, beautiful form to his solid body, pressing his throbbing manhood against her.
Something in his mind told him to stop. Good sense told him this was trouble. A warning clicked off that he was going too far with her …
Those thoughts were buried as his hand took hers and placed it on his huge, pulsating dick. He whispered, “Touch … stroke … love … stroke … oh yes, beauty …” And then he was lost to the lust as he picked her up cradle-like in his arms and carried her upstairs to his bedroom, where he laid her on the bed and stared for a few moments before he moved to straddle her.
She seemed mesmerized by his manhood and kept playing with its tip, driving him wild. He took it from her and put it to her lips. She was hesitant at first as she kissed it.
“Hell and Fire … Myriah …” He shivered as an electric bolt, fully charged, shimmed through him.
* * *
His manhood was something she couldn’t tear her gaze away from. She felt this instinctual need to touch it, squeeze it, run her hand up and down its long, wide length …
She wanted him but didn’t know how to express herself. She wanted something from him as her body built into a fever-pitch of desire, and then he had the tuft between her thighs in his hand. He shook it until she arched up high and groaned with need.
“Want me, Myriah … want more?”
“Yes … yes … want …”
He maneuvered her so his face was between her thighs, and then he began licking her, nibbling, driving her mad. All the while his finger worked the pink nub within until she released a cry of hunger that left her shuddering with pleasure she had never known possible.
He seemed almost ruthless as he set her in place, primal as he positioned his cock between her legs and looked for entry.
“So tight, beauty—made for me … so fucking tight … here, love, let me …” His hands went around her ass.
She felt him raise her butt and bring her to him as he inched his cock inside. She bucked against him, wanting him to enter.
“Want it now, do you …?” He breathed hard and fast as he plunged himself into her—and then suddenly stopped!
* * *
Shock riveted Kit’s body. He had not expected this—not after she so eagerly accepted his advances. He had thought she had experience. What had he been thinking?
True, the intensity of his own desires had blotted all reasonable thought; still, how could she be a virgin when she had so hotly, so wantonly given herself to him? In fact, he had quite made up his mind that she was an adventuress running not from a would-be husband, but from a lover—and for some obscure and detached irrationality, this notion had a stung him into a frenzy.
He only knew he’d wanted to make her his … and now he felt a cad. She was what she represented herself to be, and he had taken advantage …
However, Myriah had her arms around him and yanked down on him, and he found himself plunging deeper, harder faster.
* * *
Something stung at her heart and made a painful track to her throat. He wasn’t declaring love, only shock she was a virgin. Oh no, he was apologizing for using her because he didn’t want her forever.
He was apologizing? Had he not realized that he would be her first—that she would think him her only? Had he not known who and what she was? Had he not realized that she gave herself freely with her heart?
Yes, Myriah, but you dove in, didn’t you? What was he to think? Her sense of fairness jumped at her with words that stung and grabbed hold and shoved her into a blackness of despair.
She found herself totally, irrevocably, and most painfully in love. Love promises much in a young woman’s dreams. And then very often throws its victims into the whirlwind of conflicting sensations from which recovery seems impossible.
Myriah lay there silently, waiting for the heavy breathing that told her he was asleep. She took up a quilt, slipped it around herself, and quietly padded towards the door. She wanted to look back at his beloved sleeping form, but she steeled herself and instead left the room, hurried downstairs. She retrieved her clothing and quickly returned this time to her own room. There she not only double-checked the lock at the door between his room and hers, but wedged a chair under the doorknob as well.
She dove for her bed, buried her face in her pillow, and suddenly released a sob. That sob went on for some while until, true to her nature, she told herself to buck up and get over it!
Oh, Myriah, she thought miserably, now you’ve gone and tipped yourself a settler! You search about for a gallant with the magic to win your heart, and when you find him, he turns out to be a penniless and secretive lord who thinks you (and with good reason) nothing but a tart—a fancy piece who he will never court for any reason other than to aid his financial situation when he finds out who you are!
The more she dwelt on the absurdity of her dilemma, the more wretched she felt. To confess her identity now would most assuredly deliver him to a sense of what she, Lady Myriah of the Whitney line, was due.
But that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted his heart, and she didn’t want him to want her for her money!
A good while was spent in unhappy thoughts and self-pity; however, Myriah was made of staunch and steady stuff, and she soon addressed herself to the problem at hand.
What she needed was a plan. Yes, a plan of action was all she needed to bring his lordship to his heart—because some instinct told her he definitely felt something out of the ordinary for her.
Solutions come quickly to an active mind, and several presented themselves to the lady. Much of the night was spent in laying out her strategy and sorting out any possibilities that were not employable. At last satisfied, her heart ceased its palpitations, pleased with
her mind for its cleverness, and both organs allowed the lady to put her head on her pillow and remember Kit Wimborne’s lovemaking …
* * *
Lord Wimborne by nature was a merry, pleasant, and well-liked man. Man being the key word. He had spent six years in service of his king and prince regent, fighting the Frogs in the Pyrenees, and it had taught him many things. One of the very first notions that settled in his well-ordered intellect was that the fair and lovely sex should be prized and adored, but rarely trusted.
He had his share of youthful romances with their accompanying pangs and inevitable flights; in truth, he’d enjoyed them all. Though he was still a bachelor and had not planned on changing his comfortable state in the foreseeable future, he had always felt he would one day take a wife.
She would be a special creature, with the honesty her sex lacked, with the beauty of love and innocence in her soul as well as in her form. He wanted no coquette, no fluttering, fainting wench—damnation, no. His dream bride was perfect in every way, as are most dreams.
His mother, who survived his father’s death by many years, had been all a mother could be, and her sons had grown whole and healthy. However, they had lost her only two years ago, while Kit was in Spain in the midst of battle and Billy was at Oxford. Lord Wimborne, a major in his regiment, had sold out and come home to take up the management of his estates. He found them in miserable condition, simply because there had been no one about to attend to them.
A heaviness of spirit hung about him, for there would be no picking up his regimentals and rejoining in the near future. The Towers needed him. And then, shortly thereafter, he found yet another activity to keep him occupied.
Billy had finished his term and joined Kit at the Towers, and it was not long before the young man had embroiled himself in his brother’s strange activities.
The emergence of Miss Myriah White on his plain had chained the dance in Kit’s gray eyes and kept him wary because he was losing control of his feelings for her.
He awoke to find the object of his madness no longer in his bed, where he had meant to continue to make love to her. Then he sighed in the darkness and recalled that she had been a virgin.
He was the lowest of cads, for he had taken her without a thought to marriage.
What the devil was he to do now? She had left in the middle of the night for her own bed, no doubt because she realized the consequences of her actions.
Her actions? She was but an innocent in this, and he the experienced one … taking advantage of her youthful infatuation. No doubt what he had seen as brazen was merely exuberance … no very different than his brother’s liveliness.
But a bevy of subtle contradictions hung about Myriah. He ran his hand through the honey-colored waves of his hair. For one thing, there was her horse. That stallion was no less than five hundred guineas!
Myriah was well provided for. Therefore, why would a doting father—and apparently he was such, both by her description and her possession of such an animal—force her to marry a man she had no liking for?
Surely not for financial gain? Her clothing, her confidence, all spoke of a sophisticated London Season, and she was a ravishing young woman who must have had her pick …
It just didn’t make sense—she didn’t make sense.
She certainly was overly lax regarding the proprieties, but then young women were beginning to write about the need of freedom, weren’t they?
He had taken her into his arms … and what did she do? Good Lord! For a young, inexperienced maid who had every reason to hold her host in disgust for his purposely rude behavior until and including that moment, Myriah’s response was prodigiously friendly—how was he to know she was naught but a virgin?
Yet, he knew that women were ‘breaking out’ of their shells.
Myriah’s sauciness was all her own. He smiled to himself as a picture of her face came to his mind.
Are you a fool? he asked himself with asperity. Are you falling in love with a fashionable courtesan or a misguided and spoiled maid? Which is it?
The heart does strange things to its companion, the mind. It sends it messages of need—needs the mind cannot supply. Lacking an answer, the mind retaliates on its poor friend. The sad victim of such horrendous goings-on is offered much violence and has but one outlet: sleep.
* * *
Myriah awoke early. The sun was hiding its spring glory behind clouds of white foam, and only an unrelenting glare met Myriah’s searching eyes. With a sigh, she washed and dressed in the only other gown she had packed, an ivory silk with a low, scooped neckline trimmed in ivory lace.
She stood at the mirror and brushed her long red hair into shining billows that she caught at the top of her head with the brown ribbon she had found lodged from another trip in her bag. Her red curls cascaded around her heart-shaped countenance and created a look of mischievous mystery, and she smiled, well pleased with the results.
She pulled on her boots of brown kid and hurried downstairs. She had a plan of action to institute and did not wish to encounter his lordship.
Myriah closed the library door behind her and rushed across to the writing desk. She took up the quill and dipped into the ink. She then scratched out a hasty note and sealed it in a plain envelope.
A few moments later Myriah was crossing the drive and making for the stables. It was a marvelous spring day, in spite of the fact that the sun had clothed itself in froth. The sweet morning breeze enveloped Myriah, greeting her as one of nature’s treasures, and she was conscious of its soothing effect.
It was past eight, and Myriah glanced back at the house worriedly. She did not want to be seen just yet. Tabby was walking his roan out of the stables, and Myriah put up her hand to call his attention. He awaited her approach, wondering what new fetch his mistress had dreamed up this time.
“Good morning, Tabby,” she said, coming up to face him and handing him the white envelope.
He looked down at it and then at her. “I dessay this be for yer grandfather,” he said, his face expressionless.
“Yes, Tabby, for he will have had a visit from Father by now, and I don’t want him worrying about me. However, you will not give it to him in person, for you know as well as I that you would then be forced to give him my whereabouts—and I don’t want to be found just yet!”
“Now, Lady Myriah, ’tis time ye went home and faced the—”
“Tabby, you will hand this note to the gatekeeper and have him take it to Grandpapa, and then you will return straight back here,” she said firmly.
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Oh, Tabby, don’t pull a face. It will all turn out just fine … you’ll see. Now … have you eaten?”
“Yes, m’lady. I served yer mother, I did, and will go on serving ye till I don’t have breath … but this … this time …”
She touched his arm. “I know, Tabby … but this letter will make some of all of this right. At least they shan’t worry.” She sighed heavily. “You had better leave at once if you are to be back by lunch,” she said sweetly and hurried away.
Kit watched from the wide window as Myriah returned hastily to his house, and his gray eyes were not smiling. She had complicated his life beyond measure … she was a mystery he needed to solve.
He had seen her put an envelope into her servant’s hand. He had watched them exchanging words … and he saw Tabson ride off on his roan. What was the chit up to? What had she given her groom … and where was he going?
It suddenly dawned on him that Miss Myriah White, innocent miss or seductive courtesan, might have a purpose all her own for being at Wimborne Towers. Was her presence here because of his activities in Romney Marsh? Was Myriah White an informer?
* * *
Myriah followed the young serving boy upstairs and opened the door to Billy’s room, allowing the lad to enter. After placing the heavily laden tray on the stained wood table beside Billy’s bed, the boy scurried off.
Myriah pulled open the drapes, and ligh
t flooded the room, causing Billy to shield his eyes with his good hand. He focused, found Myriah standing there, and groaned. “Oh God! She is back.”
“Good morning, Mr. Wimborne. Never say you do not want your breakfast,” Myriah said, lifting a silver cover off a plate filled with eggs and ham.
“Leave it and be gone, she-devil! Faith, why must you blast at me early in the morning! Let there be light, sayeth Myriah, and there is light. Let there be food, continueth the she-devil, and there is food.”
“Let there be silence—or thou shalt feel the rod!” she offered in return, giggling.
They laughed in unison, and Myriah brought him the basin of wash water, placed it on the bed, dipped her fingers in it, and sprayed him with a flick of same. “Let there be cleanliness … and quick, before your food gets cold.”
He laughed good-naturedly and washed, but she saw him wince as he moved, so Myriah examined his bandaged arm. The circle of brownish, dried blood looked as though it had crept into new areas, and Myriah bent over it, touching it gently.
“Billy, I think you must have bled a bit more last night,” she said, a frown in her eyes.
“No doubt, with all the prodding and pulling you and m’brother had at me,” he agreed, grinning at her.
“Stop dazzling me with your teeth! Seriously, Billy, you had better stay in bed today … and try not to move about too much.”
“What I need is my shirtsleeve sewn back on!” retorted Mr. Wimborne “Ain’t proper for you to be continually gazing on my bare arm. Might give you evil notions.” He grinned at this and looked up to find his brother’s twinkling eyes upon him. “The sort Kit here has,” Billy added at that juncture and was surprised to see the extent of Kit’s sudden discomfiture.
“Careful, brat,” warned his brother.
Billy chuckled and watched with interest as both Myriah and Kit went to an extraordinary amount of trouble to display to one another their total lack of interest in each other.
“I trust you slept well, Miss White,” said his lordship idly as he took up a cup of coffee and sat at the foot of the bed at a distance from her.