by Nicole Byrd
She reached down to untie the drawstring at her waist and pushed down the cotton drawers, letting them fall to the floor and kicking them out of the way.
To her relief, as she really didn’t know how they fastened, she saw that while she did so, he had slipped out of his pantaloons and now was drawing off the rest of his garments. She looked about her for a chair so that she could take off her stockings, the only bit of her clothing that remained.
“No, no, allow me,” he said, flashing a roguish grin.
He led her to a chaise longue and she sat, then put up one leg, and he ran his fingers along the calf until she shivered from the light touch. Then he untied the blue garter and unrolled the stocking, inch by inch, kissing each square of skin as it was revealed. It was an exquisite sort of torture, and Lauryn caught her breath, sitting still with great difficulty. She wanted to move as he kissed her legs, and now she did want to moan, genuine heartfelt moans, and she had to bite her lip to hold them back. When he reached her toes, taking each one between his lips to tease it with his tongue, she didn’t know whether to giggle or moan—such amazing feelings he could induce! It had never occurred to her that one’s feet could have sensitive feelings.
Already she was ripe for lovemaking—hell, Lauryn thought. How long had it been—how many months had it been since she had had a man in her bed?
The earl could have swung a dead cat at her, and she would have been ready!
He was starting the same routine on her other leg, and this time Lauryn knew she was hardly going to be able to maintain any sort of ladylike pretense. Of course, he did not think her a lady, so did it matter?
“Oh, my lord,” she murmured, as he kissed her calf, hardly halfway down. “I must have you!”
“Patience, my lamb,” he murmured back. “We have so many delightful games to play. I would not cheat you out of your delights by rushing you into bed.”
“You are not cheating me!” she assured him. It hardly helped that he was now naked, and she could observe what a fine specimen of manhood he was, and that he was plainly ready for the main event, himself. He had remarkable patience, she thought. Well, just now, she had not!
The fact that she ached, longed, pined for him, that she had waited so long for completion that she was almost mad with longing was something she could not explain, so how—
She couldn’t bear it!
With an ache inside her so intense it was like a pain, Lauryn watched as the earl slipped off her second stocking and lifted her foot to his mouth. No, toes were not enough. She pulled her foot back, and saw his look of surprise.
“It’s my turn, my lord,” she told him.
Taking his hand—as well as advantage of his moment of surprise—she pulled him toward her and put her arm around his neck, drawing his mouth to hers. She kissed him as hard and as long as she could, all the while dragging him toward her and twisting both their bodies back against the chaise lounge.
Using his heavier weight to her advantage, they fell backwards together. Since they were both naked, she was able to push herself against his torso until she found the right position and could slide down upon his firm, erect shaft.
Gasping at the new/old feeling, she felt his whole body stiffen for a moment, then his hands gripped her shoulders once more and he pulled her even closer.
“You little vixen!” he said against her mouth, and then they were pounding flesh to flesh, and the glorious rhythm that she had been so long absent from encompassed her. He was a large man, and he filled her so wonderfully, gloriously. And he knew what to do with what he had. He shifted position just slightly, put his hands on her hips and allowed her to sit up a bit. And he rubbed her tender folds just in front of where he entered her, and the resulting wave of pleasure startled her so with its intensity that she almost lost her grip. Good heavens!
She had never felt such delight!
He paused for a moment.
“Should I stop?”
“No, no,” she said, her voice wobbling. “No, indeed.”
Dark eyes twinkling, he grinned. She rolled her hips and eased again into the pounding rhythm of the greatest game of all, slowly at first, and then, as waves of pleasure swept through her—and judging by the expression of his face, also through the earl—more rapidly. The joy was so strong—how had she forgotten how good it could be?
She and her husband—no, don’t think of Robert just now! But she had never made love in this position before, and she was astonished at how deep he could go when she sat atop him. The pleasure was so deep and so real. He seemed to reach so far inside her that with each pounding stroke he went farther and farther into her deepest core, and each stroke brought a greater pleasure, an ecstacy so deep and so high it was almost pain, yet at the same time never painful. It was joy at its highest and most pure, and she had never felt this before in her life.
And that brought a shadow with it she could not examine now—she pushed it aside so that the moment was not darkened and tried to focus only on feeling, not thinking, never thinking. The feelings were so deep, so joyous, and it went on and on and, dear God, if they could only do this forever.
The sensations were everything, reaching inside her to her deepest core, then turning her inside out and spiraling up and up into spinning circles of pure joy, lifting her outward, spilling them both into rising fountains of pleasure, dropping them when she spasmed with him into an ocean of delight. Surely he must feel it, too.
And at last she spun into breathless completion, making wordless sounds that she did not recognize, as she had not recognized so much about this journey, this shocking journey into new and uncharted territory, all of which she had been so complacently sure she would know.
Still sitting atop the earl, Lauryn wavered and might have fallen if he had not pulled her down into his arms. She lay for a moment with her eyes shut. She was exhausted, and also a little abashed to look him in the eyes—was he angry at her most unladylike performance?
She was both surprised and relieved when she felt a light kiss on her forehead. She blinked and opened her eyes to see him regarding her with a smile.
“Shall I always expect to be attacked on the chaise longue?” His tone was mild.
She could not keep from blushing. “No, no indeed, my lord. It was just—”
“Yes?” He watched her, and she could not think of anything that would serve, except perhaps the truth.
“It had been a long time,” she said simply, then thought belatedly to add, “and you are a most handsome man.”
He laughed aloud, and she wished she had said the last part first. But when he looked back at her, his dark eyes were still merry.
“I have no complaints, my dear. You may attack me, anytime.”
She smiled back, although she suspected her color was still high.
He put one hand gently to cup her cheek, and she felt a sudden strong sense of déjà vu. A searing wave of guilt and betrayal cut through her, as painful as a rusty sword.
Without any warning, she sat up.
He looked at her in surprise. “Is anything wrong?”
She shook her head, but she could not meet his eyes. “No, not at all—it was all most wonderful.” But she heard the formality of her tone. “But I think–I think I will go back to my own room, now, if you do not mind.”
His smile had faded, and he gazed up at her with a penetrating gaze. “Did I offend you in some way, Mrs. Smith?”
“Of course not, it was a most felicitous encounter,” she said, but still she could not meet his too candid stare. “But it has been a long day, and I am most fatigued.”
“A few minutes ago, I would never have guessed,” he said, his tone dry. “But I will not keep you if you wish to retire.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, hearing the formal words come out of her mouth as if she were some other person, some prim governess, and she herself, the real Lauryn, were far away, in a distant corner, weeping away the pain.
Why had her brief inte
nse happiness flown? She could not think about it here, or she would weep for real, and he would see—
She pulled her wildly spinning thoughts back to the moment so that she could stand up, pull her shift over her head, try to get into her gown, and achieve enough of a respectable appearance to get down the hall in case any of the servants, or—worse, one of the other guests—should see her.
The earl rose and helped her dress hastily and then she dropped him a brief curtsy, gave a murmured good-night, the formalities absurd after their tumultuous love scene, and then hurried from the room.
To her intense gratitude, she saw no one in the hallway. She almost ran to her own chamber, which also, mercifully, revealed no maidservant waiting—perhaps they had not expected her to return here tonight? At any rate, she was only partially done up, and she would manage to undress herself, though she had to pull loose a couple of buttons to do it, and she had not bothered to put her corset back on just to traverse the hallway.
When she had shed her lovely new dress and pulled on a nightgown, she snuffed the candles and crawled into bed, wanting the darkness to hide her so that at last she could allow the tears to fall unchecked.
What kind of awful person was she?
She had made love to a virtual stranger.
She had known, of course, that this would be a big part of the deal she had made when she decided to pose as a courtesan. It was to redeem the squire’s lost land, she reminded herself—that virtuous goal seemed made long long ago. And she had thought, then, that allowing herself to be wild and wicked for a time would not be so awful, when she had been virtuous and proper all her life. But still—
She had not expected to enjoy it so much!
Love with the Earl of Sutton had been joyous, had been heaven, had been beyond–beyond anything she had known before with her sweet, boyish, dead husband.
And admitting that made her feel so very guilty…so very disloyal.
So the tears came, as she wondered why—how she could be such a dreadful person—and Lauryn beat the linen counter-pane and the down pillows with her fist and wept even harder.
She slept little that night. The next morning, she woke to hear a light tap on the door. She opened one eye and found she had a pounding headache.
“Who is it?” she called, her voice hoarse.
“I have your ’ot water, ma’am, with tea and some breakfast, if ye do’t wish to come down.”
“I’m not hungry, go away,” Lauryn said, and shut her eyes again.
She dozed again, but presently through her sleepy stupor intruded the sound of louder knocking, more determined this time. Lauryn groaned. The thumping did not help her painful headache.
“I said to go away!”
“It is moi, not the servants, and I do not go the vay, so you may as vell open ze door,” came a voice unmistakably the contessa’s.
Oh, hell. She would probably stand there and make noise all day, Lauryn thought. What in heaven did she want?
With immense reluctance, Lauryn pushed herself up from the bed, blinked against the sunlight slipping past the drawn curtains, and stumbled over to the door, turning the lock and allowing the woman to come in.
Lauryn herself turned and went back to the bed, and pulling the covers back to her chin.
The contessa marched into the chamber as if it were her own, folded her arms, and stared critically down at Lauryn. Meanwhile, a timid-looking maid came in also, carrying a tray which she sat on a nearby table.
“Sacre bleu, you look most dreadful,” the contessa offered helpfully. “Your eyelids are the zize of melons. You”—she turned to the maid—“go and bring us cold compresses and a sliced cucumber from the earl’s ’ot ’ouses, at once.”
“Yes, my lady,” the servant said, dropping a terrified curtsy. “Do you wish that soaked in vinegar?”
“Vinegar?” the contessa had swung toward Lauryn, who was trying to disappear beneath the covers, but she paused. “I do not make a zalad! No vinegar. I vish to put them on Miz. Smith’s eyelids; she ’as ’ad a restless night. The cucumber iz good for reducing puffiness.”
“Oh, yes, my lady.” The servant seemed impressed at this bit of wisdom. She curtsied again and went out, shutting the door behind her.
“Now then,” the contessa said, her voice stern. “Enough of thiz. If the earl iz un’appy with you, there is always the next time. I varned you that ’e vas a man of the vorld. I can teach you some little tricks, ma petite—”
“He is not unhappy with me!” Lauryn pushed back the cover enough to almost shriek. “Why do you assume you’re the only woman in the world who knows how to make love!”
“Then thiz is good, but do not shout, that iz very much not like the lady,” the contessa told her, apparently not in the least discomposed. “And it ’urts my ears. Then if you did not disappoint him, what iz the problem? I cannot believe that ’e disappointed you? Not Marcuz!”
“No, he did not—he did not disappoint me,” Lauryn said slowly, trying not to blush. “He is indeed an incredible lover.”
“As I have reason to know,” the contessa said, with a gusty sigh. “So why do I find you ’ere crying out ze eyes?”
“And anyhow,” Lauryn broke in, trying to turn aside these very private inquiries, “why do you wish to help me? I should rather expect you to be downstairs in my absence flirting with the earl and trying to insinuate yourself into my position.”
The contessa came and sat down on the other side of the bed. “I make the good try,” she admitted with her usual devastating candor. “’Is zilly brother is not down for breakfast; ’e drank too much last night—the poor boy ’as no stomach. So this morning I talk and laugh and smile vith the earl. But, alas, poor Marcuz ’as the thought only for you, are you ill, what is your vorries? Why did you not let in the zervant vith your breakfast? Zo until ’e is over this infatuation—”
Lauryn had been feeling a sudden warmth, but the word infatuation deflated that feeling as quickly as it had come. “Oh, so you think it will pass quickly?”
“Of course it vill. Marcuz iz not a man for lasting passions; look at me!” The contessa drew a silk fan out of her sleeve and flipped it open to fan herself vehemently. “Ve vere a vonderful couple!”
Lauryn would not have dared to dispute that assertion, so she said nothing.
“The only thing I could do to make ’im smile was to zay I vould come and check on you, so ’ere I am,” the contessa said, flashing her wide smile. “Zo, ve must get you together, ma petite.”
Lauryn thought about pointing out she was barely half an inch shorter than the contessa, but it didn’t seem worth the effort.
“Ve vill put the cucumber on the eyes, and you vill ’ave the cup of tea, and you vill feel better, yes?”
No, Lauryn thought.
The contessa regarded her sternly. “If you do not come down to dinner, I vill tell ’im you are ’aving your courses.”
“And what will I say when I do have them?” Lauryn demanded.
“Oh, ve vill think of something.” The contessa waved her fan in the air, unabashed. “Now, drink zome tea before it iz all cold and tell me what iz vith the tears?”
She left the bed to pour a cup of tea and brought it back, taking her seat again on the edge of the mattress.
Lauryn took the teacup the contessa held out, if only to keep it from being dumped into her lap, and as it was overfull, it seemed better to sip a little of the lukewarm brew. “It’s—rather—private, if you don’t mind.”
“Vould you rather tell ze earl?”
“No, certainly not!”
“Then, talk to me, oui? It is better than zitting and crying out the eyes,” the contessa pointed out. “And then you vill not ’ave the eyelids like melons. Ah, I ’ear the maid coming at last.”
The servant had made good time, actually, and she had a plate of sliced cucumber and a cold compress. After the contessa had shooed the servant away, she directed Lauryn to lie back in bed and placed cucumber sli
ces over her eyes and positioned the cold, wet cloth on top.
It did feel quite nice on her swollen eyelids.
“Zo, vhat is it that makes you veep all over the nice sheets?” The contessa would not let go of the most private part of the conversation—at least it was all private, but that consideration seemed to abash her not at all.
“That’s really not your—I mean, I’d rather not discuss it,” Lauryn said stiffly, but the contessa waved her hand as if brushing away a buzzing fly and plunged ahead.
“You are ’ere with the earl, who iz a most considerate man. If you ’ave changed your mind and vish to leave, ’e vill not hold you back. Did ’e pay you in advance?”
Despite the chill of the cloth over part of her face, Lauryn felt herself flush. “No, indeed.”
“Zo, you are not bound to ’im. Nothing iz keeping you.”
The contessa was always cheerful of mien, but she sounded quite eager, as indeed she had already admitted she was, eager to take Lauryn’s place in the earl’s bed. Lauryn was startled at the ripple of jealousy she felt over a man she hardly knew—at this rate, she fumed, she would turn her cold compress into a steaming heap of linen.
“I don’t wish to leave!”
“Then vhat iz the matter?”
“I don’t—I’m not—it’s hard to explain. It’s my husband,” Lauryn said before she could stop herself. There—it had slipped out. She had not meant to share her deepest emotions with a woman like—like what? At least the contessa was honest, whereas Lauryn herself was here hiding behind an assumed name, and behaving like—well, best not to even think about that, for the moment, she thought miserably. The thought made more tears squeeze out of the corner of her eyes.
“No, no, do not start again,” the other woman said hastily. “Now ve are making ze progress. It is your ’usband, oui. ’E has forced you to come ’ere? ’E will beat you if you do not please the earl? ’E vill take all the money that your patron gives you? Zuch is not unknown, c’est vrai.”
“Of course not!” Lauryn almost laughed at such a ridiculous idea.
“Non? Then, what, ’e beats you even if you do please the earl?” Looking mystified, the contessa wrinkled her well-shaped if rather long nose at Lauryn.