A Notorious Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  She turned her head to one side and kissed his thigh, and then he wrapped an arm around her, leaning forward, bringing her hard against him, steadying them both. He took possession of her mouth, and while he did that, he drew up her skirts. She adjusted to give him the access he sought.

  His fingers slipped in wet. “Did you like that?” His voice was low and crude, and that set butterflies soaring in her stomach. “Your mouth on me?”

  “Yes.” She grabbed his head and, muscles tight with the effort of keeping her balance, said, “I adored that.”

  “All of it?” He grinned at her.

  “Every inch, my lord.”

  “Do you like this?” He slid his fingers through the slickness of her.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll not stop then.”

  “Oh, don’t. Please.”

  He knew what he was doing, fingers slipping in her, between, then in. His fingers sought, and moved, and reacted to her, and once she’d clutched the arm of the chair, he held the nape of her neck, harder than he had been doing until now. His eyes were steel now, steady, fixed on her.

  The way he watched her face felt too private, too fraught with a future in which he broke her heart, and she could not bear to look. She wanted the pleasure, only that. Nothing between them but that, and she closed her eyes and chased the peak.

  “Stay,” he whispered. His fingers stroked the back of her neck. “Stay with me. I want to see you with me when I’ve fetched you.”

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t. Her heart was already broken. What was left to her, she needed for herself. Safe for herself, for the life she had planned. He drew an orgasm from her, hard, unforgiving, and she gave in to herself, to his fingers, to him, and she did open her eyes, and met his, and she went under.

  After a moment, Thrale put his mouth by her ear, holding her steady with one unyielding arm. He took her face in his hands, cupped her cheeks. “Is it possible?” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Us.”

  “No.” She touched a hand to his. “You know it’s not.”

  CHAPTER 30

  At twenty before eight in the morning, Lucy turned from the window of her bedroom. As she did, she caught a flash of white from the corner of her eye; a woman, she realized, walking away from the house, not back to the house. Despite the early hour, not one of the servants.

  That was Emily striding toward the field behind The Cooperage. Without her maid. Without a footman. If she meant to go to Rosefeld, well, it was too early to call, even on family. She watched Emily and knew, simply knew, that her sister was not going to Rosefeld or to Bartley Green. She was heading for Emmer’s Field.

  How she’d found out about this morning’s happenings, Lucy did not know. But she had, and there was no way in which Emily’s presence there could be anything but inappropriate. Not even Lucy knew for sure how many men would be there. Thrale had said this was a private gathering, but there were so many of the Flash here, a private gathering might be quite large.

  Lucy put Roger into the housekeeper’s care with strict instructions that he was to be kept inside. She did not know where she would end up or how long she would be away, not with Emily to take in hand, and Roger was more than capable of finding her if he got out and followed her.

  Dressed in her plainest, drabbest cloak, she hurried in the direction she’d seen Emily walking. When she broke onto the path that led to Rosefeld, she did not see Emily, and her hope that Emily was not taking a terrible, foolish risk evaporated. She walked faster, through the trees, dense in places. Once, she saw the shadow of a deer, but she paid it no mind. Emmer’s Field was close. Presently, she heard voices, enough to be worrisome.

  Lucy came around a turn the path that would take her to the very edge of Emmer’s field, and there was Emily. She’d stopped walking but was not standing in the open. Foolish, yes. Stupid, never. Her sister lurked in the trees, looking at the clearing twenty feet distant where a crowd watched two men who faced each other, fists raised. Both were peeled off to bare chests, both with neckcloths used as sashes to hold up their breeches. Magnificent specimens both of them.

  Lucy blinked. One of the two was Thrale. This was no surprise, but the other? Heavens, that giant of a man with his dark curls blown about by the breeze, that was Lord Bracebridge, and he might be the rival of any prizefighter’s physique. He’d fought for money in the days when no one dreamed he would ever inherit, not with so many brothers before him. She’d found the records of his battles. He’d done well and earned a reputation as a vicious, relentless fighter whose strength covered a multitude of technical deficiencies.

  At the perimeter of the ring Aldreth stood in his shirtsleeves, neckcloth unfastened. The breeze was strong enough to mold the front of his shirt to his body, giving her a full on view of his elegant, athletic build. Aldreth was holding his watch because he was keeping the time. She did not recognize the men acting as referees. Harry was Bracebridge’s bottleman. Captain Niall appeared to be fulfilling that function for Thrale. Flint stood to one side with an armful of coats and neckcloths.

  Thrale and Bracebridge were toe-to-the-line, waiting for the signal to recommence, for neither man was fresh. There was a great deal of shouting of advice to the combatants and wagers between the observers. Some of the men looked to be lively indeed. One of them lifted a flask to his lips and drank, then passed it to a compatriot who did the same. Behind them, a wager was made and money passed to Arthur Marsey.

  A shout went up, and the round began.

  Lucy joined Emily in the protected spot she’d found and took a firm grip on her sister’s wrist. The location of the ring was no accident. Thrale had very likely arranged its placement so close to this area. Thank goodness, else Emily would have already been discovered. In a low voice, she said, “This is not right. Go home. This moment.”

  Her sister turned to her, determination etched into her face. “What are you doing here?”

  “Preventing you from making a fool of yourself.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Keep your voice down, Emily.” She recognized her sister’s stubborn look, and panic lapped at her. When Emily made up her mind about something, that was often that. But, this was no fit scene for a young lady. Thrale and Bracebridge were peeled off and several of the others had removed their coats. “We don’t need another Sinclair sister put beyond the pale.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “It is enough that I am unforgiven.”

  “That’s not so.”

  “It is. Go back to the house. Whatever you have planned, it’s foolish. It will backfire. Not here. And not now.” She looked toward the field and saw Thrale take a ribber and counter with two of his own. This was a fight she would dearly love to watch. “What if someone sees you?” If one of those men glanced their way and saw them, that would be a disaster. “He will not think better of you if he finds you spying on him, I promise you.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  A shout went up from the spectators, and Lucy gave a mental curse that she’d missed the cause. “I’m sure you do. Let’s go back to the house now.”

  “Can you tell who’s winning?”

  “Bracebridge has decent technique.” Better than what had been said of him in earlier days. She watched them, studied the shifting tableau. “He’s fast.”

  “Oh. Ouch.”

  “And strong.” He’d been a brawler by reputation. Ruthless and strong enough to overpower fighters with better technique. “Physically, they are well matched, those two.” She tried to watch the fight without bias. The truth was, Thrale had better art. Better science too, no less than she’d expected. His expression of the art, with all that implied for knowing one’s opponent, observing him, adapting, all that Thrale had. They seemed to have agreed there would be no blows above the shoulder, but he punched without mercy.

  No mercy at all.

  “Is Bracebridge winning?”

  “I cannot say.”
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  “He’s hitting Thrale more. Why do you not say he’s winning?”

  “Oy, there!” A deep, male voice boomed over them. Emily blanched, and Lucy felt quite sure she’d done the same. Her heart thudded. “Oy, there, in the trees!”

  “Go. Now.” She grabbed Emily’s arm, turned her around and pushed her in the direction of The Cooperage. Emily jerked away, but she had the sense to hurry toward the house.

  “Who’s there?” The voice was closer, and whichever of the men had seen them was now tromping through the trees, heading in their direction.

  Lucy caught up and pushed Emily ahead of her. “Faster,” she said in a low, hard voice. “Run, and I won‘t tell anyone what you’ve done.”

  The threat was enough. Lucy would have been close behind Emily—she had no desire to be caught here either—but the hem of her gown caught on a bramble. Not even a yank freed her gown. She backtracked her steps in case that solved the problem, but her skirt was more entangled than before.

  The man after them was closer yet. She prayed it was Aldreth. He might at least think it was amusing, and if she told him she’d followed Emily and managed to send her home, well, he’d be on her side in the matter.

  “Mrs. Wilcott.”

  She stood stock still.

  “Are you lost?”

  Emily was well away at least, she so she turned, and with one arm behind her, yanked on her skirt again. Miraculously, the fabric came free, albeit with a ripping sound.

  Thrale stood not an arm’s length away, naked from the waist up. Good heavens. She opened her mouth to say something that would have been unwise, but sweat trickled down his forehead and temples, and when he used the crook of his elbow to rub away the drops, muscle moved everywhere. She was absolutely unable to think. He had a raw bruise on his shoulder.

  He put his hands on his hips, and the only thought in her brain was that she’d never in her life been more aroused than right now. Not like this. Not with her so unable to think. Not with a man so perfectly formed. A series of physical reactions flooded through her, pushing away her good sense as a threat to what she wanted right now. Thrale. She wanted him. Longed for him.

  He didn’t speak. Or move, and it seemed that whatever was wrong with her, why, the same thing was wrong with him. Her breath caught in her throat, and it didn’t even matter that she’d dropped her pretenses. They were both stupid with lust. She slid her fingers over his skin. That was muscle. Firm and so sleek. She stroked up, over the ridges of his belly.

  Thrale tipped his head, one eyebrow arched. He grabbed her hand and walked them farther into the trees and away from the men and from the Cooperage. They ended up close, so close. His lips parted, and after a moment, he said, “Like what you see?”

  Her fingers trailed up, and she diverted her upward direction enough to the right to reach his nipple. “I want to lick you. Here.”

  He looked over his shoulder and then back at her, and his gray eyes, usually so cold where she was concerned, were considerably not. “Please.”

  No doubt he expected she wouldn’t. Well. She had something of Emily’s defiance in her after all. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his skin. Not to his nipple but to the swell of his upper arm. He tasted warm, salty. Like the sunlight he’d been standing in before he came haring after her.

  He gripped her arm. “Not here. Not so close.”

  With him still holding her arm, they walked deeper into the trees, away from Emmer’s Field, away from the noise. Off the path. They reached a place where there was less space between trees. Older oaks with thick trunks and branches and dense, green foliage. “Here will do.”

  She faced him, put her hands on his chest. “Did he hurt you?”

  “What?”

  She looked into his eyes. She knew the effect she had on most men, and she watched his pupils react, the way he assessed and then that slow, liquid smile on his mouth, as wicked as any man could be. “Bracebridge. Does he hit as hard as I suspect?”

  “Harder.” He put a palm on the back of her neck and pushed her back until her spine was pressed against the trunk of one of the oaks. He closed the distance between them. The contact sent her stomach off the edge of the world. “He’s still too much of a brawler, though.”

  She put both her palms on his chest, filled with such dizzying arousal that when his mouth touched hers, not gently, she had no defense. What’s more, she didn’t want any. She wanted him to shake her to her core.

  He could do that to her. Shake her free. He could make her long for his cock inside her, taking her hard, right at the edge of more than she could bear. His lips opened over hers, and she reciprocated. His tongue moved into her mouth at the same time his hand tightened on the back of her neck. Eyes mostly closed now, she moved her last two fingers and felt the peak of his nipple underneath. He made a noise that sounded like deep appreciation, and what woman didn’t long to hear such a sound from her lover?

  Kissing like this was—oh, God, she thought she’d never do this again, and the thought that Lord Thrale, of all people, was the man with his mouth on hers, sent her out of her mind. She leaned into him, returned his open-mouthed kiss, touched his tongue with hers. He was hot and damp from his exertions, and she didn’t give a fig. His hands wandered below her waist, tentatively at first and then not at all, when she threw her arms around his shoulders.

  The sound he made when he realized she’d capitulated everything to him went straight through her. Part growl, part grunt, it was like being given a window onto the ocean after being locked away for years. She embraced the moment when he gave in to whatever he was feeling, when it was more than mere contact. His hand landed on her hip—how convenient that she was wearing short stays again—and curved around to her bottom where he pressed her forward.

  Her hand moved down to the waist of his breeches and then along the flap, and his fingers closed around her wrist and pushed downward. He let go of her bottom and covered her hand so that she cupped him, and another shiver went through her.

  This time she was the one to make a sound, a moan of longing and desire because his delicate parts did not currently feel delicate at all. He was holding her like a man who knew what to do with his body, who thought of his partner. She let herself drop deeper into this madness, stirred past reasoning, astonished that she could react this way to anyone. She knew the path they were on, none of the particulars were new to her. Or to him.

  He grabbed a handful of her skirts and pulled up.

  CHAPTER 31

  Thrale groaned because, Jesus Lord on high. The woman had a hand on his cock, and now she drew a finger along the length of him, and he would be mad with lust soon. Stark mad. This was not the place to ravish a woman or to allow a woman to ravish him. The rest of him was engaged with his erection, her hands on him, and the imperatives involved in that.

  Mrs. Wilcott drew away. Not much, but enough for disappointment to roar through him. Her hand stayed on his prick, though her fingers were still. He looked into her eyes, hoping to see her as ruled by lust as he was. Was she?

  “My lord,” she said, breathless, the words trembling.

  He held her gaze, and managed to summon words. Crude words that reflected his mood. “I want to fuck you now. This minute. I hope to bloody hell you are in charity with that sentiment.”

  The woman in his arms, and who still had her hand on his privity, mirrored the lust roaring through him. She slid a finger across his chest and removed her hand from his parts. He ought to object to that. She focused on his torso, and despite the dreamy cast to her eyes, she was a thousand times more vibrant than he’d seen her before. “So lovely.”

  A voice from the meadow rang out. Distant. Heading away from where they’d gone. “Hullo there, Thrale! Are you lost?”

  Damn him, all he could think was that if he’d not wasted time talking, he might be just finishing.

  “Do you want to answer whoever that is?” she asked.

  He gathered a handful of her skirts and
pulled up. He was a randy sod. A greedy one. A glutton. “I’d rather fuck than fight, and that’s the truth. So, no. I do not care to answer anyone but you.”

  The smile that broke across her face killed him, sent what decorum was left him to southern regions where it died a merciful death in lust. She said, “Good.”

  That was all it took for him to put action to desire. His fingers brushed her naked skin, well above her stocking, and it was the work of half a second to have his hand around the back of her thigh, pulling up. He bent his knees, and she adjusted, and the sound she made when he thrust home brought an answering growl from him.

  His blood raced through him, hot, needful. This was the kind of sex he craved. Out of bounds. Rough. Not the least proper, and with a woman who wanted the same. She threw her arms around him, held tight, and met his strokes as best she could with them like this. He buried his prick deep in the softness of her, withdrew, and returned to that soft, slick, heat. His arms and shoulders strained with the effort of holding her, and that felt good, too. The effort sped him onward, that fact that his strength was required pushed him harder.

  There was nothing better than fucking a woman who enjoyed the act and who knew how to fuck back. Who she was only added to his arousal. Mrs. Wilcott, whom he should not be touching. Should not. Lucy, who deserved better from life than had been her lot. He should not do this, but he was no more capable of not finishing this encounter than he was capable of breathing underwater.

  “Thrale?”

  Niall, he thought, and not from as far away as before, but not near. Not near enough that he had to worry.

  “Hurry.” The word was half-moan, half-whisper. She clutched his shoulders, but her fingers slid in sweat and glanced over a bruise that made him flinch from the contact.

  He pinned her, pushing hard against her, holding her tighter than he would have another woman. Her natural reaction was what he wanted, what he dreamed of. She allowed him to master her and at the same time demand that he pleasure her.