by Tessa Dare
He paused. “Sounds ridiculous.”
“I thought it sounded exciting.” She cleared her throat and read aloud. “‘For the second time in as many weeks, a chilling specter has wrought mayhem and terror in the most unlikely of neighborhoods: Mayfair. The ghoul is described as a tall, narrow figure clad all in black, with fine boots and a beaver hat pulled down to meet the upturned collar of his cloak. This reporter interviewed a well-shaken fellow who attested to seeing the caped monster in St. James Park this Thursday past. Only yesternight, witnesses residing near Shepherd Market tell of a demon with hideous face and a twisted snarl roaming the alleyways. The apparition threatened no fewer than a dozen souls—among them, three innocent boys—before disappearing into the night. Mothers are advised to clutch their children close, lest the Monster of Mayfair strike again.’” She lowered the paper. “Well?”
“Sensationalist rubbish.”
“I thought the writing was evocative.” Emma folded the clipping leisurely and tucked it away. “Any ideas who this ‘monster’ might be?”
He was silent.
“It’s quite a coincidence. Because we were in St. James Park last week. And you do happen to have a tall hat and black cloak. But of course you wouldn’t go around terrorizing innocent boys.”
He gave in with a huff. “Innocent boys, my eye. The brats knocked over a flower seller for her pennies. They deserved whatever they got.”
She smiled. “Do you know, I suspected you were a good man, deep down. Even if very, very, very deep down. In a fathomless cavern. Underneath a volcano.”
There was more to him than she’d suspected. More than anyone suspected, perhaps. Humor, patience, passion. She found it all distressingly attractive.
Come along then, Breeches.
At last, there was a stirring in the dark corner behind the grate.
“Hush now.” He pinched the corner from a salmon sandwich and leaned forward, holding it out until it was close enough to provide an irresistible feline temptation. “Come on then, you odious, mewling bugbear,” he crooned. “I have your dinner.”
With a steady stream of low, deceptively tender insults, he drew the cat out from the fireplace. Emma remained absolutely still, so as not to startle the creature.
“That’s it,” he whispered, drawing his hand closer to his lap. Reeling the cat in like a fish on the line. At last, he allowed Breeches to catch the bait. The starving cat attacked the sandwich in ravenous bites. “There you are, then.”
He had the little beast eating out of his hand.
Monster of Mayfair, indeed.
While Breeches ate from one hand, he reached out with the other—grabbing the cat by the scruff. He scooped the creature up, placed both cat and sandwich in the trunk, and latched it tight. Breeches didn’t even make a complaint.
Then he stood and dusted his hands before offering Emma assistance in rising to her feet.
“Now,” he said. “I am going to ring for a footman to clear this tray and place the cat under lock, key, bolt, and guard. Then I’m going to go upstairs, find a fresh shirt, and rinse the soot from my hands. In all, I estimate that will occupy three minutes.” His intense eyes caught hers. “That’s how much time you have.”
“How much time to what?”
“To make ready. Before I come to your room and pin you flat against the bed.”
“Oh.”
He leisurely strolled over to ring the bell. “Make haste, Emma. You’re down to two and a half minutes now.”
Emma swallowed hard.
Then she turned and ran.
Chapter Eleven
Emma didn’t bother to retrieve her slippers. She dashed on stocking feet for the staircase, gathering her skirts in both hands to lift them out of the way.
When she reached her suite, she chased away the maid and went directly to the bedchamber. As she rushed, she tugged at the buttons of her frock with one hand and went about snuffing candles with the licked fingertips of her other, leaving only the dim firelight. She still didn’t see any reason for darkness, but she didn’t wish to waste time arguing.
Not tonight.
She’d barely succeeded in loosening her bodice when he opened the door.
No knock. No greeting. He was true to his word.
He strode to her, put his hands on her waist, lifted her off her feet, and tossed her onto the bed.
Her breath left her. When the capability returned to her hands, she fumbled to find her buttons and continue disrobing.
“Don’t bother,” he said, in a gruff, commanding voice.
Very well, then.
She never would have guessed she’d find this curt, brutish treatment arousing . . . but she did. Oh, she did. He was capable of patience and tenderness. He’d demonstrated as much downstairs with the cat. The knowledge made her feel safe, even if he overwhelmed her now. Besides, she knew from experience, he’d stop the moment she expressed the slightest discomfort.
She didn’t want him to stop.
He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette, wrestling with the closures of his falls, then shucking his trousers.
She was panting with arousal by the time he joined her on the bed.
He straddled her hips and pulled at her bodice, tugging it down. She heard a seam rip. No matter; she could mend it tomorrow. Before she’d finished deciding if she had the right color of thread, he had her breasts bared and his hands fitted over them, kneading and stroking. Desire shivered over her skin. Her nipples tightened, and he found them with his thumbs. As he rolled and pressed the sensitive peaks, she writhed under his expert teasing.
“You like this.” Half smug statement, half question.
She nodded, then realized he might not be able to see the gesture. “Yes.”
“And this?”
He pinched her nipple, and she had to chase after her thoughts before she was able to reply. “Yes.”
“Just making certain. Before I do this.”
“Do what?”
He cupped one of her breasts and lifted it. She felt a cool swipe across her nipple.
He’d licked her.
She jolted with the keenness of the sensation. “I thought you had a rule,” she gasped. “No kissing.”
“This isn’t kissing. It’s licking.” Another gliding caress—warm this time—swirling in terrible, wonderful circles. “And sucking.” He pulled her nipple into his mouth, drawing on her with no mercy.
She cried out and bucked. She reached instinctively to grip his shoulders, remembering too late he didn’t wish to be touched.
He sat up, caught her hands, and pushed them back against the mattress on either side of her head. “We discussed this.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I forgot. I can’t think when you touch me that way. Or when you touch me this way, for that matter.”
The commanding way in which he gripped her arms only pitched her excitement higher. The pulses of her wrists thumped wildly beneath his palms, and her heartbeat was a clamor in her ears.
“Don’t forget it again,” he said in a low, thrilling voice. “Or I’ll be forced to tie you to the bed.”
At the suggestion, her intimate muscles fluttered. “Is that meant to be a threat? Because I . . . I don’t seem to find the idea entirely objectionable.”
“You don’t?”
She licked her bottom lip. “Well, you’re very good at this, apparently. And what with the dark . . . It’s all very shadowy and sensual. Like one of those feverish dreams one has on a hot summer’s night.”
“This is something you’d dream about. Being pawed by a hulking stranger in the dark.”
Emma squeaked out her tentative reply. “Maybe?”
Unbearable moments passed in silence.
“You are incredible.”
Whether he meant that as a compliment or censure, she didn’t know. She didn’t have a chance to ask. He released her wrists and moved between her legs, shoving her skirt and petticoat to her waist.
Rubbing
his fingers up and down her sex, he made a sound of approval. “Wet for me already.”
The heel of his hand pressed against her mound. Emma tried her best to remain still. It wasn’t easy. But if he stopped now, she would expire of frustration. His fingers penetrated her, stroking deep. Oh, God. Perhaps she would expire not of frustration, but of bliss.
Instead of shifting his weight to move atop her, he lowered himself onto one elbow. She felt his tongue again. Not on her nipple this time.
There.
She couldn’t help it now. Her body convulsed with pleasure, arching and twisting beneath his mouth. He licked her over and over, spinning her into new landscapes of arousal with languid strokes of his tongue. All the while, he kept up rhythmic thrusts with his fingers, hitting a place deep inside her that made her clutch the bed linens in her fists.
Emma didn’t know how much more she could take. But even if she wished to beg him for mercy, what would she cry out? Duke? Ashbury? No. She refused. Intimate moments called for intimate address, and she feared his wrath if she tried “dear” or “darling” or “precious angel muffin” instead.
No, there would be no begging for mercy. She surrendered to the pleasure, letting him nudge her closer and closer to the brink of madness with each flick of his tongue.
She whispered, “Don’t stop.”
Don’t stop.
As if she needed to tell him so.
Ash would not have stopped for anything. Never mind a feral cat. The royal menagerie could crash down the chimney, and he would not have lifted his head from his task.
She was so close. He could feel it. He could taste it. And as badly as she needed to come, he needed her to come even more.
Bringing a woman to orgasm had always been a particular pleasure for him. With most women he’d known, even if no deep affection was involved, a climax required a bit more than a skilled tongue and fingers. It took closeness, trust. Intimacy. Feeling a woman come beneath his hand, his mouth, his body—well, it made him feel like king of the planet, of course—but it also made him feel connected. Human.
Now he was a monster.
Look, it even said so in the Prattler.
Ash had expected—he’d feared, to put a finer point on it—that he’d never know a woman’s intimate trust again. Not this way. What woman would allow this scarred, repulsive face between her thighs?
Emma would, apparently. Whether that labeled her a lunatic or a fool, he would decide later. She was likely both. He’d convinced her to marry him, after all.
Then she arched her hips and began to ride his tongue in a halting rhythm, chasing her own bliss. The unbearable sweetness made him moan. His already hard cock pulsed with impatience.
Now. By the gods, let it be now.
She gasped, her full body tensing as the pleasure took her. The wet heat of her sex squeezed his fingers. He savored each shudder, each soft, lovely sigh.
When her body relaxed, he slid his hand free and stroked her silky essence over his cock. She parted her thighs, and he knelt between them, hooking her legs over his hips. Taking himself in hand, he placed the broad crown of his erection where it needed to be, tensed his thighs . . . and pushed.
Then he was in her. And in her. And God, so exquisitely deep in her—and still he wanted more.
He couldn’t help but groan.
He began to thrust in earnest, working himself further and further into that narrow tunnel of heat. He hoped she’d experienced the worst of her discomfort last night, because gentleness was beyond him now. He thrust with purpose, determined to get at the very heart of her and feel her body sheathing him whole. She made a bridge of her body, lifting her hips to connect his pelvis to hers.
“That’s it,” he whispered between shaky breaths. “Just like that.”
He worked both hands beneath her bottom and lifted it, tilting her hips. Her body yielded to him a fraction more, and he sank home.
Perfect. So perfect.
Still on his knees, he held her by the hips and thrust faster. With the help of the dim firelight, he could just make out the taut globes of her breasts, rolling with his every stroke. God, how he wanted to see those breasts in full daylight. The nipples alone. He’d learn their color; trace their shape with his fingers, then his tongue. Nuzzle and feel the softness against his cheek.
But as much as he wished to see them, Ash had to admit that picturing them . . . It was working, too. Really, really working. It threw him back to his youth, when he’d made do with nothing but a hand and his imagination. Except this wasn’t his callused hand, and his imagination had never been anywhere near this good. This lover wasn’t a fantasy, but real. She had shape and heat and scent.
She had a name.
“Emma.”
When he called to her, her body tightened deliciously around his cock.
So he did it again.
“Emma.” The pleasure was keen, slicing through him like a knife. He gritted his teeth. “Emma.”
Words were beyond him after that. He squeezed her plump little bottom in both hands and took her hard and fast, relentless in his race to the peak.
And then he came. He came hard, spending into her with fierce joy. His hips jerked with each wrenching spasm. The climax seemed to go on and on, approaching forever. And yet it wasn’t nearly enough.
He collapsed on the bed beside her, weakened and emptied. If he’d known taking a wife would be like this, he would have married ages ago.
Of course, marrying ages ago would have meant taking a different wife. He wasn’t certain wives like this one abounded.
He turned his head to face her in the dark. “Where on earth did you come from?”
She was silent for a long moment. “Hertfordshire.”
He laughed, without restraint or apology.
“You really must give me something to call you,” she said. “If we go on like this, I’m going to need a name to cry out, and I don’t think you want it to be honeybee.”
“Just try it, blossom.” He sat up in bed. “But if you insist on something else, just use Ash. It’s what my friends call me.” Or called me, when I still had friends.
He reached for his trousers.
“You don’t mean to leave me,” she said. “After that?”
Her obvious satisfaction swelled his pride, but staying the night was out of the question. He was not going to allow her to wake up beside him in the full light of day, mere inches from his mangled face, let alone the wreckage that remained of his neck, chest, shoulder.
Not now, not yet. Perhaps not ever.
She’d think she’d woken from a nightmare. She’d shrink from him. Run from the room. Worse had happened before. Unless she was pregnant with his child, he could not take that risk. And once she was pregnant, they were done.
The sooner that happened, the better.
He left her room on wobbly legs, then sank against the door.
Please be fertile, or you’ll be the death of me.
Chapter Twelve
Walking through the streets that night was a novel experience.
Forget stalking and prowling down the darkened alleyways. Tonight, Ash was all but skipping. Gamboling.
He didn’t encounter any enraging specimens of human refuse.
He was no longer sexually frustrated to the point of irascibility.
He felt almost . . . human again.
He even strolled across an open square.
“Say!” someone called. “You’re the Monster of Mayfair!”
And with that, Ash’s lightened mood popped like a balloon. So much for feeling human.
A gangly figure jogged across the green to him. Ash pushed back the brim of his hat, revealing his face, and scowled. That always worked on the children.
For it was, in fact, a school-aged boy who’d approached him. One who’d clearly learned to curse this past Michaelmas term at school.
“I’ll be damned.” The boy whistled low. “You truly are as fearsome and ugly as the papers sai
d.”
“Oh, really. And do they say anything about this?” Ash brandished his walking stick. “Now go home. Your nursemaid will be missing you.”
He turned and kept walking. The lad followed.
“I saw you over by Marylebone Mews,” the boy called out. As if they were two old chums holding a conversation at the club. “You thrashed that gin-soused cur. The one who was beating his wife, remember?”
Yes, of course Ash remembered. It was only two days past.
“That was bloody brilliant.” By now the youth was scampering alongside him. “Just capital. And I heard about the footpads in St. James’s, too. All of London has.”
Ash released a long, slow breath. He refused to be baited. The more thoroughly you ignore him, the faster he’ll go away, he told himself. Like a canker sore.
“So where are we off to tonight?” the boy asked.
We?
Now that was too much.
Ash halted in the center of the empty square. “Just what is it you want?”
The boy scratched his ear and shrugged. “To see you thrash someone new. Give some fellow what’s coming to him.”
“Well, then.” Ash lifted his walking stick and gave the lad a shove with the blunt end, sending him arse-first into the shrubbery. “There you have it.”
Several days later, Emma stood before a terraced house faced with white stone and corniced windows, having made the journey across Bloom Square. As short a distance as it was, she seemed to have dropped her bravery somewhere along the way.
She knew she must not indulge her nerves. She needed to start moving in society, and asking the duke to squire her about Town would be a waste of breath. If Davina wanted permission to visit her at Swanlea, Emma must form acquaintances with ladies of impeccable breeding and genteel accomplishment—not as their seamstress, but as their equal. Today was an important first step.
She looked down at the invitation and read it again.
To the new Duchess of Ashbury—
Warmest welcome to Bloom Square! Every Thursday my friends come around for tea. We’d be most delighted if you would join us.