His heart beat strongly under her hands. “My family prevailed upon me to jilt the lady, although we have settled on a different story. When you saw me that day, I was on my way to my lawyer’s to tell him of the development. I was in good spirits that day. All the better for seeing you.”
“Gerald!” Her heart took wing, soaring up. “It’s true? Why did I not know?”
“Because until it takes place, marriage in the aristocracy is a private matter. Elizabeth caused rumors to arise, but it is not the thing to announce the intention. I think a little superstition is mixed in, too, of the counting chickens variety. Publicly we are saying the Duchess of Illington is helping us enter society, and any false rumors of marriage must have arisen from that. I am a free man, Annie.”
“But the trouble it will cause!” The Illingtons were powerful and, by all accounts, vindictive.
“I’ll not concern myself with that now. I’m too happy to care. I didn’t deserve you should take me back, after the way I behaved. I was a knave to take you the first time, but I was under the strongest urges I have ever experienced.”
“Make love to me now.” She was tired; she didn’t want to talk any more.
“You’re sure?”
She gave a ragged laugh. “Nothing else will complete this day.”
The candles nearest them flickered when he tumbled her on to the covers. When she shuddered, he paused. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head. “I want you. That’s all.”
With a low growl, he set about making her his.
When he dragged his shirt over his head, she feasted her eyes on his powerful form. Then she put her hands to work, smoothing her palms over him, working down to the muscle standing proud, red and damp, more than ready for her.
He groaned when she caressed it, stroking down his length. She continued while he whisked her shift off and away.
“Lie down, sweetheart.”
When she did, she expected him to come down on top of her, but instead, he slid on to the bed and lay on his side, facing her. Her breasts tingled and rose to his touch, her nipples sensitively responding. With a groan, he bent and took one into his mouth. She pushed her breast into him, unable to resist his touch and caresses. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she gave herself to him.
While her aches and pains didn’t miraculously disappear, they receded as he adored her with his mouth and hands. He shaped her anew when he slid his hands up her side to cup her breasts, and down to stroke her stomach. She was already wet when he touched her thighs, and she opened to him readily. He slid a finger into her, no resistance meeting his probing.
“You feel wonderful,” he said. “Better than anything I could ever have imagined. Darling Annie, you have no idea how much I want you.”
She laughed in derision. “Do I not? I think I might. It’s the same way for me. I ache for you, my love.”
If he noticed the endearment, he didn’t comment on it, other than to grip the back of her neck and drag her close for a deep, devouring kiss. Still in the kiss, as he was stroking his tongue against hers, rousing her to more pleasure, he lifted her leg and draped it over his firm thigh, bringing their bodies into alignment.
His shaft found her crease, and slid along it, once, twice, until he entered her in a slide of pure bliss.
Thrusting deep, he slid his hand to her bottom and urged her against him, until their intimate hair met and they were joined as one.
The kiss turned lavish, open-mouthed passion replacing his careful caresses. Annie gave as good as she got, sucking on his tongue, groaning as her body opened for him. He withdrew and thrust.
He drove her body into spiky awareness. Thrills coursed through her, intensifying until she cried out into his mouth. Her inner channel gripped his cock as if determined not to let him go.
With a groan he rolled on top of her, urging her on to her back. “I need you,” he muttered before he went back to kissing her, angling his head to taste her from another angle.
He was as good as his word, powering into her as she lifted her legs to wrap them around his waist. Her back arched, and he followed her, curving his body around hers so he could carry on kissing her, his eyes half-closed. She watched him, her body responding to his every caress, his touch. His chest, now damp with sweat, connected with her sensitized nipples with every powerful stroke.
She had thought she was done, but she was wrong. Relentlessly he drove her up again. The ripples of arousal increased until she was crying out with every stroke, heedless of who might hear or what they might think.
At her height, when she could no longer hold back, she cried out, “I love you!” and then her body pulsed and throbbed, as he gasped and stiffened. His muscles stood out in high relief as he released his seed into her.
With a final, deep groan, he shuddered above her. As he collapsed, he curved an arm around her and rolled to one side, bringing her with him so they were still sealed together.
A flood of embarrassment swept over her. What had she done? She had no wish to bind him to her, if he did not want to be bound. In shame, she buried her face against his shoulder. “I—I didn’t mean to say—”
The words died in her throat. Gently, he tilted her chin up so she had to look at him. His chest was still heaving, and his face was flushed but his gentle gaze met hers. “I love you too.”
Watching her, he smiled when she did, as relief took her. “I know it goes against everything we are supposed to think and know, but I do, Annie. In time, would you consider marrying me?”
The breath left her body in a great whoosh and she had to suck in more air before she could answer him. “Truly? How can I be a countess?”
“You’ll be a lovely countess. I will care for you, I swear it, but I cannot imagine marrying anyone else.”
“Was that why you disappointed Lady Elizabeth?”
“Partly. Mostly. I have to confess that my sisters were unhappy with my engagement, too. But I would not have asked you if I was not sure that you are the person I want to stand by my side. We can take our time, ease into life together, if you wish. We should, perhaps, do that. I can squire you to a few balls, test the waters. Should you like that, my love?”
“Say it again.”
“My love.”
They shared a long kiss of mutual adoration. His warmth flowed into her, and her questions receded. She suspected she would always be the most practical of the two. Already questions crowded into her mind. “I’m in trade. The sticklers won’t like that.”
“They will learn to live with it, or we will have nothing to do with them. My sisters and I did not take to society when we tried it the first time. That was why we lived here. When I inherited the title, I felt obliged to move west, but I confess, the house is a fine one and I like it. I have to visit the estates this summer, and see what I have. Will you come with me? Or shall you be tied up here?”
During her negotiations with Joseph, Annie had already explored the possibility of running the business at a distance. Aware her duties would be increased if she married Joseph. She would move up the social scale of the City. Facing the possibility of bearing his heirs, she had found a few likely men she would trust with the day to day running of Cathcart’s. “I will be with you. Wherever you are, I’ll be there.” Cupping his cheek, she pressed a kiss to his mouth.
He spoke to her softly. “Perhaps in time you will give me children as fine as the ones upstairs.”
“Sooner than you think.” She watched him carefully, to see how he would take her news.
Devastation had turned to delight, her future spinning full circle. “My love, I’m pregnant.”
***
Gerald heard her words with dull certainty and a growing sense of joy. Deep inside, where he could not mistake it, where he would never forget. “Sweetheart, are you sure?”
She shook her head, and then, with adorable confusion, nodded. “I know the signs. I feel queasy in the mornings. Nothing too extreme, but the sensation is unmistakable. My breasts
feel heavier and my nipples have changed color.”
Heat rose to her cheeks when he drew back, and rolled her on to her back, so the light flooded over her. He nodded, trying to ignore the potent lure of her body. “Yes, I see it.” He covered her stomach with one hand. His child was in there, little more than a speck, but growing. “It’s only been a month.”
“Yes. I’m as regular as my mother’s clock, which has never missed an hour. I have not had my courses since the last time we lay together, and I should have had them the week after.”
He wanted to laugh, delight bubbling up inside him like champagne. “I should be dismayed, should I not?” He had not an ounce of dismay in him. “Tuesday.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“We’ll marry on Tuesday. I was planning for us to take our time, to give society a chance to accept us, but I’m not prepared to do that any longer. Tomorrow—or today, I’m not sure of the time—is Saturday. We cannot do anything today or tomorrow, but it will give us time to tell our astonished, and I expect, delighted families.” He kissed her, savoring her taste and the knowledge that he would be making her his next week. “How will Matilda take this?”
“She’ll be delighted. She knows.” She pressed her hand over his, indicating what, exactly, Matilda knew.
“She will astonish society. An older lady who is attractive, unashamed and intelligent? They will declare her an oddity, but there are in fact many such.” Unable to resist her a moment longer, he kissed her. She tasted sweet and perfect.
“On Monday I will go to Doctor’s Commons and obtain a special license, and on Tuesday we will marry,” he said firmly.
No waiting for banns, no announcements, they would just do it. The Illingtons would take the union as a personal insult, he had no doubt. He would not look to the duchess to sponsor the girls into society. Wasn’t there another name? Lady Comyn? He would make inquiries. Already he knew society was not one great, homogeneous whole, but consisted of several factions, some of them at each others’ throats. With a little careful maneuvering, he could use that to his advantage, and that of his lovely wife.
His wife! The words thrilled him. He tried them aloud. “My wife. My love.” He gazed into her beautiful face, alight with love and vitality. Here was his match; here was his life.
“Well, one thing is for sure and certain.” She smiled broadly. “Life is going to be very interesting, is it not?”
END
MY DEAR MR. FORRESTER Eliza Lloyd
Joshua Forrester is a man of the world, returning to London after receiving a wound in a Parisian duel. He's done it again - out to save all womankind. When will he ever learn not all women want to be saved? In London, he is reacquainted with a family friend and now widow, Char Dunlevee. He is charmed - and appalled. He knows her secret and is furious his friend, Char’s now dead husband, could have left her in such circumstances. He can save her, if she will only say yes to his proposal.
Char has other plans. Joshua would make a perfect husband—for one of her sisters. She doesn’t need to be saved. Seduced perhaps…? With one kiss, Char forgets her plans as she is drawn closer to the enigmatic and dear Mr. Forrester.
My Dear Mr. Forrester
Book Two, The Infamous Forresters
Copyright 2016
All rights reserved
CHAPTER ONE
THE SALON ON SOUTH AUDLEY STREET was closed to the usual art patrons in favor of a more select clientele, connoisseurs who were interested in the finer aspects of canvas and color, the delicacy and sensuality reserved for artists who painted nudes.
Joshua Forrester had been dragged along by his erstwhile friend, Ward Sutherland, and had paid a tidy sum to be one of those few to receive an invitation. He had not seen Ward since the last time he was home, and Ward had always been easy company. And it was a good distraction from the stabbing pain in his side.
As he drank the glass of Bourgogne wine, which came from an old cask recently discovered in a smuggler’s basement, he reflected on the joys of his life and once again thanked the gods that he was not his brother’s immediate heir.
The salon was unusual in that it was held during the middle of the day. Something about light and shadows, he thought he’d heard.
“Gentlemen, we ask you not interfere with the artist or his subject.” The host bowed politely to the room of gentlemen, then backed out and eased the double doors shut.
In other words, don’t touch.
The general hum of conversation died down and all eyes turned toward the side of the room where a robed, masked woman entered. Her feet were bare, and he stared at her dainty appendages until she turned her back to the small group and lowered her covering.
Viewing a naked woman was never an opportunity to miss.
His mouth went dry, and there might have been a collective gasp from the group. The reaction in his body was ill-proportioned to the sight. He had seen naked women before, as had everyone in the room. This one was thinner than he liked but…nudity.
His gaze was first drawn to her ass, the most perfect white peach. Her limbs were long and slim. His assessment was interrupted by a glass crashing against the floor and when he glanced up again, she had taken a place on the plush velvet couch, unperturbed by the stir in the audience. Reclining, she faced the far wall. He could still see her ass, but he’d missed the display of her breasts.
One leg was straight, the other drawn up so that her upper foot rested against her ankle. She lay in a languid pose, her head resting against her arm. Her hair? He could not determine if it was a wig or her natural look.
She was clean, without scars, and refined. A lady then.
His brow winged. Was his conclusion farfetched? Had the others in the room deduced something similar? But who was she?
A lady posing nude for a preeminent artist? Was she destitute? Bored? Curious?
He sipped at his wine. Thinking was a decided waste, at this time especially. Such a moment was meant to be enjoyed.
Except that he was bothered by his inability to do something.
He supposed there were many ways for a lady, in financial straits, to earn a modest sum to run her household. Most of them honorable but not all of them.
From time to time she would move in subtle ways to relieve the tension of inactivity. Her toes flexed. Her legs shifted, the bottom clenching, the upper stretching.
He assumed the painter was busy doing whatever it was painters did. Quiet conversations had started amongst the seated gentlemen. He braced his forearms against his thighs.
Such a mystery.
Sutherland leaned toward him. “Who is she, do you think?”
Joshua swallowed and reclined against the chair, taking his time to consider the woman. “You’re asking me?” He swirled the wine in his glass and sniffed. The Bourgogne was very fine but the drink only kept his interest until it passed the back of his throat.
“But you would like to know?” Sutherland asked.
“I think the young woman—” He hesitated. “Prefers her anonymity.”
“The painting ought to sell for a tidy sum. If not for DuChamp’s name, certainly for the subject matter.”
He nodded. Yes, it should. To be displayed in some pervert’s private domain. Ah well, better the painting than knowing she was bought and sold like a possession.
She was no bored, highborn lady. Such a creature was usually full of pride and would not have minded being on display. It would have been a lark. A dare.
But the creature upon the couch was a lady still. A reluctant participant, perhaps?
An improvised gentleman’s daughter, most likely. This was probably the next step in a progression of desperate attempts to care for herself and her family. And if this didn’t provide enough money, what next? Selling herself and her honor?
He held up his glass and a servant filled it a second time.
After an hour, a few of the other gentlemen departed. All nodded to him as they left as if they shared a secret. Josh
ua wasn’t new to illicit behaviors. He was unused to his proclivities being shared amongst acquaintances.
When the artist called for tea, the young lady reached for the silken robe, slipped into it and stood on the other side of the couch. Her movements were quick and practiced. Had she done this before? So many questions.
He’d stared at her for nearly two hours. Was there any feature he might recognize if he saw her in public? No. Not the color of her eyes nor the shape of her body.
Once she disappeared from the painting room, Joshua stood, grimacing a bit at the pain in his side, and approached the artist, Paul DuChamp, a pear-shaped man of middling height in his fifties. He could understand why DuChamp painted beautiful, naked women.
Joshua greeted the painter in French, polished from his years of tedious study followed by years of fascinating travel.
“May I?” Joshua nodded toward the work in progress.
“Stunning, no?” DuChamp said. He rubbed a paint-splotched cloth over his fingers.
“She’s a beauty. Um, the shading and strokes are brilliant.”
“Observe the skin tone.”
DuChamp was obviously proud of his work, though the painting was not nearly complete. The model’s thigh was graceful and beautifully proportioned with a smooth, silky finish. Joshua just wanted to know the model’s name.
“How do you find the women who pose for you?”
The Frenchman waved his hand in dismissal. “I do not know. When I need models, they appear. Many want to be immortalized beneath my brush.”
Joshua ignored DuChamp’s subtle implication.
“How long will it take to complete this particular portrayal?”
“Hmpf.” DuChamp lifted a shoulder. “I will not be doing her face, so perhaps three more weeks. Maybe less.”
“Will the salon be open for each session?”
“Oh, no. This was Enzo’s idea. One needs a patron, oui? In lieu of that, a reliable source of funds so that I may continue my passion.”
Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors Page 28