The Arrangement

by Sylvia Day

  “You are so wet for me,” he murmured into her neck, biting and kissing and licking while he pulled her tightly against his chest and drove her ruthlessly toward her climax.

  When she began to shake and cry out he kneed her thighs apart and entered her with a punishing thrust, riding her hard while teasing another orgasm from her just before burying himself to the hilt and emptying deep inside her.

  * * *

  They were lying side by side, faceup on her bed, the cool air beginning to chill their sweaty bodies.

  “I am not usually so impatient, my dear. Thank you for indulging me.”

  “I daresay you can find a way to make it up to me,” Jo said lightly.

  He turned toward her. “Look who’s cheeky.”

  Jo grinned and turned on her side to face him, propping her head in her hand.

  He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “My father sent nothing again today.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, he’s so stubborn.”

  Beau’s lips pulled up on one side. “I wonder if it runs in the family?”

  Jo smiled, pleased by his gentle teasing. She loved lying in bed and talking with him almost as much as she loved his body and what it could do to her.

  “Tell me about yourself when we first met—did you only have the one Season?” he asked.

  “Yes—and that one was more than enough. My father hounded me mercilessly the next year, but I stood firm.”

  “So, stubborn in other words?” His blue eyes crinkled at the outside edges.

  “You used to smile like this a lot back then,” she said.

  “Hmm, did I? Well, I suppose I was younger then.”

  His face had subtly tightened and Jo knew he was probably thinking about the things that had stopped his smiles. Like the jagged pink scar on the right side of his chest.

  She reached out and touched him lightly. “What happened here—Er, that is, if you don’t mind talking about it. I don’t mean to pry,” she added when he fixed her with the impassive look she’d decided she didn’t like very much because it was a mask, a defense.

  “It is from a bayonet, not deep or life threatening. Tell me, why just the one Season? What did you plan for your life before your father sought me out? Or was I only the latest offering in a long line? Did he bring suitors and leave them at your door, like a cat leaving a mouse?”

  They both laughed at that image.

  “I had three other offers that Season,” she confessed, “and a few others over the years. But you were the only one he brought to me—Well, who knows? Maybe there were a dozen others and they all begged off at the last moment.”

  “Shhh,” Beau murmured, kissing her deeply and thoroughly, until when he finally pulled away she couldn’t recall what they’d been discussing.

  “What happened that Season to make you hate society so much?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t particularly care about such things—parties, balls, society functions, moving from London to Brighton to the country and then doing it all over again, but my father became obsessed with the aristocratic set. Oh, he didn’t want to join them, not that they’d ever accept him even though he buys and sells peers the way he does ships and—” Jo stopped when she realized what she’d just said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Shh,” he said. “You don’t need to apologize for the truth.” He cocked his head at her, absently stroking her side with his hand, making Jo want to purr. “You keep saying them. You do realize you are now them.”

  “Not really. I’ll never be of your class—you know that. And I’ll never be of my father’s class. I’m neither fish nor fowl. I am destined to spend my life on the fringes—any entrée I have is thanks to you.”

  His gaze became uncomfortably acute. “I don’t understand why you agreed to this marriage. You never really cared about becoming a duchess, did you?” Jo swallowed and his eyes narrowed, making him look like a predator who’d just caught scent of his prey.

  God. How had this conversation started?

  “You said something earlier—that I used to smile more. How did you know that? I suppose we must have seen each other often—in particular at a house party.” He grimaced. “It infuriates me that I don’t remember any of our interactions. I know I was distracted, but I don’t understand how I didn’t see you, but you saw me.”

  Jo felt her deceitful face heating.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Why are you turning such a charming shade of pink?”

  Jo raised her palms to her flaming face.

  “Josephine?” he asked in a voice that warned he would have it out of her. “What is it?”

  Why not tell him? Hasn’t he already confessed enough of his own embarrassing secrets?

  She dropped her hands. “I was never outgoing—I rarely spoke unless somebody dragged me into a discussion. It was just too mortifying to know that men only spoke to me because of my money.” She shrugged. “You never saw me because I never once spoke to you. In fact, I usually hid when you were around.”

  “But why?”

  She snorted. “Ask Victoria.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  She swallowed several times. “I didn’t mix with your set, Beau—not normally. The only reason I was invited to that party—my only house party—was because Lady Edelson had a son she wanted to marry off.”

  His brow creased and then he snorted. “Not Bertie? God. Tell me she didn’t want you to marry—”

  “Yes,” she ground out between her teeth. “She thought I’d be perfect for her dipsomaniac half-wit son, Bertie.”

  “Ah.”

  Jo couldn’t stand the pity on his face. “I didn’t know anyone there except Victoria.” She snorted. “I say know. That’s not really accurate. She only paid me any mind when I could be a foil for her beauty—as if she needed one.” She cut him a glance from beneath her lashes; he looked pensive. Whatever memories talking about that party stirred up, they weren’t entirely happy ones. Jo wanted to ask him how he liked having to relive the past but then recalled that what she was about to tell him was entirely her fault, not his.

  Jo rolled onto her back and stared at the canopy, unable to look at him while relating this embarrassing tale. “It was a dreadfully tedious party for me and the last of its kind I would ever attend. The group, you probably don’t recall, broke into eight couples whenever the opportunity presented itself. Bertie and I were to be the ninth couple, but he wasn’t exactly challenging to dodge. Anyhow, a person could hardly walk a step without encountering—well, you know.”

  She risked turning to him.

  “You must know that women were—still are, I’m sure—mad for you. It’s rather nauseating, really.”

  He actually blushed. “Er—”

  “I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed looking at you—we all did. But, for some reason, Victoria thought it was the most amusing thing she’d ever seen—a little merchant scrub like me admiring you from afar.”

  He looked dazed.

  “Victoria talked about you—told tales of what you two did.” Jo’s breathing was rough. “She dropped several hints—I know she wanted me to see it.”

  “It?” He frowned. “What?” And then. “No. Please tell me you didn’t—”

  “Yes,” she hissed, releasing the pent-up frustration, anger, and jealousy of five years into one word. “Yes, you and Victoria.”

  His lips were parted and he was shaking his head. “Er, I thought we were in the—”

  “Carriage house,” she finished for him.

  “She told you we went up there?” he asked with no little disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “Good God. Were there more of you watching?”

  Jo could not believe his question. “I. Don’t. Know.”

  He recoiled slightly at her angry tone. “And where did you hide?” His expression said he really didn’t want her answer.

  “In the wardrobe. Across from the bed.”


  “Ah.” He nodded, his lips tightly pursed. And then he dropped his arm over his face, his nose in the crook of his elbow, his bulging biceps hiding everything except his chin, and his body shook.

  “Beau?” she said, turning onto her side and laying a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  He shook his head, choking.

  He was crying?

  And then she heard a snort and recoiled from him as if he’d spat fire at her. “You’re laughing?”

  He dropped his arm and gave up trying to hold back, laughing until there were tears in his eyes.

  Jo crossed her arms over her chest, which reminded her she was nude, so she sat up and pushed herself toward the edge of the bed. “I’m so pleased to amuse you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said in between gasps of laughter, his hand catching her upper arm and holding her like an iron shackle. “I daresay you were dreadfully shocked—perhaps frightened even. But, darling”—Jo shivered at that naturally given endearment—“you were the one who went there. Did you know what we would be doing?”

  “Well . . . yes, I suppose so,” she ground out, even her ears burning now.

  “So then whose fault was that?”

  Jo seethed. “Let go of me.”

  “I can’t,” he said, shaking his head, his expression regretful.

  Jo squirmed, but her attempts didn’t even budge him.

  “Where are you going, Josephine?”

  “Nowhere, it seems.”

  He pushed out his lower lip, tilted his head, and gave her a rueful smile. He looked so adorable Jo wanted to hit him.

  “Is it dreadful of me to laugh?”

  “Why would you think that?” she retorted sarcastically, struggling mightily to maintain her glare.

  His lips curled up at the corners in a satisfied smirk and he flexed his arm, the action pulling her slowly but inexorably toward him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a voice that was far from commanding.

  His nostrils flared. “Did you like what you saw, Josephine?”

  She gasped, her face blazing. “Of course not.”

  “We really must cure you of this disturbing propensity to lie,” he said, his eyes narrowed as he easily pulled her onto his hard, hot body. “I’m going to check and see if you really are as repulsed as you say.” His free hand slid between her thighs as if it had every right to be there, as if her body belonged to him.

  He thrust a finger into her slick passage and groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Wet and hot.”

  Yes, Jo thought as her mouth whimpered and her body arched against his, her hips wantonly begging for more. There was no point fighting it: he could do or say whatever he wanted to her and her traitorous body loved it.

  “My Josephine,” he murmured, kissing her neck while his powerful hips pulsed suggestively beneath her. “You’re on fire for me and your cunt—”

  Her body stiffened and a scandalized shriek burst from her at the coarse word.

  Beau just chuckled. “Oh, Josephine—you act shocked, but your cunt is telling me something completely different. You’re wet and swollen and clenching just thinking about the things I did all those years ago.” He lowered his mouth over her neck and bit her, hard. “Just how will your body respond when I do those things to you?”

  Jo made a mindless gasp and he began to move in measured, deep thrusts.

  “Have you pictured yourself spread out on a bed like that ever since, Josephine? Naked, exposed . . . vulnerable,” he whispered, his hand never stopping. “Am I the man in your fantasy? I hope so. Am I cruel? Wicked? Relentless?”

  Jo bit her lip hard enough to taste metal. She would not—she would not—

  “I would tie your wrists . . . restrain your ankles . . .” he murmured, his voice hypnotic, his breath coming in rapid, heated puffs on her throat. “If I had you bound that way . . . what do you think I would do . . . Josephine? Do you think I’d make you . . . come?”

  “I don’t—I, no, I—” Her voice was ragged, barely a whisper.

  “No?” His hand paused. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked in the same mild tone he might use asking if she cared for another lump of sugar in her tea.

  “Please.” She shamelessly ground her sex against his motionless hand.

  Again that wicked chuckle as he resumed his exquisite torture.

  His other hand was no longer restraining her—she noticed belatedly—and it slid between their bodies and found her hot, pulsing core as surely as an arrow found its target.

  Jo couldn’t catch the sob that broke out of her as he effortlessly pushed her toward her crisis and she shuddered and shook until she lay like a limp rag on his chest.

  “I think that is what you want, isn’t it? To come when I will it . . . your every pleasure mine to command.”

  His finger slipped from her sheath.

  “No, don’t go,” she begged. “Please—”

  “Shhhh, I’m not going anywhere, my lovely, needy darling,” he whispered, positioning something bigger and hotter against her entrance. “This is what you want,” he told her.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “and I’m going to give it to you. Hard.”

  He took her with agonizing slowness, making her feel each and every inch, his body sinuous and undulating, his thrusting slow, lazy, deep.

  “Tell me the way you want it,” he said, his voice strained, his body slick with the effort of resisting his own need, but his motions smooth, thorough, controlled.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Tell me,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

  “I want you . . . hard, Beau.”

  He flipped her onto her back before she’d even stopped speaking, their faces a bare inch from each other.

  “Josephine,” he whispered, his lips curving into a smile. “You want it hard, my wicked, wanton, wonderful wife?”

  Jo tilted her hips and wrapped her legs around his body. “Hard,” she whispered.

  And that’s exactly what he gave her.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jo woke up with a smile, her body so twisted and tangled in the bedding that she didn’t bother trying to get free but luxuriated as last night came back to her, piece by exquisite piece.

  Ah. Last night.

  He’d taken her one last time, slow and languorous. And then he’d whispered something about a park, a pond, and skating, before slipping away into the gray light of dawn.

  Jo hugged herself. He knew—he knew everything about her, no more secrets, nothing to hide, just . . . her and Beau.

  She lazed and stared up at a threadbare canopy that had somehow become precious to her over the course of the last three days. Even the memory of Victoria’s unwanted presence could not dim her happiness.

  But the door to Jo’s constant worry about her father and her burning need to see him was never quite closed.

  She would go today—even if they didn’t speak—just to sit with him. She groaned at the well-trammeled path of thoughts that appeared before her, and turned onto her side.

  But she couldn’t avoid it, no matter which way she turned or what she did.

  Jo would be enjoying herself—either during her delicious evenings with Beau or even while going through cupboards full of worn linens with Mrs. Stowers—when all of a sudden it would hit her like a brick to the head: Her father was dying. Alone.

  Jo managed to subsume most of her guilt beneath anger—after all, it wasn’t her fault he’d locked her out of his life—but sometimes a wave of despair would wash over her and she would begin to flounder, to drown.

  She slowly untangled herself from the bed linens, debating whether to have breakfast in her room. But no, stewing alone was ill-advised. Jo scowled. Of course stewing with Victoria would hardly be better.

  But she couldn’t allow the other woman to make her a prisoner in her own house so she heaved herself out of bed, rang for Mimi, and dressed.

  Nobody except Stowers wa
s in the breakfast room when she arrived.

  “His Grace went out but said he would be back well before noon,” he reported. “And Her Grace is breakfasting in her chambers.”

  Well, thank heaven for small favors.

  “I’ll have some coffee, Stowers,” Jo said, taking a plate and perusing the selection of food in the chafing dishes.

  Jo’s face heated at the memory of the prior evening, and she found herself grinning like a fool as she nibbled a slice of toast. While her husband’s autocratic ways would likely annoy her on occasion, she couldn’t help enjoying his commanding ways in the bedchamber.

  He was certainly dictatorial, but it was always for their mutual pleasure, never selfish. And it was—

  The door to the breakfast room creaked slowly open and then stopped.

  Jo and the footman—Michael, one of the servants she’d brought with her—gave each other curious looks.

  He’d taken a few steps toward the door when it creaked open a little more. It was Victoria’s little girl, Sarah.

  “Well, hello again,” Jo said, smiling at the little girl—who was crying and appeared to have been doing so for some time. “Are you looking for your mama?” she asked when the child simply stood planted, her lips turned down, her little hands clutching a doll of some sort.

  Sarah shook her head. “Turtle.”

  “Ah.” Jo pushed back her chair and went to the child, dropping to her haunches and bringing herself to eye level. Whoever Sarah’s father was, the little girl was the very image of her beautiful mother. Her enormous blue eyes leaked tears, her thick black lashes heavy with drops of water, like branches after a heavy rain.

  “Do you want to sit with me? Perhaps have a little breakfast?”

  Sarah hesitated, her brow furrowed deeply.

  “Your dolly looks hungry,” Jo said. “What is her name?”

  Sarah looked down at her hand, as if only then remembering what she held. “Her name ith Thally,” she finally said.

  Jo bit her lip and looked up at Michael, who was grinning.

  “Has Sally had her breakfast?”