A Mask, A Marquess, and a Wish Upon a Christmas Star

by Ingrid Hahn

  But this was their room. Just for tonight, it belonged to them and only them. He lit the lamp in the room, the soft glow casting a quiet spell through the small chamber.

  “We’re going to undress now.”

  Her answer came in a breathy whisper, color heightening in the portions of her face visible. “Is it your turn to make a demand, my lord?”

  Indeed it was. “Yes it is, my fair Miss S.” Never in his life had it been more his turn, not in this game, or any other.

  With her gown went his cravat and jacket, Harland doing double-duty helping her while acting the part of his own valet, hands brushing over her body as he worked. With her short stays went his waistcoat and shirt, with only a slight pause to place a strategic handkerchief on the bed for himself. His boots went next, along with her slippers, stockings, and garters.

  Then all that remained were only his breeches and her chemise. The tips of her nipples tented the billowing fabric around her, cotton rumpled from having been under stays and the form-fitting gown.

  Harland tossed the breeches aside to the pile growing on the chair, and her eyes went directly down, widening with what she found jutting upwards from between his legs.

  He stepped close. “Now you.”

  The last layer fell and they stood together, utterly bare. Bare but for the mask she still wore.

  If there’d been air in his lungs, it certainly seemed to have vanished in a hurry.

  Her skin glowed. The rises and falls of her body were more than he could have imagined, even having explored the length.

  What a woman.

  She was everything—everything—the female form should be. Full breasts boasting light pink areolas at least as large as a sovereign. A rounded belly and plump thighs.

  His cock jerked in eager anticipation.

  The air in the sparsely furnished room was cool, but when the hardness of his body came up against hers, heat seared her skin. He was hard—so exhaustively different than she. Where her body was described by smooth roundedness, his was defined by sharp outlines cutting him into planes of masculine beauty. Where the only hair upon her to speak of was upon her head and between her legs, there was a more plentiful selection upon him—on his chest and arms and legs.

  Dear sweet savior, have mercy. His erection arched in a slight backbend as it reached for the sky, so full, so intent. The way it pressed into her belly, so hot and hard—the inevitable couldn’t come too soon. At the same time her insides were clenched with pleasure, she also felt a strange sort of swelling between her legs, heightened by every brush against her skin. It was like awakening for the first time to the life she’d been meant to live.

  The back of her thighs found the edge of the bed. They tumbled back together, her body splaying open to allow his between her legs. He ran his hand down a breast, trailing the rest of the way down between her legs. He moaned when he slipped deeper between the slick bits. “You’re so wet.”

  He touched her and fondled her, hands moving over her skin as if born only to worship her body, all the while pushing the need inside her higher and higher.

  Eventually, he pulled away to stare down at her, breath coming audibly in deep inhalations and exhalations. “Are you ready?”

  “So ready.”

  He adjusted himself.

  Abigail’s breath hitched at the unexpected pressure from the blunt point. Managing himself so she didn’t take the entire weight of him, he sunk his fingers into her backside, his chest smashing her breasts. The skin of his face was textured from the stubbly hair growth shadowing the lower half.

  Her eyes were wide, staring up at the ceiling. This was it. She was about to have a man inside of her. All those years of wondering, questioning, dreaming—of feeling her own finger pushed deep into her own body and hoping with wish after fervent wish that one day a man would do this very thing to her—it was going to happen.

  And then it did.

  She sucked in a hard breath at the breach.

  Harland froze, whole body straining above her. “Have you done this before?” His voice was thick with tension.

  “Does it matter?”

  He winced, pain on his countenance. “Oh, dear God.”

  She wiggled her hips—tensing a little at the utterly foreign sensation. Nothing she’d ever done to herself had prepared her for reality. He was inside of her. He was so big. She was splayed so wide and filled so full. “Isn’t it too late?”

  “I don’t wish to take anything from you that—”

  “Take? My lord, the only take here is the issue I take with that word. What is this but nothing that I don’t give—freely, completely, and with the whole of my being?”

  “You haven’t, have you?”

  “Well…no. Of course not. But…”

  Her heart beat a panicked rhythm—her body screamed no. No, no—she wasn’t ready for it to end, please, no.

  But he was already withdrawing. Pulling himself off her, he rolled to the side and sat on the edge of the bed.

  8

  Harland ran his fingers through his hair, trying to recover from the pain of having left her after only just having entered her. It had required every ounce of will. He still trembled from the effort.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, the scent of her clinging to his skin, making his cock ache all the harder to return and finish the business at hand. Or at thigh, rather.

  But it wasn’t just business, was it?

  The words with which she’d inadvertently pierced the tough hide of his heart echoed through his mind. What is this but nothing that I don’t give—freely, completely, and with the whole of my being? They’d haunt him for the rest of his days.

  She hadn’t been giving him herself, she’d been giving him a gift—a gift to him who could never be worthy.

  “My lord…”

  He looked back to the masked woman upon the small bed. She’d drawn herself up to partially sitting, legs closed, and she kept her knees close, almost obscuring her breasts, but not quite. Her hair was a tumble, her face pale.

  Something clicked in his brain. When she’d left, she’d gone alone. She hadn’t been escorted by anyone else. It could only mean she hadn’t been supposed to have been at the ball. She hadn’t been invited. Still it seemed like he knew her from somewhere—somewhere far away. In another life, perhaps.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “You expected different, my lord?”

  Holy hell. Yes. Yes he had.

  “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to displease you.” Her voice sounded small.

  “Displease me?” Harland angled his body to face her. “Is that what you think?”

  She said nothing.

  “How old are you?”

  “Too old to want to own my age, my lord.”

  “And you’re really still a…a…” Apparently the “v” word belonged in the same category as the “w” word. Unable to complete the sentence, he raised both brows in question.

  “Is that so very wrong?”

  How was it possible he’d been unable to notice all the signs that in retrospect were so obvious? “You must understand. I don’t go about deflowering women.”

  “Whoever said you did?”

  “I’ve never been with a v…” He cleared his throat. “…with an inexperienced woman before.”

  “I didn’t know it mattered. Truly, I didn’t.”

  Hand covering his face, he shook his bowed head. A minute ago he’d been warmly ensconced in the snug passage between her legs.

  The moment was gone.

  He’d smashed it. It was all going wrong. All of it. If he could have held back some of his shock and changed tactics more smoothly mid-stream, there wouldn’t be so much ground to now recover.

  “Please, my lord, I don’t want you to be sorry.”

  Sorry? Is that what she thought?

  He glanced out the window. The first hint of the coming daw
n smeared a grey-ish lavender over the eastern sky like a graceless bruise.

  There wasn’t much time.

  Resolution took hold within him. “We’ll have to start all over again.” He pulled his legs back upon the bed.

  He ran a hand down the front of her, gliding from the line delineating the bottom of her ribcage, over the roundness of her belly, and back up again, ending at a breast. When he traced a circle around her nipple, the little protrusion grew into a hard point.

  The solidity of her mixed with that unabashed female softness. The only thing he might ever want to change was the addition of a good stone or two. Let her be good and ample. All the better for him to grasp as he made love to her.

  “We’re going to have to do this right. That is, if you still want to.”

  Abigail came alive under his touch. “Were we doing something wrong?” According to her limited knowledge, which thankfully expanded beyond the few clipped explanations and overheard whispers with which she’d patched together some information over the years, they’d been managing well enough. The rather shocking illustrations she’d once paged through in an old book she’d found hidden at the top of a previous employer’s clothespress had answered more than a few questions, and it hadn’t seemed they’d been doing aught differently.

  “Yes. First of all, we can’t take any chances on the outcome. I will have my pleasure, there’s no question about that, but we must ensure you also have yours.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “If you trust me, I’d like to show you.”

  She gave a little nod.

  “Good. Now lie back.”

  He came down next to her, head supported on his hand to look her over. The surface of the bed accommodated them both side by side, but just.

  “By God, but you’re beautiful.”

  He leaned forward to nuzzle her ear, voice low and rough. “There’s something particular I have in mind to do to you. You might be terribly shocked. I can stop if you want, of course, but I want to ask you to try to put aside qualms for a few minutes to try what I have in mind to see if you enjoy it as much as I think you will.”

  Abigail’s mind searched for possibilities as to what he might mean and drew nothing. “What is it?”

  “I’d rather show you.”

  She smiled. “But I will be terribly shocked?”

  “Well—”

  “I assure you I can withstand things that would shock others.”

  He returned her smile, his hand went down her body again, this time going all the way between her legs, stopping to stroke back and forth with gentle pressure on that hard spot at the apex. The seat of all her most secret pleasures.

  She relaxed into his attentions.

  “I suppose you like touching yourself there, don’t you, wicked wench?”

  Abigail’s face warmed—partially from the service he was doing her, partially from him having so easily guessed at what she’d always thought nobody would ever know about her.

  “This isn’t so shocking, my lord. Not like you made it seem.”

  “Patience, Miss S. We’ve only just begun.”

  She wanted to gift herself to him?

  Only one way to respond: In kind.

  Harland hoisted himself on his arms to hover above her, starting with his mouth upon hers and moving lower. The line of her neck melted into the slash of a collar bone. That smooth, feminine chest quickly gave way to something softer and more feminine still. He placed a reverent kiss upon each breast.

  Then he moved lower still. When he pushed apart her legs, her whole body jerked in surprise. “Told you I’d shock you.”

  His cock flexed at the sight of her. The hair was a few shades darker than what was upon her head. The flesh was dark pink, the inner furls edged at the tips with brown. A high pleasure point that was none too small stood at the top. And she was so damp from arousal.

  So much beauty. So much woman.

  “I don’t know what you mean by this.”

  He stroked the inside of one of her thighs. “I mean to work my mouth on you until you climax.”

  “You can’t want to do that.”

  “Oh, but I do.” He grinned up at her.

  Already the womanly perfume was enough to drive him mad. Harland’s cock begged to bypass these precursors and go right back to working itself inside of her. Selfish beast of a thing it was, his cock. It didn’t understand that this was more than simply the one and only opportunity they had together, this woman and he.

  It was her first experience of the act. His entire life had narrowed to only two reasons for existing. The first was making the experience unforgettable for her. The second was ensuring that no other man that might come after him ever measured to the standard he set.

  “Try it, Miss S. That’s all I ask. If you can’t abide it, we can move on to what comes next.”

  “What comes next?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He started at the top flicking his tongue on the clitoris. He traced his way down each petal one at a time and then worked his tongue around the entrance point in small circles.

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “Not—not really.”

  “Good. Now hush yourself. Lie back and relax and let me do this for you.”

  He clamped his mouth onto her and began to suck. Soon her hips began to rock. She reached down to run her fingers through his hair. “Oh, please, my lord, please. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  After she shook and cried out, she lay panting.

  He covered her, easing himself down and finally gave in to what he wanted, kissing her and piercing his hardness into her body, still so tight and swollen from coming.

  9

  Abigail hadn’t known. Dear God, she hadn’t known. She’d expected the act to be, well, something. Whether that something was horrendous or heavenly…there wouldn’t be such a fuss about it if it weren’t one or the other. Likely the latter. Her body could have experienced no stirrings urging her to partake if it weren’t.

  But this—what it was. It was more. A man above her. Not just any man, but him. Their skin brushing. Their bodies pressed. The sounds of the bedframe and ropes withstanding their sport. The smell of him. The breathing. Her legs open, exposed in all the most sinful ways, open for him to press his hard penis inside of her.

  It was a far cry from her own finger, certainly. An even farther cry from what she’d always envisioned. The closeness of it.

  “Are you all right?”

  Yet there came no pain, only an initial odd discomfort that quickly subsided as she adjusted. “Yes, my lord. Don’t worry. I like it.”

  What a strange, earthy beauty there was to it—at once so curiously physical and so curiously divine.

  This was supposed to be sinful? This was supposed to make her a harlot? Unredeemable in the eyes of society?

  Rubbish.

  Her entire life had been leading to finding herself in the carnal embrace of this man. And everything that came after would pale in comparison to this night.

  His gentle thrusts assumed a slightly more frantic pace, until finally he pulled away completely, grabbed for the handkerchief tucked by his pillow, and—features contorted—used it to catch his essence.

  Shucking the used linen to the floor beside the bed, he rolled to the side, drew the coverlet up over them both, and pulled her close against himself, idly stroking her hair. “Don’t leave. Not yet.”

  “I must.”

  “No.” He sounded as if he lingered in the half-world between dreams and wakefulness. “Never.”

  Abigail stayed on her back staring at the bare rafters above. The sensation of him inside of her lingered.

  The windows glowed with early morning light waking the world beyond the cottage.

  The night was ended. “I have to go.”

  He made no response. His breathing sounded softly.

  The marquess was asleep.

  With slow care, she extracted her limbs fr
om his cradling grasp and eased her way to sitting.

  The hairpins were still in the other room. Wearing nothing but the mask, she went to retrieve them, a sensation of boldness charging through her at walking through the cottage uncovered, rough stone floor cold enough to numb her toes. Her cloak hung from the peg by the door along with her reticule. The fire had died to its last glowing embers. Light from the new day was enough to blow out all the low-burning candles.

  A thought struck her. She went back to her reticule and withdrew a letter, creased and worn, having been reread at least once a day for the past two years, though each curving word had been long devoted to memory.

  Bending at the hearth, she kissed where he’d written her name. “Wherever you are, Edward, be well.” And she tossed it in. The paper took a moment to catch, but curled upon itself in to a black ball, surrendering to oblivion.

  While she found her garments from the pile on the chair, the marquess slept on. Without him near her for heat, the chill in the air nipped at her extremities. Given that she had no maid, everything she wore had been designed so she could dress without help—even the made-over gown from her mistress.

  Her mistress. That life had been hers for years, but seemed so bizarrely distant, as if it would take time to slip back into the assumed role after what she’d done here with the marquess.

  The house would already be awake when she returned. Carter would be covering for her, but neither of them had expected the night to extend quite so long.

  Abigail hooked the last hook of the gown and made do with sticking a few pins in a simple twist at the nape of her neck. Fully dressed, she took one last look at the sleeping man. Walking away from him was like leaving a piece of herself behind.

  But what else was there for them? She was Abigail Sutton. Gamekeeper’s daughter risen to respectable companion of a well-regarded widow of moderate status. He was the Marquess of Harland. Their worlds were unthinkably distant. The single option might be for him to take her as his mistress.

  Someday he would have to marry. Men like him always had a duty to their fortunes. A highborn lady of distinguished breeding would come into his life and he’d have no choice but to share that other woman’s bed to beget the heir.